Category: life & everyday

A few times a year, I know I need to pull back a little, to find a little more margin and quiet.  Obviously, it isn’t feasible for me to just quit everything, so I’ve discovered little ways to achieve margin in my heart, even if my actual schedule is still busy.

Specifically, chicken stock (based loosely on this recipe).  I get out my big red pot after I roast a chicken.  I put the bones, veggies, spices and a whole bunch of water and I let it simmer all day.  There’s something about soup on the stove that seems right.  It’s low maintenance, just a stir every once in awhile, but requires me to be present.

However, this time there’s a sad ending to the chicken stock story.  I ladled it in mason jars at the end of the day and after they cooled, I put them in the freezer.  Ten quart jars!  I felt so domestic.  Until a few days later, I discovered that six of them had busted in the freezing process.  I’m not going to lie, I almost cried throwing it all away.  Note to self: no more glass jars in the freezer.

Now, I am always reading a book.  There’s a pile beside my bed and a basket of books that travels with me, and usually a few under the coffee table, too.  When I leave the house, I usually stick one in my purse just in case I get a few minutes to read a page.  They’re usually books I should read.  You know, the nonfiction ones that are good for me.

But a few times a year, I take one of my classic favorite fictions off the shelf.  The ones that I can flip to any page and know exactly what’s going on.   They’re usually books I’ve read since I was twelve.  And this time I re-read Emily of New Moon.  It’s not only about the story– it’s about the memories connected to being a child and falling in love with words.  It’s about the inscription on the front– books from my Grandma, who read them all before she gifted them to me, because she loved them, too.  And when I’m feeling nostalgic, anything by L.M. Montgomery feels just right.

Like this video of Bono and Eugene Peterson on the Psalms.  It was fantastic.

Jesus, forgive us for thinking our busyness will bring us salvation.  We run around, doing good things, yes, but it’s like we don’t believe that the world can go on without us.  Why do we insist on this silly effort?  Why do we have such a hard time drawing back, giving ourselves more margin?  Teach us what it means to turn back to you, to depend on you in ways we’ve been unwilling to surrender.  It’s scary to pull back, because you speak to us in silence, when our hearts are still.  It feels like a risk.  But it’s what you call us to.  May we always be willing to allow you to do Your work in our hearts, because that’s when we see our True Source of strength.

Ready or not, it’s the start of a new week.  No one looks forward to Mondays. Sunday night rolls in and we all groan as the mental lists of the next seven days start scrolling through our head.

But Mondays are new starts.  And there’s hope in new starts.  Let’s take away the dread and replace it with intention.  How can your tasks be turned into intentional opportunities to see God at work?

Maybe you’re working in a child’s classroom this week.  Instead of simply filing papers into their mailboxes, pray a sentence prayer for each child as you put their work away. As you grocery shop, take a few moments to look around you, praying for the clerk and the person you pass over and over (there’s always one).  Instead of averting your eyes, smile and make eye contact.  Call a friend and see if you can meet her for coffee, even though you’ll sacrifice your lunch break.  Being intentional means you value people over tasks.

As you rewrite your to do list for the week, here are a few thing I’m thinking about:

I was able to snag an early copy of the book but it’s available to all now!  It has been such an encouragement to me.  This is a book about what God has been doing in Annie’s life, taking her “broken crazy” and turning it into something beautiful.  I marked several pages, but my favorite was this: “If you aren’t experiencing pain, you aren’t experiencing beauty. Darkness makes us appreciate the beauty of the light.  If you aren’t allowing yourself to feel the hurt, sadness, loneliness and disappointment this fallen world has to offer, you probably aren’t feeling the fullness of the joy and beauty the redeemed moments have to offer.” You can snag your copy here.  It’s joyful and fun and REAL. Plus, her name is Annie and I just have an affinity to anyone with such a great name.

Eliza (5 years old) wandered out of her room, well after we had put her to bed.  It happens almost every night.  Someday it will stop and we’ll probably be sad about that, but for now, we find it mildly annoying.  Last night she said very solemnly, “I’m not comfortable anymore.  I was lying in my bed, trying to sleep and I was comfortable.  But then, all of a sudden, I was uncomfortable.”  And then she waited expectantly for us to tell her how to cure it.  Peter calmly replied, “Thank you for telling us.  I think you should try to lie in a different way and see if that works.” She was satisfied and skipped back to bed.  We didn’t hear from her again, so apparently he had great wisdom.  I’m still laughing about it.

We don’t like the feeling of being uncomfortable, do we?  But sometimes we miss what God wants to teach us because we are so worried about getting comfortable.  What if we quit tossing around and instead listened long enough to what God is whispering to our hearts in the midst of the hard?

A few weeks ago, my aversion to answering phone calls from unknown numbers led to this bizarre story.  When a number pops up on my phone that I don’t recognize, I am not ashamed to let it go to voicemail.  It’s the introvert in me, I suppose.  Or maybe it’s the part of me that doesn’t like surprises.  Also, it’s usually junk and who has time for that?  At any rate, the other day I saw a number from out of state and I promptly ignored it.  To my surprise, there was a voicemail from a stranger and when I listened, well, this is what I heard:

Please take a good moment to chuckle and to wonder why this woman would leave a voicemail after listening to a message in my voice, stating my name.  Now, because my brain must process All The Things, I cannot quit thinking about this voicemail.

You see, I think there’s a narrative that our families tell.  Our families,  the ones we share the most words and space with, have a collective story we’re telling one another and the outside world.

Peter’s mother (just to be clear— this is not my mother-in-law, even though I’m married to a Peter, too!), bless her soul, did not expect me to hear her voicemail.  Admittedly, I don’t know anything about her  beyond her 26 second message.  But from her words, I can make a few assumptions (which may or may not be true):

1. Peter does not usually get gifts to his mother on time.
2. Peter has not talked to his mother since Christmas.
3. Peter did not see his mother for Christmas.

4. Peter’s mother may love her son, but she does not tell him.
5. Peter’s wife, Marian, does not help him send things.

There’s this thing that Carey Niewhof calls “family voice”.  He says, “It contains hints of expectation, exasperation, frustration and quiet fatigue. Add in tones of command, whining and a touch of rudeness, and you’ve got family voice. Sometimes it’s strong. Sometimes it’s subtle. But all the time it’s reserved for the people you live with.” (source)

I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit I know exactly what he’s talking about.  There’s a certain way we communicate with those in our family that we wouldn’t dare talk to others. Often when this happens, I make excuses:  They’re my family.  I can be real with them.  I have to have somewhere I can be completely honest.

But is that the kind of narrative I want to tell?  Is that the kind of legacy I want to leave?  When I think of my kids, after they’re married and on their own, what kind of relationship do I want to have with them?  What would my voicemail say?

I’ve been reading the book of Ruth, one of my very favorites.  Naomi and her husband and two sons move from Bethlehem to Moab because of a famine.  While there, her husband dies, her sons get married to Moabite women and then they die, too.  It’s a story of extreme loss and bitterness… and, my favorite, redemption.  Naomi, alone in Moab, decides to return to Bethlehem and urges her daughters-in-law to stay and find a new love and life.  One daughter agrees and moves on, but Ruth refuses to abandon Naomi.  You’ve probably heard the words she declared:

But Ruth replied, “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.  Wherever you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord punish me severely if I allow anything but death to separate us!” When Naomi saw that Ruth was determined to go with her, she said nothing more.

Ruth 1:16-18

Their family narrative was one of loss and abandonment, but in the midst of the sorrow, Ruth chose to change the family narrative.  While her mother-in-law was bitter, Ruth was hopeful.  And slowly, over time, the plan for their family unfolded and it was beyond what anyone had imagined.  Eventually in their family line came a baby boy who would be named King David, and later, the True King, Jesus.  Ruth rewrote her family’s voice.  She followed Naomi, even though it was no personal gain for her at the time.  She had no guarantees that her life would ever rise above poverty and hardship, but she refused to believe the narrative that had been handed to her.

It’s a powerful lesson, isn’t it?

I sit at the dinner table, after serving the food that inevitably someone will be made to choke down because they don’t like it.  We iron out the disagreements that happen like clockwork: who gets to sit in the polka dot chair, who gets the pink plate, who gets to pray.  Someone will look at someone with the wrong face.  Someone will chew with their mouth open, which will send another child into a deluge of unnecessary comments.  They will leave the table and I will clean up the crumbs, wondering just where I went wrong.

However, my voice sets the tone for our family.  My voice rises to the top as I tell our narrative.  And it may not seem like it’s making a difference, but it does, little by little. When I speak over my children, using Truth, believing that there is hope right in the middle of our mess, I’m building our narrative. When I fail, it’s important that I’m real with my family, asking for forgiveness.

Because someday, when I inadvertently leave a voicemail on a stranger’s phone, I want them to know that I deeply love my children.  That I delight in them.  I want my words to bring out the best in my kids.

May you have the space today to step back and see how the Holy Spirit is guiding you as you build your Family Narrative.  May you have the courage to change the voice of disrespect and negativity and replace it with hope and delight.  You may feel like you had little control as a child what narrative was spoken over you, but there is One who can change that story, who will rewrite history for you.  And may you send your Mama a gift on time, to prove to her that you’re not always late.