Historical Event

Do you ever feel like there are times when you are writing history? I mean, those ah-ha moments when you watch your child doing something you did as a child. Or, when you child asks you if you know the story of Little Red Riding Hood? (Yes, I was asked that quite recently by my almost 8 year old.) I have had one of those moments today. Yes, after over 25 years...I taught my children...how to play Chinese Jumproap. How many days at recess did we practice and play? How many times did we compare who had the cooler jumprope, who could jump the highest, and who could say the chant the fastest. It is engrained in me. "In! Out! Side by Side! On! Off! Chisel!" And how thrilling when you were able to complete such a feat. How embarrasing when you did not. How many giggles with your girlfriends over the mistakes and how much fun we all had! So tonight for the first time...I taught my children all about it. We laughed and laughed and they were delighted. It has been passed down for another generation. And what delight it gives a mama's heart to enjoy her children with something as simple as a stretched out piece of elastic from her sewing supplies.

beautiful quote

"You are as much serving God in looking after your own children,
and training them up in God's fear,
and minding the house,
and making your household a church for God,

as you would be if you had been called
to lead an army to battle
for the Lord of hosts."

~Charles Spurgeon

Be thou the Mother of Thousands

I have been very blessed by the church family that the Lord has given me. Last night, a friend of mine gave me a "Mother of Thousands" plant. As an encouragement to me after my miscarriage she had planted 6 little tiny plants in the pot to represent each of the children the Lord has given to me here on this earth. It meant so much to me for her to think of me in this way.

In the transport home though, I noticed to my dismay this morning that my pot had been quite disturbed and my little shoots had been uprooted from the dirt surrounding them. I quickly began to tenderly take each little shoot and replant them into the dirt, adding a little water to gently place them in their spots. I had to be very tender as I replanted them, being careful not to crush, tear or damage their little roots or leaves. I was relieved to see that after careful replacement my little plants should do just fine. It will be fun to watch them grow.

As I was in the process of doing this it came to my mind, am I as careful and eager to do this with my children? It is food for thought. Am I solicitous and careful over where my little children's souls are at, if they are going astray or needing to be "re-rooted" somewhere? Am I careful as I am seeking to transplant them from wrong behaviors or thinking to not crush or break them? Do I hover over them with concern as I did these little plants?

It's definitely a challenge for me and maybe it will be for you today as well.

musings

S sometimes gets the question, "Does your wife work?" His answer is, "Yes!" We are in a society that thinks a homemaker is second class.."She is just a housewife". The stereotype is a woman eating her bon-bons,watching soap operas all day long. She gets to stay home while the men really do the work of society. But, the scripture certainly holds up a higher standard and what could be more important than raising the next generation, keeping the domestic circle flowing within the society, keeping the home fires burning? Sadly, the home fires have gone out and where is the touchpoint of society? Mom is not there anymore.

I was thinking of this today as I was being pulled in all directions. I heard "Mommy, I need help!" from several places all at once. Here are a few things that represent my day...

Breakfast for everyone

Clean-up the kitchen

Lead in family worship- speak about submission to God and others

Oversee chores getting done

Help my littles coloring a page for their alphabet book

Go behind and swiffer the floor a little more after my child has finished

Print out school pages for the ones that need it

Help my daughter with her math

Make a pot of chili for dinner

Encourage my son that he CAN do his math

Help my daughter with her math again

Help my little girl zipper up her coat to go outside

Help my son put on his coat to go outside

pick up after my 3yo who dumped out the contents of a bin

Print out a few coupons to be used in shopping

Show my son how to hold a deck of cards to shuffle

Keep track in our record book of the school getting done

Tell my daughters to get started on their latin review

Work some more on the chili

Make a couple phone calls about details for tonight

Clean my son up in the tub after he stepped in doggy mess

Lay two little ones down for nap

and this is a laid-back lighter day as we ease back into school.

Sure, someone else could teach my child math. I could send my littles to have someone else care for them. But, I want my son to remember that Mommy was the one who first showed him how to shuffle a deck of cards. I want them to look to me for a smile of approval, not their daycare worker. I want to kiss them as I lay them down for naps. Now, maybe someone else could clean up from stepping in the doggy mess. Seriously, I am blessed even when the "Mommy" calls are coming fast and furious.

Am I am working woman? You better believe I am!

Hurricane Digout

I. Really. Did. It. Yup, I really tackled the unthinkable. It wasn't like I had laid awake last night planning it. It's the kind of thing you have to jump on the second you feel the motivation hit...before it leaves again. I. cleaned. the. playroom. Yes, you read that right. I really, truly did. And even have "after" pictures to prove it. I should have taken before pics...no, it would have scared you. But, the problem is, I have the pics but can't show them to you, because I can't get them off my phone tonight. So you will just have to trust me on this one.

You see, when we moved all the rooms around back last fall, the playroom was set up. Only all the toys were just kinda stuffed in whatever bins, baskets, drawers might be available. So, then every bin, basket, drawer had migrated out again. You know you really have to do something when you are concerned for your child's safety when you send them in there to play. I mean, they do require those to stay evacuated for quite awhile after a hurricane has hit their home. I could give you the name or names of our hurricane(s), but I digress.

So there I was, I put the littles down for a nap, did a couple more things and then it happened. I jumped in with my goggles on. (Ok, I really didn't have safety glasses, but this a blog, remember?) Now, there is a method to this madness. You have to kind of decide you are going to start in one corner of the room and just work your way around, not looking up too often. Just keep your eyes down at the ground, cause if you look up, you will lose hope and despair that you will ever get done. It's kinda like labor, you can't think about the fact that you might have 500 more contractions to get through, you just have to focus on the next one. So, don't look up, that is unless you get car sick, which I kinda did.

Now lest you have a problem visualizing what I am talking about, everyone close your eyes. Now imagine thousands of little tiny pieces. Legos, duplos and blocks, cars and trucks, doll house stuff, dress up clothes, toy kitchen items, baby toys, game pieces, train set pieces...STOP, you opened your eyes. Ok, now let's add in dolls and doll clothes and the million pieces of cut up straws that your children enjoyed cutting and then filling bowls with to make "food". You get the picture? Now imagine going through each tiny items and finding its home, one at a time.

As we were digging our way out of this avalanche I had some nice company once they woke up. (Because this took me quite awhile, you see.) D was so excited when we found his toy airplane. "I just kept thinking of my plane. And when I found it, I stopped." You've gotta love that boy. Then of course H spills a bin of some little toys, which I told her to promptly pick up. As she is putting them away, she says "I'm almost there"..."Is this so hard?" Later on, you would have laughed as I was working so hard and she comes in and promptly drops a container of pushpins all over the floor. She cleaned those up too. But, on to more quotable quotes. H says to D "Me and Dbo are gonna be best friends." D replies, "That rubbers me up when she says that".

All in all, I am glad that I did it now. I even found some of my missing measuring cup set and a pyrex measuring cup. And you wouldn't believe the glob of dried out lotion that was hidden on the shirt of a dolly under the toy sink. Too bad, I did not find my mom's pyrex baking dish in there, and I did not find my crockpot that has been missing since we moved from Houston.

B has been the last couple of days making comments about "this is just our kind of house". I wonder if that means it gives her a secure feeling when she thinks about all that is happening at once. At least I hope it is a secure feeling and not some other feeling when she contemplates the activity here. This afternoon she came in as I was working and said, "This is our kind of house. Little ones all over the house, you trying to fix up the playroom, music on, Daddy just going outside, the boys down in the shop, and me just coming in..." The little sissy is waxing poetic. Remember that Maxwell House commercial "Our House". Maybe we should do an E rendition of that.

Well, tonight we have a nice clean playroom. DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING! No, just kidding. Although they have been briefed on how to keep it that way.

Tomorrow is sewing lesson #2. My friend who is keeping the two littles plans on having them help her make gingerbread cookies, and has invited all the sewing class ladies and children back for cookies and tea afterwards...fun! Afterwards I plan on meeting up with S to do some grocery shopping.

Goodnight all.

Gratefulness...

Well, here I am having a very difficult day. It seems the Lord has brought us into sickness again. S has been sick for a few days and I had hoped it would be an isolated case with him. But, today H has come down with fever. It seems likely it will go through many if not all of us now. Then, the element in my stove went out with a blaze today. It sparked and burned until it literally fell in two, then continued down the element quite awhile till I finally cut the breaker, at S's advice. So, as I sat down here weary and discouraged, again the Lord gave me a gift in Ann's blog. I cut and paste it here below for you to be blessed by as well.

P.S My little H woke up from her nap and I think had been sweating from the Motrin bringing down her fever. My hair is "soapy" she said (meaning my hair is "sweaty") Now, how can I not smile at the Lord's mercies towards me?



Rightly Recognize Your Life

from Holy Experience by Ann Voskamp @Holy Experience
I walk on eggshells.
Quite literally, there, down the trio of back stairs, with the potato sack there in the corner, this carpet of cracked shells rolls out the back door, a welcome mat of brokenness.Fitting for the day.Malakai’s howling his refusal to gather the finger puppets, Shalom’s sonorously wailing through the house the lament of the lost purple marker, Hope’s pleasantly forgotten her piano book at her teacher’s, so now pounds jovially her own improvisation and Levi’s grieving the necessity of writing sentences with direct objects.The house quakes with life-noise and I step out. I need potatoes.Yukon golds still carrying dirt from their dark growing times. The hands on the clock warns lunch hour’s imminent arrival and I’m not yet prepared and there, stepping out on the back stoop for a basket of potatoes, stepping out on this rug of egg remnants, something deep inside me cracks. (This fragile shell of sanity?)Didn’t the little person who hauled out the compost pail with enamel lid notice they were leaving behind a trail of brown and white shell? How did they not notice this shattering when they traipsed back into the house?I kneel down. Winter cold creeps up through the concrete floor, into my bent knees. I sweep along each wood step, fill the palm of my hand with shards and pieces, bits of frail fragments, and I reach through and into what has broken inside of me.It’s just an instant, and maybe it’s the way the sun’s slanting, refracting, through the ice-crusted window pane, maybe just the way these brittle flakes of calcium carbonate chip and break in my hand, and I cup the fragility of life, but I wake up.The ugly becomes startling beautiful.The hard scales break off and I see. I break out of dark and recognize the now for the wonder that it is. We’re alive! The world whirls and we spin too and this house rumbles and shakes with sounds of being, in all its angst and joy, and I can throw my head back and revel in the ride. We are!It’s just an instant, and I wish I knew what inverted it all, but I’ve recognized… re-cognized. Re-thought. Transformed my thinking from the sag of weariness to the invigoration of gratefulness.Re-cognizing the God-beauty in this moment -- re-thinking and re-framing now -- ushers me into thankfulness. Shouldn’t it always? The very words themselves are closely related in origin: thinking and thanking. Originally, “to thank” meant plainly: to think. To think of a gift. Now “to thank” refers to the emotions generated by the thinking of a gift. We cannot thank without thinking, specifically about a gift or the Giver.Does it then follow: if I’m always rightly re-cognizing the world and time for what it is in reality, genuinely and deeply thinking … would I not too always be in a state of thanking?The French have a way with words, this thought, and I whisper the expression often: “Je suis reconnaissant.” A jewel of a phrase, a trinity of meaning. One faucet means: I recognize. I see. Like a military exploration, I’ve explored my own life for its true landscape and I see.But too, the phrase means I have discovered and seen for the purposes of gathering right information. I have scouted things out to acknowledge reality. I see… and I think clearly. Je suis reconnaissant.And turn the gem of a phrase again and it means I am thankful. I am full of thanks.“Je suis reconnaissant”…I recognize, see…I recognize, re-think…I recognize, thank.Thanking and thinking and recognition etymologically entwine in French, and when all three braid in our lives, we grab onto the rope and climb into the rarified air of joy-thanks.I’m gathering broken egg shells and “je suis reconaissant.” A flash of recognition transforms daily life into a blaze of gratitude.
And it occurs to me, kneeling on a garage floor sweeping up spilled compost: To initially enter into thankfulness requires purposeful intent, a daily, proactive effort to maintain. To recognize our life for what it is --- recognize: see, re-think, thank -- we’ll have to have the mental and spiritual fortitude to cognitively re-create the world. To re-cognize how God continually creates beauty good in all things, the ugly too.We can’t blankly, inattentively, stumble through the day – mindlessly moving from one mechanical task to the next – and maintain habitual gratefulness.And that’s what we endeavor. Not simply the feeling of gratefulness -- fleeting, that -- but the virtue of gratefulness – a lifestyle of giving thanks in all things.The emotion of gratitude flaps about according to the weather. Obliging, sunny hours, and it basks. Stormy days and it hangs, limp and beaten. The vulnerable feeling of gratefulness falls prone to circumstances.The virtue of gratitude, however, determines its own weather. Regardless of forecasts, skies or daily events, virtuous gratitude gives wholesale thanks. “In everything, give thanks!” The robust virtue of gratefulness rises above circumstances.And the virtue of gratitude necessitates vigilance. We’ll have to take captive every thought and make it obedient to Christ.In the mess of my day, it’s clear: a lifestyle of thanks isn’t the realm of dim-witted pollyannas. Only the spiritually attentive and mentally robust can re-cognate their days, see their day with God-eyes, and hike their way to the heights of life-gratitude. Isn’t the joy worth the daily effort of the journey?Because re-cognizing ourselves into gratitude is to enter into the exploration of God right here.I haven’t gotten the potatoes yet, but I’ve knelt and gathered up the brokenness and cracked open to the beauty of now, this daily, wild spin of splendor. With handful of broken eggshells, I step back into the swirl of my life.Wasn’t there a moment at Emmaus when a hand broke bread and recognition blazed?I see Him here too.
Lord, let me recognize my life rightly: rightly see, rightly think, rightly thank.
"When he was at the table with them, he took bread,
gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them.
Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him"
Lk. 24:30-31

A blessing...

At the risk of seeming redundant I am posting another post from Ann's blog. It is just too good not to share...

9:55 AM
A Mother's Work: A Model for True Work

from Holy Experience by Ann Voskamp @Holy Experience
(Part of a series this week, my contributions to the Mother Letter Project, open letters from mothers to mothers.)Dear Mother,It’s noon here.That Hope-girl looks up from her plate, big grin spilling across the table, and I mop it up.“Tastes good, Mom.” Her mouth’s still full and rice spills. We laugh and I nod and her sea eyes roll.“Mmmm Mmmmm…..” Fork heaped high, Joshua’s filling that hollow leg of his… both of them. He doesn’t look up, eyes fixed on his rice drenched in chicken sauce.Shalom, carefree mess of curls beside me, leans over the armrest of wooden highchair, lisps in loud whisper, “M’ere, Mama, com’ere. I gotta whisper you sumping.”I let her pull me close and she pushes strands away from my ear, then brushes hair out of her own eyes, then again little fingers tuck hair behind my ear, and finally she presses in, lips tickling my ear with warm, breathy words, “Your food is a good job, Mama!”Under falling locks we find each other, rub noses, giggle.I just made bonus.Isn’t this, a mother’s work, the apex of work? The work prototype the world strives for?The radical model for work our economy and world at large desperately seeks, that productivity gurus develop into billion-dollar industries and seminar-worthy motivational systems, happens everyday in every home on every street corner.This thing that mothers have always done.Mothers work for no pay.I can’t help but think this is work in its purest, most Edenic form, work that is an unadulterated expression of love and creativity, work free of monetary stain or manufacturing triteness.If the world ever urgently needed a Christian model of work, work done without force, without manipulation or bartering for finances, isn’t a mother’s work that elusive ideal? It leers at me on medical forms, government forms, that space labeled “Occupation,” and inky point of my Bic pen always hangs. What exactly is my occupation, this work that I do raising six children? Sadly, I imagine how I might be regarded if I scratch it out in block letters, “Housewife” or “Stay-at-Home-Mom.” Because our society flaunts the fallacy that the only valid work is that which brings in a paycheck, buys us niceties.
“The habit of thinking about work as something one does to make money is so ingrained in us that we can scarcely imagine what a revolutionary change it would be to thinking about it instead in terms of the work done,” writes Dorothy Sayers, Oxford graduate and member of the informal group of writers that included C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien.“To do so would mean taking the attitude of mind we reserve for our unpaid work – the things we make and do for pleasure…. and making that the standard of all our judgments about things and people.”It’s true. We can hardly imagine how counter-culture it would be to make unpaid work, the work we do for love, like mothering and its bearing and feeding and giving and teaching and laughing and crying and caring for children, and made it the standard for our assessment of work.Sayers explores the possibilities, “We should ask of an enterprise, not “will it pay?” but “is it good?”; of a man, not “what does he make?” but “what is his work worth?”;… of employment, not “how much a week?” but “will it exercise my faculties to the utmost?”When that word “Occupation” sneers at a mother, we could ask Sayers’ incisive, true-north questions of work,
“Is this good work?” (Could there be more meaningful work than co-laboring with God in the sculpting of souls?)
“What is this work worth?” (Could this sacred undertaking be belittled with a mere number?)
“Does it exercise my faculties to the utmost?" (What could be more engaging than discovering the breadth and depth and wonder of the world with a child, painting and reading, building and exploring, learning and making, discovering how a soul and mind and human being unfurls into wholeness?)Tonight the house will fall quiet. I will be exhausted by then.There will be stacks of books on the couch, remnants of marvelously long reading sessions. I’ll gather up the balls of yarns from her knitting project, his crochet creation. I’ll scoop up the crayons and markers and scissors strewn about, pause and achingly smile over this funny man drawing, that crazy fish sketch. I’ll stand in the lamp light and listen to their long slow breaths rising and falling in the dark down the hall.I’ll clean and I’ll listen. And all will settle into its place (I’ve come to accept that this house only calms into deep order during the sleeping hours. Come daylight, it whirls and swirls and dances with creativity and laughter and the happiness of a structured chaos of its own.) And I’ll know the exact rightness of this work, this occupation that stands apart as the model of what work was truly meant to be, this vocation set far above the grime and grip of an economic system.In those hours of margin, I’ll have a sliver of time for leisure. I’ll take mine tapping keys, reading. Others might sew, knit, paint. But it’s not as though I simply plow through the day’s work in order to get to what I really want to do. But rather, the leisure projects of a mother’s fringe hours, or of anyone engaged in a Christian model of genuine work, these hobbies aren’t the desired end of our work or escape from it, but are simply a change in pace, a recharging rhythm, refreshing us to return with renewed passion and vigor to our ultimate callings, our purposeful work.Because all work is sacred work, worthy of the diligence, the effort. I pick up lost legos, dry the pots, whish the toilets and this serves God. For if I can’t meet God in my work, where do I meet Him? If I don’t serve Him here, where do I serve Him? Are we not called to serve God in the work – not merely in some imagined, mirage place outside of work?In a model of Christian work, we live one-piece lives, all weaving together into a sacred cloth as unto the Lord with no false seams between God and our days.And in our work, sacred work because there is no such thing as secular work, we first serve God. I’ll put away the laundry, sweep the crumbs, polish the windows not to serve my family primarily, but to serve God. Because, “whenever man is made the centre of things, he become the storm center of trouble,” writes Dorothy Sayers. “The moment you think of serving people, you begin to have a notion that other people owe you something for your pains…. You will begin to bargain for reward, to angle for applause.”Funny, sad, how that works. If I clean out the fridge as an act of service to my family, it’s true, an unconscious part of me thinks the least they can now do is try to keep it clean… or be appreciative. It’s not even an intentional thought on my part. But when I turn the work on its head, and work for God alone, serving Him as I scrub the gunk from the mudroom sink, tidy the pile of boots at the back door, the work returns to its purest state: Worship. Love. A song of Praise.Tonight, I’ll finally linger at the last light switch. I’ll have worked today but no one will have paid me a cent. Real work rises above the necessity of mere money. Tonight, I'll have more than money. I’ll have a bouquet of words, mumbled words from around the table from mouths too full. Words He too will say at the end of time to the faithful servants. Like the words He said in the beginning, when He began His work, when He finished each task.And I’ll look at an order-restored house, hear those heavy sleep breaths, and I too will say it. Because those words are the most meaningful reward for true, pure work, work that works like God does. I will look upon what has been made with this day, and enter into the apex of what God meant for good and true work... I'll turn out the light and whisper those reward words…“It is all very good. So very good.”

Prayer and Mothering

Like I have said before, I cannot condone everything Ann says, but there is so much to glean from here....

What Withstands A Day's HeatAn Open Letter to a Mother

from Holy Experience by Ann Voskamp @Holy Experience
(Part of a series this week, my contributions to the Mother Letter Project, open letters from mothers to mothers.)Dear Mother,It’s 11 a.m. here.Toddler’s crying. Her six-year-old brother kicked her. (Yes, he did confess, face contorted in guilt nod. Toddler too confessed: yes, she did cheat and look at his Stratego pawns. Not that she knows how to play Stratego. Apparently that’s beside the point.)I rock Toddler. And recap Three Qs with kicking brother:What did you do wrong? Why was it wrong? What are you going to do differently in the future?And then, as always: Is that a commitment? Can I count on you?He nods, shakes my hand, hugs sniffling toddler. I whisper a prayer for heart transplants.Third-born son, 7, wanders aimlessly around house looking for that tattered math book of his. I look at the clock. He’s been wandering for an hour. (That’s including the time he spent building a supersonic blaster out of Legos. But he’s right: he did discover that the math book wasn’t at the bottom of the Lego box.)Before I offer Levi another place to look, Daughter screams that Oldest Son stepped in her room, oldest son smirks, daughter whaps him in shoulder, Oldest Son falls to floor in Oscar winning performance, I ask daughter and son to recite memorized Phil 2:1-4, Second Son hollers that Oldest Son is late for online class but computer’s jammed, and Farmer Husband steps in back door asking if we can have lunch in half an hour; he’s hoping to give another go at harvesting last of the corn. And pencil crayons, paper snippets, blizzard across the floor and the farm table’s buried deep under notebooks, remnants of crumbled Lego masterpieces, book bags, phonics tiles.I want to scream. I do.Oldest son throws hands up over head, as if apprehended. Daughter’s eyes shrink back. And I can hear my mama’s voice echoing down memories halls: It’s not that you aren’t going to blow it. It’s what you do with it afterwards.I have. Blown it. Erupted.And what now afterwards?It’s 11 a.m. and one would wonder what I’ve accomplished. A glance around here and it wouldn’t look like much. Except maybe I’ve torn out a few bricks from the foundation of my own house. Frustration wields a wrecking ball.Some days it’s hard not to wave a white flag in surrender.Clean. And the papers and books and Legos multiply. Cook. And scrub and repeat and repeat and repeat. Wash the clothes. Fold the clothes. Stack the clothes. And watch them migrate back to the laundry basket. A mother’s work is but sand etches; the next wave washes it all away.But don’t grains of sand carve stone?It’s 11 a.m. and I do afterwards what I should have done more fervently before. I bend knees at the prayer bench, intentionally creating solitude in the multitude, and remember again the story of Abba Paul, that desert monk who wove baskets and prayers.While other monks lived close enough to cities to sell their handiwork in the markets, Abba Paul lived such a distance that the cost of transportation would exceed any profits from selling the baskets. Nonetheless, each day he collected palm fronds and worked as faithfully as if basket making were his primary means of support. And come the end of the year, when his cave overflowed with long months of toil, he took torch to the work of his hands and the flames devoured and rose higher and cackled long into the night. And then, come morning, the heat died away, satiated. And Abba Paul stood in the long quiet and the wind blew away the ashes of all his work.It’s 11 a.m. and I’m Abba Paul, the wind blowing through and a heap of papery ashes to show for hard toil. The pounding surf of raising children, the fiery furnace of mothering, leaves me with little to physically hold at the end of the day. But are the most significant things in our lives things we can tangibly touch? Visibly see? Won’t the majority of our work, the laundry, the housecleaning, the meal-making, while necessary acts of service, just too burn up?
“But on the judgment day, fire will reveal what kind of work each builder has done. The fire will show if a person’s work has any value. If the work survives, that builder will receive a reward. But if the work is burned up, the builder will suffer great loss. The builder will be saved, but like someone barely escaping through a wall of flames” (1 Cor. 3:13-15).
“If the work survives, that builder will receive a reward.” That’s the kind of mother work I want to invest in, the enduring kind. The kind of work that isn’t washed away with the next wave, that isn’t tinder for the next match. What survives a fire? This house won’t. Abba Paul’s baskets didn’t. But what he wove with the baskets did: prayer.So a mother kneels. So a mother gets up and works and prays, prays and works. Because the prayers we weave into the matching of socks, the stirring of oatmeal, the reading of stories, they survive fire.Aren’t the prayers of our days more important than the products of our days?And the prayers are the genesis of all that can withstand the flames: love, patience, faith, joy, hope. Our prayers make our work acts of praise; our prayers make our work acts of passion for these people living here. These people we love more than life.
Dear Mother, I’m learning it’s always time to pray. Because the house where He lives is a house of prayer and it’s the only way I can keep mine standing.It’s 11 a.m. and I pray.

Pressure Cooker Mothering

I cannot vouch for everything that Ann believes, but I have found great profit from many of her blog entries. Her entry this morning almost knocked me off my chair, because of it's application to my life. This was the Lord speaking to me today. May it bless each of you as well....

Of Pressure Cookers and Staying Present
from Holy Experience by Ann Voskamp @Holy Experience

Sometimes, the pressure gets to me.
Come noon, and I am feeling it, like someone turned the heat to searing high.
Farmer Husband walks in back door looking for a heaping plate of steaming hot food, toddler is rubbing her eyes with her pudgy fist, whimpering loudly for sleep, one child needs to know what 9 books would cost if 3 books cost $76, while two others scuffle and yelp over a disputed eraser.
Anyone know the escape route to the big flashing exit sign? But I have to feed them all first.I toss the potatoes into the pressure cooker and lock on its lid. Levi, waiting for me to announce his next spelling word, looks up from his stool perch at the island. “What is a pressure cooker, anyways?”Scooping up a crying little Shalom whose yanking desperately on my pant leg, I mumble out an explanation.“A pressure cooker is a pot with a lid that doesn’t let the steam escape. Put the pot on the heat, the heat brings the water to the boil, and if the steam doesn’t escape, the food cooks faster.”I look around at counters with books and papers, sideboards of teetering stacks of laundry. Over the whistle of the pressure cooker, I think I hear Caleb ask me something about how to figure out the plural accustive case of the first declension in his Latin exercise.I’d like to escape: read a few pages of the book in the washroom, check email, see if anthing on the pantry shelves can sweetly transport. Let off some steam.I have forgotten:
Habitual escapism, when the heat of life gets turned up, circumvents the efficacy of the Refiner’s Fire.
It's why I cook in the pressure cooker: to dramatically lessen the cooking time. Pessure does the work faster than the slower means of low boiling, steam escaping from lid. And isn't that why living in a pressure cooker does His work faster in me? So I'm learning:Lock the lid on.Let life get hot.Stay present. Don’t escape.Let the pressure do its quick, good work.
Lord, I long for You to refine me. Let Your heat do its work...
Isaiah 48:10 I have refined you, but not as silver is refined. Rather, I have refined you in the furnace of suffering.

Stepping Heavenward

This is a quote from a book that I have really been enjoying reading lately, I thought I would post it here....

"Meanwhile, I want to ask you one question. What are you made of that you can turn from one thing to another like lightning? Talking one moment as if life depended on your every word, and then frisking about with those wild boys as if you were a child yourself?" I saw Una look up curiously, to hear my answer, as I replied, "I have always aimed at this flexibility. I think a mother, especially, ought to learn to enter into the gayer moods of her children at the very moment when her own heart it sad. And it may be as religious an act for her to romp with them at one time as to pray with at them at another." Stepping Heavenward pg 364, 365

Oh to be so selfless as to think of the good of my children, before I think of how I feel!

Mothering-such a high calling

"If commitment to our role as a mother languishes, this may be true not because the job is too small or unchallenging, but because our vision is too small. Our dreams for our task may be thin and weak. We fail to hear God's call and miss the broad scope of the possibilities before us. We focus instead on the routine activities and demands--changing diapers, potty training, cleaning up messes, telling the kids for the fifth time not to slam the door--and miss any sense of a higher calling.

Mothers, look up and look ahead! Ask yourself; in five, ten, twenty, even forty years what will I wish that I had done today? We want to avoid reaching the end of our lives with regret. Look ahead, plan what is important and live accordingly...

Several years ago, I heard a dedicated missionary share what she would do differently if she could start raising her family again. This woman was committed to Christ, and His cause, and she spent her life serving others--so the depth and quality of her life made me sit up and listen when she shared. She said she would stay home more, be kinder to her children, and feed them spiritually....

I too am jealous for the influence I have at this crucial period in my childrens life, to teach him what is good, to enrich his life with beauty, to train him in obedience and respect, to stimulate his eager intellect, to encourage his attempt to try new things, and to play with him, I want to enjoy these years that happen only once and are soon gone forever." A Mother's Heart by Jean Fleming

These quotes are from a book I am reading this week, after feeling so keenly my need of renewal in my mothering. It has really challenged, encouraged and reproved me. I have a long way to go, but I am seeking the Lord for His grace to "be there" more for my children, instead of being so caught up in the next thing to check off my mental list for the day. My children need mama, not just someone to clean, cook and care for them, but MAMA in the real sense of the word. So, I am trying to take those few moments to throw a frisbee, examine a bug, or build a train track. (typing this as I kiss and snuggle my 4 yob who just woke up from his nap a little while ago)

BTW, today H sat down as pretty as you please and went in her little potty chair! After a few days of feeling discouraged about the progress, this was a breakthrough!