when prayer changes...

it was over the noise and chaos of dinner the other night that i heard her familiar question asked around an unfamiliar table.

words were flying all over the place so i'm surprised i heard it,

but not really surprised she asked it...

if that makes sense.

our olivia?

she's bold.

her emotions, her voice, her actions, her frustrations, and even her sleep - it's all done loudly.

all of it.

i don't know how many times i have to remind her that she doesn't have to shout in my face - my ears work just fine.

or they did...

either way, if she feels strongly about something, it's done with strong emotion.

her love for Jesus?

strong.

and she has no idea how there is anyone out there beyond our four walls who doesn't love Jesus...

so she has made it her personal mission to find out just who those people are.

and why.

she could care less if it makes you uncomfortable, she wants to know the state of your heart because a heart without Jesus just doesn't make sense to an olivia that loves Him so.

so, when i heard her turn to her newest friend over hot dogs and hamburgers and ask the inevitable question, i smiled.

because when his little face beamed back at her that yes, he did know Jesus, her shoulders relaxed and her summer-bare feet kicked and she shouted right back in his face that she did too.

and her quest to know was stilled for another day,

but i was left to wonder...

i stood behind that counter on friday.

friday is ice-cream day and my hands were sticky from a melted mess and there was one guy who walked in with ear-buds blaring and cap pulled down and he leaned against the edge and wouldn't meet my eyes.

little ones i can talk to.

the older girls? there's always something to find common ground over - hair, clothes, make-up...

but a boy on the edge of being a man?

i am at a loss.

and really, i think they may be at a loss too.

i mean, i'm tony's wife and i'm a thousand years old and what do i know about what they know and so canipleasehavemyicecreamandgetthisawkwardmomentoverwithasfastaspossible?  thank you very much.

so i did what i do and made small talk about school and kept it light and laughed at my own jokes as i put that first scoop in the cone when he took out that one ear-bud and blurted out a sentence of pain.

and i set down the spoon and let the ice cream drip while it all poured out and he stood there at the end broken.

my first thought wasn't to ask him if he knew Jesus.

why did i stand there wishing that i knew how to make his pain stop when i know very well Who can bind up his brokenness?

Jesus, He is so easy to talk about with like-minded friends - with those you suspect just might know Him too. but when the faces across the counter will barely crack a smile...

i am ashamed at my lack of courage.

because why am i there if not to share the love of Jesus? why am i there if not to be His Heart to those places that are gasping for Hope?

my prayer changed this weekend.

olivia has the bold gene...

she didn't get it from me.

but the God Who can take faith, tiny and small, and move mountains with it? He can take my fear and grow deep and bold courage from it...

i just have to say yes.

and it was on a quiet weekend evening that i read these words...

scripture describes a radical, reoriented life for those who trust

Christ - one full of living for the invisible and the future. it is a life

fully surrendered to an invisible God whose agenda for my time here

is contrary to my own, a life very different from the safe, comfortable

one i was creating.

i started craving something that had never seemed acceptable to

me until that day...a reckless faith, a faith where i knew God was

real because i needed Him, a faith where i lived surrendered, obedi-

ent, a faith where i sacrificed something...comfort or safety or practicality...

something. but my heart raced faster when i thought 

of it, and something about it resonated.

stepping out wholly dependent on God to come through, step-

ping away from what is secure and comfortable exposes the holes

in our faith. and then if God comes through, it expands our faith.

something about stepping off cliffs where God leads allows God the

opportunity to move in greater ways. when we step off and He shows

up, we see Him differently than we would if we were standing safely

looking over the edge.

jennie allen - anything

my prayer changed this weekend...

and all He needed was my yes to begin moving and growing a boldness and courage that would terrify me if it wasn't for the fact that i said that yes to that risk in the first place.

and the gene that makes olivia so bold in her asking? it's in His blood that was poured out for her. 

for me.

for you.

sometimes it just takes a little longer to surface in some than in others...

For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation

 to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek.

For in it the righteousness of God is revealed from faith for faith, as it is written, 

“The righteous shall live by faith.” (Romans 1:16-17, ESV)

a gift picked up, put away, put back

2187. carton of strawberries

2188. end of the day mess

2189. laundry soap for another load

3 gifts about you

2190. desire for Jesus

2191. love of baking

2192. getting to teach my little ones at home

3 gifts found in His Word

2193. He gives direction and purpose

2194. it's all full of His breath

2195. hope that changes me

a gift in a box, a bag, a book

2196. 2 pies

2197. books bundled together

2198. glimpses of grace in the gift of family come near

3 gifts unexpected

2199. a reminder for sanctuary on saturday

2200. a day turned around

2201. a kitchen done and a friend washing my floors

3 gifts from your childhood

2202. memories of puppy breath relived

2203. love of quiet sunday afternoons

2204. that chocolate chip cookie recipe

a gift sweet, sour, salty

2205. a hug from my aunt and uncle

2206. a small bowl of yogurt before bed

2207. peanut butter stuffed pretzels

3 gifts found in little people

2208. imagination

2209. arms-flung-wide hugs

2210. trust

3 gifts that made you laugh

2211. coffee with a friend

2212. tony's protective eye-wear

2213. olivia's frog dance

3 gifts found in community

2214. bob - willing to hold zeruiah

2215. gane - sittin with lyla and her schoolwork

2216. christina - the way she loves olivia

a gift in a plate, pot, package

2217. cloudy day banana bread

2218. fresh roses

2219. canadian chocolate

3 gifts hard giving thanks for

2220. little one messes - it's only for a season

2221. an unknown - He knows

2222. risk taking - isn't really a risk in His Hands

a gift worn, white, whispered

2223. mama-weariness

2224. late spring clouds

2225. lyla-secrets

3 gifts found in church

2226. children's program

2227. a re-grounding for the week

2228. receiving communion

3 gifts in today's work

2229. cleaned home

2230. completed school work

2231. midnight nursing

a gifts at 8am, 12pm, 8pm

2232. everyone fed and dressed

2233. a home ready for guests

2234. one last story before bed

3 gifts blue

2235. zeruiah's blue eyes

2236. my favorite pen found

2237. the sky at dusk

3 gifts you gave today

2238. a listening ear

2239. a hug

2240. a bedtime prayer

3 gifts orange

2241. that new book

2242. washing lyla's giraffe shirt

2243. orange slices in my water

3 gifts funny

2244. liv boxing with jake in the church foyer

2245. tony's random songs

2246. she turned 5 months old laughing...

{the grace series will continue on wednesday...}

when it's been three years...

the snow fell today, quiet and soft...

i lit a candle in my kitchen window as i turned the pages of that old and worn prayer book;

found the day marked with this day

and everything that it holds.


it's been three years since he walked out that door...

three years and we didn't even know he had walked into heaven's glory.


and those words, words penned around 400 years ago...

they still hold truth in their cry to Emmanuel - God with us - and i lifted my voice up in the quiet of the falling snow...

ah, God! Behold my grief and care. Fain would i serve Thee with a glad

and cheerful countenance, but i cannot do it.

however much i fight and struggle against my sadness, 

i am too weak for this sore conflict. help me in my weakness,

o Thou Mighty God!

and give me Thy Holy Spirit to refresh and comfort me in my sorrow.

amid all my fears and griefs i yet know that i am Thine in life and death,

and that nothing can really part me from Thee;

neither things present, nor things to come,

neither trial, nor fear, nor pain.

and therefore, o Lord, i will still trust in Thy grace.

Thou wilt not send me away unheard.

sooner or later Thou wilt lift this burden from my heart, 

and put a new song in my lips;

and i will praise Thy goodness and thank and serve Thee here

and forevermore ~

amen

s. scheretz (1584-1639)

dad - for those few short years you called me daughter, thank you. i miss you. more than words can say...

letting go...{day 29}

we had tried for those ten months because we had that nagging feeling that our family wasn't complete yet.  we made the decision to place it in God's Hands but after almost a year with no second pink line, we figured that we were mistaken and rested in that thought and were happily content with our family of five...

only, by the time i was fully content with that decision, she was and the agenda i had already begun to craft and feel comfortable with, excited about, was suddenly out of my hands and i was stunned.


He has made a habit of doing that in my life...

maybe yours too?


i think back to that last winter there, where everything was falling apart and i had no choice but to open up clenched fists and whisper yes to what He had planned.


i remember screaming into my pillow at the God Who i thought had let me down, Who surely must be mocking my wants and wishes and dreams...

i remember driving away from what i had so desperately wanted and heading towards the big and vast empty space of Unknown.


i had never been more terrified.

i had never felt Him so near.



this past week, i feel as though every emotion i possess has been ravaged - i wrote to my sister, my friend, that all i want to do is claw out of this skin that i find myself in, to somehow escape what i have seen and what i know and how, how can all of this brokenness be possible?


the hair that hangs long over a face punched purple and green - the pain in those beautiful eyes and the smile she still manages to share.  and while i ate thanksgiving dinner surrounded by warmth and beauty, she was being beaten.

the sobs i hear as i enter the restroom, a broken girl crumpled on a cold tile floor because she just found out a loved one is dying...a loved one who walked away all those years ago.

of the dark alley i found myself in, trying to open up shut gates while danger is heading right towards us - and why can't there be more light? more light for the dark places so children don't have to be scared to walk home alone?

of that young boy, bullied and mocked and made to feel less-than - of the tears he tries to brush away and hide.


and i am angry because i get to drive away. at the end of the day, i drive away to my home safe and locked with every window secure and in place.  in place.  and i know of children who sleep in rooms lacking this simple luxury - there is nothing between them and the cold air that has settled in for this season and as i fall asleep, there are young eyes plastered open because who knows what can slip in during the dark of the night?


it's all. so. dark.


and my agenda...

my silly agenda.


so often i think i know what's best, and i beg for what i think is best, and i fight for it and i pout over it and more often than not, i sadly get my own way...


until He allows it all to be shaken - for my heart to be shaken - for my life to be uprooted and replanted and for my eyes to be opened to what i need to let go of so that He can make use of what little i have to offer.


and i wrestle with feeling like i'm drowning in a sea of what-if's - fearing that i won't be able to manage it all with a newborn and homeschooling and going down to the mission everyday like before.  and how do i maintain friendships and parenting and keeping our home a haven - let alone clean?

how do i manage the big emotions that still rise up over broken relationships?  and how do my girls always seem to manage to ask the really hard questions while i make the drive from our house to the mission - questions like, why did papa die and how did papa die and do you ever think you'll see your family again, mama?

i don't know how to do it all...

and maybe that's the point.


it's that verse in the book of james that's been dancing around my head all afternoon, the one that seems to caution against agendas and that very human tendency to think that we may know best after all,

Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit”—yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.”

(James 4:13-15 ESV)

and it's the simple and so very complicated act of letting it all go, opening up clenched fists and giving our plans, our pain, our questions, the reality of our very uncertain tomorrows over to the One Who knows what our next breath holds ~

if Jesus wills, tomorrow, i will get up and make breakfast and i will get through as many subjects as i can with my children.

if Jesus wills, tomorrow, i will love my husband well and pray for him as he faces the realities that this job holds.

if Jesus wills, tomorrow, i will laugh with my children and pray with them and prepare our hearts to love the ones who are so very unloved.

if Jesus wills, tomorrow, i will drive down and i will listen and i will wipe tears and i will be His Arms to whomever He brings my way.

if Jesus wills, tomorrow, i'll trust that He is holding all my future tomorrows and He'll lead me and show me how to be a mama to 4, a wife to one, a friend to my friends and a keeper of this home He's given to us...

because my haven and rest isn't found in these four walls...

my refuge is in Christ and Him alone.

and so, if Jesus wills, tomorrow, i'll keep letting it go...

for when the prayers are broken...

it's as i pulled the cloth over the surface of the tv stand that i paused and said it out loud,

the life you ask us to lead is too hard, Jesus.  i don't think i can do it.  do You see how often i fail?

and He saw it, in the early hours of this morning,

how i became impatient and spoke harshly and brushed aside what seemed important to them but not so important to me...

i saw the slump in olivia's shoulders,

lyla's tears,

elias' disgruntled sigh.

and He saw it too.


i had read it in again the other night, that passage on love and traded that word for my own name,

kimberley is patient,
kimberley is kind...

and i was neither or any of those things on this morning that even a coffee couldn't save.

dust dusts dust,

and as the cloth becomes blackened with the remnants of our life lived this week,

my heart grows heavier.


what's the use in trying when what is learned in the dark can't be put into practice once dawn arrives?


i stand at the counter slicing through leafy green lettuce and ruby red tomatoes as the dinner hour approaches.

i pull out my little black moleskin with the pages pasted in,

the ones that paul wrote to the colossians to encourage and strengthen,

the ones i'm trying to know fully in mind and heart by the time 2013 rolls in.

i flip it to week 9 and begin to whisper the words over grated cheese,

He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together...

and the grating slows as His answer to my broken prayer comes like a balm over all those raw places..
.

the life He asks me to live really is too hard for me to accomplish.


He is asking the impossible of the ones that choose to follow Him,


because it is only in Him that the weak become strong,

the foolish become wise,

the broken are held together,


and as their small tummies are filled,

my heart begins to overflow...

1318. those pussy willows on my kitchen table
1319. that fresh snowfall outside
1320. the surprise of a shoveled walk and drive

1321. 4 extra children in this house
1322. playdough-making-helpers
1323. the laughter in this house

1324. that amaryllis shoot
1325. the green flecks in tony's eyes
1326. the hope of spring

1327. those tears she cries
1328. freshly bathed children
1329.the smell of fresh baking in my hair

1330. little sleep
1331. whispering i'm sorry in the early hours
1332. those tears that release grief

1333. the bottom of the laundry pile
1334. that smile at the end of the millionth time-out
1335. quiet moments of starbucks - just me and that chai

1336. those dry and brittle leaves
1337. those goldfish scattered across the floor
1338. the love of a father for a daughter

 

when i miss her...

my cousin from the great and white north comes to visit me in the middle of a snowstorm.

she brings a bit of home that helps ease an ache in my heart

and she brings words.

lots of them.

this cousin that comes to visit is one i didn't know growing up and it seems that we enjoy making up for lost time.


she brings them out on an evening that finds us sitting quiet and listening to frank and ella and i have to pause because what i hold in my hands is exceedingly precious.

my hands hold onto something that had rested in my gramma's hands and more than anything

i just want to hold those hands once more.


instead, i hold her very first knitting needles against my palm and i can barely breathe.


and i want her back.

i want to know what all she made with needles as thin as these.


were these the ones that she used to knit as she sat in front of her stove on a rainy night in scotland?  that fire she blamed over and over for discolouring her shins?

i want to hear the roll of her r's


smell her perfume,

feel her arms pull me tight against her,

and watch her as she baked pies and bread and buns

and then sat down to cheat at skipbo.


i want to lay in my bed,

tucked in under my covers,

and hear her voice drift into my room as she knelt in her own

and prayed.


my sleep was always ushered in on the moments that found her bowing low before Jesus.


as a child, i loved her.

as a woman, i long to know her more.


instead, i miss her and cherish what i have until i see her again in the presence of Jesus.


i finally honour my word to my friend and come to the knitting circle at our church after the little ones are in bed,

i pull out my yarn and needles to join the rhythm of stitches and conversation

and i watch as help is asked for

and help is given

and the robin's egg blue builds another row on my needles...


i join another group of women this afternoon,

i sit by another friend who invited me to come.

she doesn't know that i have been questioning Him,

asking for guidance and wisdom,

feeling a little lost and needing a Word.


and it's in the middle of what the speaker is saying

when my heart starts beating loud and fast...


she's talking about our children and their children

and if we don't capture their hearts now,

what hearts will be caring for the hearts of their children?

and then she says those two words that stop everything else in the room and i can barely sit still...

it's called generational living.

so often, and rightly so, the term generational sins is brought out and parents are called to break them courageously and with the help of Jesus, and yes!  let's break them and break out of pain and bondage that has crippled our families and will keep doing so if we sit and do nothing - 

but what comes after?

and this is where i have sat lost

until He shouts it into my heart through the dark-haired woman passionately speaking of her love for Him;


we live.


we live!

He came so that we could have life - and have it abundantly!

and i think of those knitting needles - the very first ones that my gramma used,

of all of those stitches being added to and built upon in that little room in our church last night,

of the hope that He gave when i least expected it this afternoon...

He is a God Who builds upon losses and gains and creates something achingly beautiful if we let Him.

with hands wide open and a heart willing to accept whatever it is that He places before us, we can join Him in a dizzingly intricate journey that throws joy and sorrow up against each other and brings His Name glory and leads our children to do the same.

oh, i want a life like that.

(thank you, naomi, for taking the picture of our gramma's knitting needles and sending me a copy. i miss you. :<)

when the wind howls...

it's as the wind is howling on the eve of the first day of lent that i find myself bent over in the posture of prayer

and vomit dripping from my hair.


barely able to catch  my breath as my body gives in to what my stomach tries to lose

and i can't see through the tears.


he has the blanket pulled back as i stumble into bed.

pulls me in close against him to calm the tremors that i can't seem to shake.


and it's in the brief respite that i catch a glimpse into what the season means.


we are sick with sin.

sin that consumes, sours our souls.

and the purging of that which makes us sick is ugly,

leaves us feeling raw and vulnerable 

and barely able to lift one's head.


and all i want is a glass of water.

all my soul really needs is the Person Who calls Himself the Living Water -

when i bring my sin-sickness to Him and ask Him to clean my heart all out,

to heal me...

and when He does

He fills me up with Himself.

the very God Who took on flesh,

experienced hunger and pain and sorrow and death,

gives of Himself to quench the parched places left over from the ravages of sin.


so i take it in,

even as my body rebels through the early hours of the morning,

as i feel my humanness - the truth that i am dust - as the dark of the night becomes the dawn of ash wednesday...

i let the words penned by paul that i am trying to plant deep wash over me as i press the cool, wet cloth against my face,

...being strengthened with all power according to His glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience, and giving joyful thanks to the Father Who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of His holy people in the kingdom of light.  for He has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son He loves, in Whom there is redemption, the forgiveness of sins.    

colossians 1:11-14

and i feel Jesus near.

when she turns six...

it's in the moment that he wraps his arms around me,

pulls me close against his chest,

 and reminds me to breathe

that the water inside breaks 

and i gasp in air to constricted lungs.


and on the eve of your birthday

i wrestle against pressure like i did those six years ago,

struggle to comply with the pain that ushers in release.

i cling tightly to your daddy

and as he brushes back my hair

and wipes the tears from my face

he whispers over and over,

just breathe.  

just breathe...

and it begins with a breaking.

always does it seems.


elias, curious and all boy, he pushes those plates from the table to the floor and

i'm running out of dishes...

and as i get ready for church this morning,

this day that you were due those 6 years ago,

those first pangs start all over again.

and that's where he finds me, that man who has cradled you since you were moments old,

finds me fighting against waves of pain that really have nothing to do with plates that have broken.


he holds me 

and like he did all those years ago in that space of time that was just him and i,

before we became three.

he reminds me how to breathe with him.

reminds me of what is truly important.

and the pain rolls over a cupboard that only hold 5 dinner plates and a silverware tray that cradles different amounts of forks and knives and spoons,

it builds over families broken and changes and moves and a life that sometimes, still, seems unrecognizable.

and the water breaks over a daughter tall and beautiful and tomboy and princess and when did those pages on that calendar turn so quickly?


and he reminds me of your great-gramma,

the one whose bible rests on my nightstand,

the one who left one country for the one of her husband,

the one whose life was not defined by her brokenness

but defined by the One Who restores.


and as it all burns, these moments that build and threaten to seem like too much,

your daddy points me to the One Who holds new life in His scarred Hands.


six years ago, my lyla mae,

you were placed in my arms,

alert and quiet,

hands and feet tinged blue,

and tiny black ringlets all over your head.

you sit now beside me,

lost in sunlight and a living testament that He can bring someone beautiful

from someone so completely broken -

this life of mine, by all accounts,  that should be reduced to ash.


and instead,

you are my picture of hope.

of joy.

a reflection of His Beauty.


you turn six years old today,

and sleep through that moment that finds you leaving five behind.

but i captured it as i knelt by your bed.

as you move from holding up only one hand to two,

i knelt close and held that moment even closer.


and i pray, my sweet baby girl,

that you will learn to breathe through the moments meant to bring you into a new life with Him.


that you will learn to see that He uses all things to open your eyes to the new life that He longs for you to have.


that when the pain becomes more than you think you can bear, 

that you will cling to Him tighter,

relax into Him deeper,

and allow Him to take what is messy and form it into something breathtaking.

you have been more than i ever expected,

you have changed me in ways i never dreamed possible.

and today you turn six years old.

happy birthday, sweet lyla mae.

i love you more than i can ever say, but will spend my lifetime showing you just how much.


all of my love,

mama.

breathing...

she writes words on a 3x5 card that weave together a prayer for us

and sends me the picture.


i find it in my inbox in the early morning hours that find me searching for a glimpse of Him.

and i need a glimpse of Him

desperately.

i walk down the hall on shaky legs 

and reach up trembling hands to the top of that cupboard

and pull down a 3x5 card of my own.


and her prayer becomes my prayer that i can't voice and the card becomes crinkled between my hands as i hold it close throughout the day...


and when i couldn't even utter the words,

He knew.

He heard.


and He called.


seven days later,

i sit across the table from a dear friend who heard my whispered plea to pray as i ushered my three out of that loud and chaotic room

and she shares how He wouldn't let her go that day.

wouldn't let her not pray all day

and so she did.


it's not lost on me,

the unfathomable grandness of my God.

how so very large He is and how very small i am.


and when lungs struggle to fill with the very oxygen of communion between God and man,

He calls on others to breathe for them.

and the air exhaled from the hearts and mouths of those in His Body reaches Him as a fragrance  

and He responds...

it's just a small blue dot caught in the beam of a ball of fire,

(source)

and it's a life that speeds by and is over in the mere blink of an eye.

but to Him,

each moment that seems to slip out of hands trying to grasp and understand the meaning of it all...

they have worth

and weight

and they move Him to action

and He calls us to breathe for each other.

on your knees...

it's on the eve of epiphany when i enter his room,

in the silence and the hush of a house gone quiet i notice a light shining in that space beneath his door.


i take the first step in and sink gently to my knees,

i move forward in the way every person should when they enter into a moment marked holy.


i move past the boy-joy that has strewn toys all over this room.

the room that i had straightened up before i tucked him in.

i move past it all until i'm knelt before him.


i don't even think of those three.


i am completely captured by my son.

it isn't until late this morning that i realize the meaning that marked the dawn,

of the journey that those three wise men made,

the star that lit their way,

the Child they came to see.


they sat on my counter the whole christmas season long,

frozen in silent wonder.

turned towards the Christ child.

and i get i t - i do,

because it's my own child that brings me to my knees,

caught frozen in the wonder of His creation.


i wonder what they thought as they made that long journey,

i wonder what they expected to see...

i wonder if the scene that greeted their eyes left them lost in a moment of confusion.


but i can understand why they still came forward,

offered the gifts they came to bring.

i can understand the pull of a child

and the way and why the knees can bend...


it's a child that draws our perspective from what this adult mind deems important...

changes this posture,

bends the knees

so that these eyes can find what is hidden.


sometimes the journey is long,

the way only seen by the light of a star...

and maybe it's so that when we find Him there,

finally see His Hand,

the setting that surrounds won't matter,

all that does in that moment is Him...


and our knees will bow low in worship.

and it's a portion of a prayer that i read through this evening...

one that fills my heart and pours out into my home,

words that seem so fitting to end on this day that began in the hours before...

finding me on my knees.

O God, Lord of all that exists, you revealed your only-begotten Son to every nation by the guidance of a star. Bless this house and all who inhabit it. Fill each of us with the light of Christ, that our concern for others may reflect your love. We ask this through Christ our Lord.  

(source)

the month of here {day18}...that white flag got thrown

she lays them out in the light in front of me.

this mama who sits exhausted and tired in the sun.

she hums over them as her hands gently place animals full of stuffing on pillows of potholders and napkins.


she tucks them in quiet and snug, kisses them softly and comes around that corner and whispers,

i need to tell you something.

and i know what it is she wants to tell me.


so i bend my cheek close to her lips and she seals me in with a kiss of her love.


she is so precious to me.


and i failed today...failed to speak words in the morning that would build them up strong throughout the rest of the day.


she finds me in the sunlight,

sad in the sunlight,

and reminds me how big true love can be.


mama, you have your quiet time.  the monkeys just want to be near you.

and the coffee poured strong into a mug Christmas red,

held  in my hands...

 it warms from the core of me out.


and under the watchful gaze of a loved-worn monkey i open the pages to read the Words of the One Who loves this mama who fails.


caught in the light of the late autumn sun,

i pause in this moment...

in the black and the white of shadow and sun, He meets me.

and the peace that sinks down and surrounds and envelops this little home filled with little faces is full of expectancy.

He longs for me to seek Him, even more then i long for those few moments of a day when i can sit and learn from His Word.

 He waits for those moments too...

He wants to meet me here.


and everywhere, every time can be here,

not just the sitting down times,

not just the folding laundry times,

or the kitchen aid times.

it doesn't have to be when i wait for that dark rich espresso to pour down.

i can meet Him in the car crashing times,

the sisters screaming at each other times,

the foggy-brain times from too little sleep.


here can be whichever moment you find yourself in.

and He is there.

He. is. here.

and i give thanks on this eighteenth day that finds me here...and for the moments that find me throwing up that white flag in surrender.

when the decisions are too big...

the question began to loom over our heads a couple of months ago.

a question whose answer would change everything...

or change nothing at all.


one seemingly simple yes or no to determine what course our lives would follow.


oh, if only answering one way or another could really be that easy.


life-changing decisions weigh heavy.

they sink deep at the breakfast table,

they dog weary footsteps from one room to another,

but it was when i looked in the mirror and saw how heavily this decision was reflected back in my eyes that i knew i couldn't carry it alone.


so, i took it to Him,

my list that was frantic with worst-case scenarios,

dog-eared with constant ruminations over the overwhelming consequences that saying yes would bring.

as i laid it all out before Him, my worries poured out along with the tears, i whispered that i didn't know how to agree to what we believed He was asking.

there isn't enough...


not enough time,
energy,
emotions,
finances...

laid out on the pages in front of me, it all seemed pretty clear.

i could say no and leave it at that.

there just isn't enough and i got up and walked away.

but He didn't.  He never does.

and while He may have taken a day or two allowing my heart to rest from the wrestle...


hot coffee in one hand and bible in the other, i sat down at my kitchen table all washed yellow in the sun.

clear headed and caffeinated, i turned the tissue-thin pages to the paper marking my place.

and it drew me in, as the four thousand were fed.

fed full with more left over to fill again.




and my mind wandered slightly as i tried to figure where the five thousand fit into the timeline, when He caught my attention and wouldn't let me go...

all piled in a boat, the motley crew of men realized they had forgotten to pack enough food for them all.

as Jesus sat teaching them, they grew more concerned over the fact that there was only one loaf of bread between them to share.

their worries drowned out the very Voice of God...

and Jesus, aware of this, said to them, "why are you discussing the fact that you have no bread? do you not yet perceive or understand? are your hearts hardened? having eyes do you not see, and having ears do you not hear? and do you not remember? when I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?" they said to Him, "twelve." "and the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?" and they said to him, "seven." and He said to them, "do you not yet understand?"  mark 8:17-21

do you not yet understand?


after having just witnessed the Hands of Jesus tear apart bread and multiply it for thousands, did they really think He wouldn't provide for them?


after having witnessed His Hands orchestrate my life in the midst of pain and upheaval, when i'm left dizzy from the questions and yet astounded by His blessings, can i truly sit before Him and doubt that He will provide for in the middle of living out what He has asked me, us, to do?

do i truly not yet understand that He cares for His own?

can i honestly look back over my life and say, there!  that point right there!  *that's* where He left me to fend for myself! ?

there isn't one instance of my life that i have been abandoned,

or rejected,

or neglected,

by the One Who calls me His own.

worry hardens a heart, even a heart that has been in the presence of Jesus.

worry hardens and erases a soul's memories.


to trust Him preserves the miraculous, softens a jaded heart,

flings open a heart caged by worry and echoes joy deep down.


He has my yes.

and who knows how many baskets this miracle will have left over...

not forgotten...

this past summer and for the small amount of time we were there this winter, i would see him drive his big brown truck delivering parcels around town.

the small handful of times we would see him and talk to him, he was kind and gracious and reached out to my husband who understood a different kind of pain in loss.

his smile was genuine, but the pain behind his eyes was obvious.

a father surviving, moving, working throughout each day filled with the worry and longing for his son.

bowe bergdahl, 

prisoner of war in the country of pakistan.

he is a son,

a friend,

a brother.

please pray for his safe return and for his family as they survive on prayer.

this video below is his father's plea...

may i...

7 months ago today, in about 1 hour and 10 mins, i heard the door open and a voice called out my name.  at first, i didn't recognize it.  it wasn't until the second time he called out, "kimberley!", that i knew for sure that it was tony.

pain had changed him.

the 29th - 31st are extremely hard days for us as a family.  reminders of what is missing.  reminders of painful rememberings.

it is so easy to turn inward.

i avoided my computer for the most part until yesterday evening.  the 30th seems like a somewhat safe day...the breath between the shock. and so i logged in last night to find a reminder that, even in my pain, i need to keep my focus outward.  i was reminded that sometimes pain is so raw, so encompassing, so...unexplainable.  and it touches everyone. not just me.  not just my precious family.  but everyone.

and i knew this.

but i needed to be reminded.

and so, and i would like to try something.

i moderate my comments...a number of months ago someone from korea was trying to send me links to some rather seedy sights and so i began to monitor what i published on my blog.  i say this because i would like to be able to pray for you. 

which, really doesn't look like it has anything to do with each other, but last night, in my brokenness, i asked what i could do...and i as i was falling asleep i sensed Him ask me to ask...

ask you.

ask you i how i can pray.

now.  these comments won't be published. you can keep them as vague or as detailed as you would like.  they will also be keep confidential.  i just want you to know that someone, even if that someone is me, is lifting you up before Jesus.  if posting a comment seems too unnverving or scary but you would still like me to pray, you can always email me at wifeoftony(at)gmail(dot)com.

may i please do this for you?  may i please help shoulder a burden?