meet with me

Lunch was almost finished in the oven... but suddenly - i needed my piano.
There were little ones running around, kids doing school on computers, laundry that needed doing and a hungry husband to feed...
But i sat down... 'cause lately, music has called me less often, and i couldn't bear to turn her down.
i found the music that i've pulled out for the next time i lead worship at our church - and as my fingers began gently - and then not so gently to play... i felt my insides just break and burst.
And is that choking sob a sweet sound of worship, My King?
And i laugh to Him, "How can i lead if all you'll let me do is cry?"
And it feels like He's beside me on that black bench - and i sing my love to the Only One who is worthy of worship - notes just warbled whispers and face caught between tears and one of those open mouthed smiles that shows you that i still have three of my wisdom teeth.
Alone in my living room - with the light streaming in my back window - in my jeans with my hair still damp from a late shower...
Is this how You choose to meet with me?
i find myself straying from the music fitted together in an organized display - my fingers stumble as i no longer have the notes and words scrawled in front of me. My memory fails, but my praise continues... i'm lost in wonder that He lets me approach Him - that He sees me as His daughter - that He hears and takes action on my behalf...
i hear a popping sizzle from the kitchen and i fly to my oven - lunch is saved - and the sweet ones in my care gather to eat - not knowing their mama has already been fed.

the two step

i'm not a dancer. i wish i was... one time i remember watching dancers on youtube and being so incredibly moved by the sheer artistry and grace.
i'm more of a wiggle my bum and poke my index fingers in the air type dancer... it's not very inspiring.
This morning i got to thinking about the two steps that i want to take - in my longing to dance for Him... and how the power of one underscores the beauty of the other. The steps weave together constantly in our choices, our lifestyle, our responses and even ultimately in our desires... and so i thought i would write about the stumbling dance i am attempting.
i love the book of Romans - and the tongue twister that Paul included in chapter 7... "For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. ¹⁹ For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing."
And it seems so complex - this being a daughter of the King... how can i choose to do right, when wrong is constantly looming? And He takes me by the tips of my fingers and leads in a simple dance - a simple dance that is life and peace. 
With a deep breath, i take that first step - i want to choose not to do the things that are wrong. Not in a stubborn, prideful legalistic glut - but in humility, recognizing that i am my Papa's child - and that in His Great Love, He speaks only truth. So a husband refrains from beating his wife. The thief doesn't steal. The liar doesn't lie. The killer doesn't kill. Evil is kept at bay by simple restraint, because the impulse to sin is not acted upon... because my bonds to my Creator - the bonds that allow me to call Him Father - are greater than the bondage that would hold me in sin. And tentatively - one foot leaves the ground... the music swells around us - and our delicate dance has begun. It will feel different to be the one choosing - not - to do the things that are wrong. It requires acting on information that is different than our emotionally charged feelings, and instead trusting a Faithful Father who leads. This first step might bring difficult conversations as restraint is sometimes seen as judgement, but i've learned that i don't need to be afraid of difficult conversations - they're often learning experiences for me; teaching me to speak with gentleness and humility because my own ignorance is overwhelming - but He never fails to be right and just.
And the power of choosing not to... so gently leads me to the second step; the beauty of choosing to do what is good. And sometimes in exhaustion we snap to the ones we love, "Isn't it enough that i'm not like so and so? i don't do this - and i've stayed away from that..." But the sweetness of the trustful two-step comes  not only from the man refraining from beating his wife - it requires him taking the second step to do good to her.  The thief doesn't steal, he gives. The liar doesn't lie, he tells the truth. The killer doesn't kill, he speaks out on behalf of the vulnerable.
And one step just seems strange without the other. Those who do good without refraining from evil aren't trustworthy - and those who refrain from evil without doing good have missed out by only having gone half way too.
And so i'll try to teach my little ones - dancer though i'm not - to take both steps in this breathtaking two-step, listening to His whisper in our ears, and following where He leads.  

inching back

After a day in bed it feels strange to stand on my two feet, holding hands with my morning boy and tip toeing downstairs to find breakfast.
He seems thrilled to see me up and about - it's such a strange thing for him to have mama unavailable for a whole day... he spent much of his Sunday snuggled up beside me patting my cheeks and murmuring in his baby tones, "Mama sick? Mama better now? Mama still sick? Mama better now, ok?"
He couldn't get close enough and needed to climb on top of me, and would wail brokenheartedly when i would shove him off.
Sweet son.
Our fingers are still intertwined as i survey a kitchen that i didn't get to say goodnight to - the popcorn maker is out and there are cups and bowls on the counters. i start the coffee, get my little one a bowl of the sugary cereal his daddy bought when he pulled grocery duty for me because he knew he was leaving bright and early for another business trip, and i begin to clear counters.
My little one dances around me.
He still has marker all over his tummy and his hair is a rat's nest of white fluff. Never in the history of human kind has someone been more of a morning person than my boy. Before long, i hear the shower running and little feet plodding either up or down stairs to meet me on the main level. i love this job.
At 8am sharp, we meet on the couch... and our school day begins.
It's such an achy inching start - stumbling readers stuttering through II Chronicles. Little baby, who prays for, "Daddy be nice to me and he loves mama." Squabbles erupting and being silenced as we plod through poetry and history. A special word being given to my four year old to memorize out of all the latin and greek cards; i tell him, "bonus is your special word, Gagey... it means 'good'.  i want you to memorize that one, k?"
"You call me your bonus, mama..." He guesses my pleasure in giving him this word.
"Yes. i do." i wink at him.
And it feels so good to start another week.
It's such a fresh start - so many new mercies to unwrap as the sun rises.
i'll wash my sheets, i'll clean the bathrooms, i'll make it outside and blink in the sunshine.
So, thank you Father - for this fresh start... and for your Great Love that allows it to be...

Lamentations 3:22-23

New International Version (NIV)

²² Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
²³ They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

sidelined

Neil and i went on a date the night before and i felt awesome, but at 4am - i woke up and my body was miserable.
Miserable.
When my alarm went off in the morning, i felt guilty for feeling awful - i was supposed to set up our 40 Days for Life table at church and i was ready to explain what we're doing *again and again and again* as many times as was necessary to get people to see that every single day in Calgary there are around 15 children whose lives are taken in their own mama's wombs. i wanted to tell them how our presence vigilling at the clinic is imperative because that's where abortions are happening. i wanted to tell them how we know we are a sign of hope for those little ones who are scheduled for death - and a sign of mercy to their mamas who are blinded by a moment of crisis. i wanted to point out the current trend in our culture to devalue all human life - and i wanted the chance to tell them that if we began to see value in the vulnerable - there would be a great awakening towards the Creator who so lovingly fashioned us all. i knew today was important, but i couldn't stand up without feeling violently dizzy. i tried to have a shower and ended up on the floor. i crawled to my closet and got on a skirt and top - and then collapsed on my bed and texted my friend who was doing the table with me and told her i couldn't make it.
The rest of the day is a blur - i slept, i drank apple cider vinegar, i drank water, took advil for my pounding head and didn't stand upright at all.
And i hate days like that... where i'm unable. Those days when i feel like i failed the important. The ones where i didn't even have one good mama conversation with one child, didn't make the bed, didn't clean anything other than my own sick. It feels wasted.
And at the end of the day - i still feel rotten.
But i know - that as frustrated as i am to be sidelined... that this battle against injustice isn't mine alone. My friends stood in my place and gave out information.
A meagre three - but still THREE - signed up to take time praying at the vigil.
God wasn't stuck sick in bed... only i was.
And that makes all the difference in the world.
He's got this and i trust Him.

firstborn

Cai's hair used to be like cotton candy. The only time it was ever smooth was when she was fresh out of the bath - we'd brush it down in broad strokes - right down to the tiny lip at the bottom that threatened to curl - and the next morning it would be a tiny seething mess of cotton, unwilling to remain tamed.
She had enormous blue eyes framed with thick lashes. Her forehead came with a dent across it, just like her daddy's. Her fingernails and toe nails were always chewed right down to the nub, and she wore her baby teeth out chewing on every hard plastic object she could find. She was smart... like crazy smart. She could memorize long passages - and was willing to perform them on demand. Yet even though she seemed to thrive on performance, she was intensely shy. People exhausted her and she was six before i saw her voluntarily make eye contact with an adult. She listened - and remembered what she heard. She understood nuances in adult conversation and implications beyond her years.
She was unique, my firstborn.
And now... on the very cusp of 16, she twists her neck elegantly to smile at her daddy as she works in the kitchen.
"Are you proud of me, dad? Are you proud that i'm in my second last year of highschool?"
And she catches him off guard - this gruff daddy-man. He suddenly wraps his arms around her thin frame and i wonder if i am the only one to catch the undercurrent in his tone as he tries to laugh, "Let's not talk about that right now..." (or ever... his voice implies).
And it scares us - to feel like children yet - while our children grow.
It scares me this wild fierce pride that comes in pounding waves of love and hope and surrender.
And her cotton hair is tamed, her nail beds repaired... Adulthood beckons.