Juleeta

Each morning I touch screen my way to the Internet, my soul weighs heavy. Click-worthy news articles stand tightly beside one another, screaming to be heard and validated by at-home internet audiences.

I scroll across the Jolie-Pitt divorce ragings, the Presidential debate slayings, the racial tug-of-war.  Fear-motivated articles assure me I am not safe anywhere –  not in my country, certainly not my state, city, or home.

As I pray about hopelessness and greed and death, the Lord is gracious to remind me of the freedom He died to give me. So that I might live.

Some days living means barely having the strength to push yourself up out of the sleep-laden mattress and choosing to turn down your feet to feel the shock and hard of the cold floor, only to muster one step at a time.

And some days, living looks like soft sun rays piercing stretched out grey-white clouds on the pallet of a pale blue sky – calm and rejuvenating and fresh.

Most days, though, living looks like something that hangs in the span of in between.  It is in the mundane in between, we need to remember the freedom He insisted on at the cross and that He has been offering every day, ever since.

As a mother, I feel compelled to hold onto this freedom and exercise it like a muscle so that I don’t forget how it was meant to bless.  That it is a gift. In choosing to remember my freedom in Christ, I choose to dream.  I choose to release my thoughts from the locked up coop called “survival” and think old dreams and still wish they might come true.

Today, I get to share a popular and piercing poem by Langston Hughes. Thank you, Mr. Hughes, for reminding all of us that part of living is dreaming.  And that God gave us dreams so that we might experience freedom and fly somewhere, even if it is only in our minds.

 

DREAMS

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

–Langston Hughes

I heard small person feet pitter patter the hard word floors of my bedroom around 6:20ish this morning, and I lay motionless in hopes that the sounds would go away.  I heard the child-feet pause for a few seconds in deliberation, Should I wake her up?, squeak out a pivot and turn back toward his bedroom.

A swirl of activity ensued shortly thereafter because today was a special day.

Donuts with Dads.

Lately, my husband has been travelling and away from home with increasing work demands, and to happen to have him home for this event – 30 minutes of all out Harvey boy consumption of donuts AT SCHOOL– was so important to them that they were ready to walk out the door, handsome and packed for school, by 7:05am.  Running excitedly through the house, climbing the walls, and bumping against each other…chaos ensued until they finally left at 7:40.

My boys were so grateful to be hosting their dad for thirty minutes of donut eating.

As I have been a bit more of the lone ranger on the home front, I’ve prayed against resentment over my husband’s savory steak dinners while I’m washing more dried marinara off Ikea kid-proof plates.  I am asking the Lord to save me from sinking in the lonliness of having my husband gone more and the work that must increase on my part if we are going to survive this season of travel and long work  days.

Like many moms, I struggle with feeling defeated in my weaknesses. My biggest weakness is my own body. I feel limited in what I can accomplish, and too often I choose to let my limits weigh me down.  His truth preaches to my heart in Psalm 27:5-6.

“For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble;

he will conceal me in the cover of his tent; he will lift me high upon a rock.

And now my head shall be lifted up above all my enemies around me,

and  I will offer in his tent sacrifices with shouts of joy.

I will sing and make melody to the Lord.”

He promises to lift my head up if I will just seek His shelter.

He does not promise to change my circumstances.

But, by lifting me up, the God of the Universe who loves me dearly, promises to help me see Him. And of course, if I’m looking toward the Father, my heart will offer thanks. My heart turns from selfishness to gratitude. And although he doesn’t take away my limitations, he does allow me to be thankful in the midst of them.

Thankful for having plenty on my plate.  Thankful for having my husband love me well when he is home.  Thankful for the rumbling floors in this house that means boys are alive and active in my presence.

Thankful for 30 minute memories my children will remember years from now, with grateful hearts, like Donuts with Dads.

 

In the shower, my singing voice rocks the house.  I pound out lyrics like I’m the real deal and don’t even doubt that I’m hitting every note.

Tonight, my husband, by virtue of living with me, was stuck being my audience as I sang the same song over and over like an angst ridden teenager. Something in my heart was craving permission to be rebellious, or at least free to not apologize.  For anything.

So, in the back half of the Harvey house, Natalie Maines from the Dixie Chicks made a guest appearance in the form of a 5’4″ unabashedly loud tone deaf brunette, singing “Not Ready to Make Nice” no less than thirty times in the time span of an hour….or so.

Even if you’re only mildly interested in country music, you remember how the Dixie Chicks dropped off the map after they criticized former president George Bush’s decision to invade Iraq and that they followed it up with a nude photo cover for the magazine, Entertainment Weekly. It would be an understatement to say they were bold as they exited country music stardom.

And years later, they write this song that I can’t get enough of.  As the group recounts an American public’s reaction to their freedom of speech,  they reflect on the struggle to forgive and forget.

“I know you said

Can’t you just get over it?

It turned my whole world around

And I kinda like it.”

Tonight, I’m thinking through so many moments when I chose to feel guilty for something that didn’t have anything to do with me.  Or how, in a few certain relationships, I allowed myself to be abused and scared only to be ridiculed and silenced by the abuser. I was told not to rebel.  I was told to just get over it.

And I think about the children I’m raising to be nice, kind, respectful, loving, peace-making, God-fearing individuals….

I think it’s time to reevaluate some things around here.

Because the rebellion in my heart that allows me to deny culture as my religion and follow Christ as my Savior has to do with me choosing to run from the people pleasing that comes from needing to be nice, kind, respectful, and peace-making all the time. Fearing God and fearing man, after all, are not the same thing.  And they never were. Not in the garden. Not with Moses. Not with Paul. Certainly not with Christ.

Somewhere along the way in my walk with Christ, I started combining all the niceness and goodness and politeness together onto a canvas that was supposed to end up looking like “a good Christian mom.” In the end, the image ended up looking like someone I don’t even know.

I’m so very thankful for a Father who doesn’t ask me to look at my past and just get over it. Instead, he repeatedly invites me to spend time with Him and sort this life out one prayer at a time. Embracing how he made me, rebellion and all, has turned my whole life around, and I kinda like it.

 

Psalm 29:1-2 proclaims:

“Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings,

ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name;

worship the Lord in the splendor of holiness.”

 

In the midst of the doing,

the doing dishes,

the doing schoolwork,

the doing laundry and bedmaking and Lego-picking-up,

the doing dinner,

the doing baths and bedtime,

and the doing more dishes,

I wear myself out.

My body is worn out, but I wear out my heart more than anything.  My soul feels strained when I fail to follow His commands for me in Psalm 29:1-2.  My Father in Heaven commands me to ascribe to him the strength that I can’t muster to do all the things I’m supposed to in a day.

He commands me to worship Him and not have an expectation at the end about what I’m going to get  out of worship.

Today, I pray to seek gratification from worship rather than work.

We must see the soul and the person in its ruined condition, with its malformed and dysfunctional mind, feelings, body, and social relations, before we can understand that it must be delivered and reformed and how that can be done. One of the greatest obstacles to effective spiritual formation in Christ today is simple failure to understand and acknowledge the reality of the human situation as it affects Christians and non-Christians alike.  We must start from where we really are.

(Renovation of the Heart by Dallas Willard, p. 45).

This quote opens Lynn Hoffman’s book, Steps into God’s Grace. It is typed in graceful italics and framed simply in a shaded grey box, placed perfectly in the middle of the page.  There is no going around it; most of the rest of the page is white so that your eye is drawn to the most important idea of the entire step study Hoffman invites her readers to experience.

We must start from where we really are.

I have read that phrase over and over and over.  Some days it frees my heart to feel all kinds of emotions in the span of a minute : fear, love, guilt, tenderness.  Other days, it makes my face turn pink and my rib cage breathe an uncomfortably large inhale-exhale that can barely keep my screaming voice from erupting at whatever.  Really, whatever.

But I am thankful that the Word of God is teaching me that it is safe for me to be exactly who I am with Him.  It is not pretty, thin, or modern.  It is not intelligent, admired, or graceful.  It’s not even “godly” among people in the church body, which is still something I’m grappling with as I learn to exist in the evangelical church.

I think this study, this commitment to my being with my Creator and dealing honestly before him, is changing me. It is healing me.

And He and I have a long way to go. A lifetime.

Thank you, Healer, for holding me close.

 

 

Last night, as I considered charging through this morning’s list of groceries, piles of weekend laundry, and lingering homeschool lessons, I ventured to think through how to inspire drive, tenacity, maybe even excellence in my kids…at some point in the day.  Recently coming off of the Olympics, inspiring my children has seemed a worthy endeavor.

These last few weeks, our family has crouched closely together around the television, holding our breaths as athletes defied gravity and exhaustion to perform. We have joined together to cheer them to victory. Raucous roars and tightly fisted hoorays have filled our at-home arena. In awe of Michael Phelps’ speedy and streamlined swimming and Simone Biles’ wondrous gymnastic feats, naturally our family has engaged in a few conversations about hard work, giftedness, and the pursuit of a dream.

But as I looked on various closing ceremony images this morning, eager to see Simone Biles bearing the  American flag, I came across this picture, and it stunned me.  This was not the Rio I have imagined these last few weeks. You guys, take a look at this and come right back.

http://www.si.com/olympics/photo/2016/08/22/best-photos-closing-ceremony-2016-rio-summer-olympic-games

In the most honest way, this snapshot put me in my place. It forced me to remember the reality that is clawing its way down the streets of Brazil. And the reality my heart desperately needs to face when I’m wondering about the best ways to inspire my kids to “fulfill their potential.”

I stare at this skinny, shoeless boy as he gazes at the firecracker glory that permeates the skyline from Mangueira favela, one of many crime-ridden, drug infested, impoverished shantytowns built into the hillsides of Rio de Janiero, and I wonder.  What is he thinking? Will he ever get out?  Does he even have a chance?

Absorbed by the moment captured here, first, I find myself relieved.  We have it so good. Nervous next. But it may not be like that forever. Then just plain outright hit upside the head by my selfish anxiety. Why do I spend more time worrying about how I’m not doing enough to inspire and lead my kids instead of praying that God will allow me to inspire and lead my kids?

The only way I’m going to inspire my children to great work is to take time to pray about how I can be a part of the great work myself. 

And for now, only pray. Not do the great work. Not yet. Pray and seek His face as I read Scripture. Wait and see where He leads.  Because the power of the Holy Spirit will lead, and there is nothing more inspiring, for anyone, than the Holy Spirit’s guidance.