Common Trials: Sharing Life's Experiences with Brethren in Kenya

In my last post, I shared a lesson learned from a little teacher all the way over in Kenya.  I'd like to share another lesson two other little teachers taught me, this time two little girls.

First let me set the scene.

Kenya is beautiful.  Most of our time was spent out in the middle of nowhere, near Lake Victoria, in the sprawling village of Kagan.  The country lavished its beauty on us...rich red earth; waving grasses; lovely trees whose tops seem somehow flattened; sharp-thorned acacia trees; bulbous lion's ear flowers; graceful animals; gorgeously flaming sunrises and sunsets.

The scenery was dotted with small homes of earthen walls and metal roofs enclosed in square courtyards edged with green walls of trees and bushes.  One or two roads eroded deep into the red earth, etching their ways across the countryside.  One such road lead the bumpy way all the way out to the compound where we stayed, past homes and fields, flocks of sheep and goats and herds of cows tended by small dark-skinned boys.

And the people...oh the people!  Beautiful faces, dark skin, ready smiles; hands and feet toughened from the hard work of farm life; gentle hearts brimming with generosity and hospitality. Unashamed of their love for the Lord.  Unabashed in the exuberance of their worship.

In the scenery and in their ways of life I found many differences from what was I was used to back home in the States.  In the people, I found more differences...but many similarities, too.  Especially as I watched from the perspective of a wife and mom.

People came from all over...wives, husbands, moms, dads, grandparents, kids.  Most came dressed in their Sunday best (to see the nurses and doctors...dressed in scrubs!).

People milled all over the compound, waiting to be seen.  And every morning and evening when we trekked to our host, Ishmael's, home, another crowd waited for us...small boys and girls, adorable kids, eager to play with us while meals were being prepared.  They were ready for any kid of fun...soccer, football, balloons, stickers...anything! (No TV or video games there!)

We had a blast with those little guys!

Once or twice, though, I saw coming out in them that little thing common to children (and adults!) the world over...that little thing called their "sin nature."  And I found myself saying same things I say so often to my own kids at home..."Share!  Be kind...don't hit...don't throw rocks at each other..." and so on.

And I was reminded that all moms and dads, even in Kenya, face the same difficulties and hurdles I do in trying to raise my boys to be godly, loving young men.

Another incident reminded me of the same thing.

We were in one of the gospel meetings we had each evening after the clinic was done for the day.  We were sitting behind a few rows of women, all standing and singing.  (Those dear people love their singing...and dancing!)

One woman a couple of rows ahead of us had with her a small, dear little girl, maybe about two years old.  This little girl cried and cried throughout the singing, seated on her mom's chair while her mom stood in front of it, singing and clapping along with the rest of the congregation.  The little one never let up, wailing and pulling at the back of her mom's shirt and skirt, though her cries were nearly drowned out by the enthusiasm of the music.

Finally, the singing was over and the speaking was about to begin.  The mom turned around to face her little girl.  She grasped the little girl by one upper arm, using that hold to pick her up (a common way to pick up their little ones, I noticed).  The woman then used her free hand to grab the back of the plastic chair and tilt it forward...and I watched as she poured out a clear liquid from the seat of the chair onto the dusty concrete ground of the church.  She then promptly sat in the chair (without wiping it off) and plopped the child into her lap.

A little later, still during the meeting, I watched as the mother pulled off the little girl's wet undies so she could run around bare-bottomed under her little dress.

Oh, how I smiled!  How very many times have I found myself in similar situations, over and over again, as I went through long, drawn-out months of frustrating potty-training! (Though, I admit, I handled the clean-up a little differently...usually I came armed paper towels and some kind of cleaning spray.)

And as I sat watching, still amused, part of a verse popped into my mind...

"No temptation has overtaken you but such as is COMMON TO MAN..." I Corinthians 10:13

And so I thought...about those little, every-day frustrations that have a way of needling their way under our skin and tunneling a burning path to our hearts and minds where they fester and ferment and threaten to ruin our whole day...or week.

Like...

CJ wet his pants.  Again.
Moses just WILL NOT nap!
If those kids don't stop whining and fighting I'll never get dinner on the table!

Or sometimes the issues are a little different...Sometimes the trials are "little," like potty-training and fighting kids.  But sometimes they're "big," like the trial faced by by little Cynthia and her parents.

I met Cynthia during our first day of clinic.  Sweet little girl, just three years old.  Ready smile, sweet giggle.

But scrawny arms and legs...and no muscle tone.  At three years old, she can't even hold her head up.  Can't talk.  Can't feed herself.

Cynthia's dad brought her in, strapped to his back with colorful African cloth.  He was quiet...and in his eyes I caught sight of a hesitant hope.

But, in our simple little clinic, there was nothing we could do for her.  All we could tell her dad was that she needed tests they couldn't afford...hospital visits they couldn't afford...and treatments and therapy they couldn't afford.

My heart broke for them as I watched Cynthia's dad stand, holding her tight in his arms, and walk out of my triage room.  Such a little girl...the exact same age as my CJ.

You and I also face trials and heartaches bigger than potty-training, difficulties like...

The bank account, credit card bill, and calculator just can't seem to get along.
We leave church or some get-together of friends feeling slighted, or ignored, or targeted, or defeated.
We leave the doctor's office...or the funeral home...knowing life will never be the same again.

I thought over these things...and realized in a new way...that these difficulties and temptations are common to men and women the whole world over!

This isn't to say that these things aren't hard, painful, or life-shattering.  It's just to say that other people experience them, too.

So often, when I'm going through a hard time, I focus on "poor me," listing off all the hard things life has brought me, all the painful things I've had to endure. Unconsciously I start thinking that I'm somehow special and set apart by these oh-so-awful trials.

When I think this way, in my mind, the whole world begins to revolve around me.  Everything else grinds to a stop and all I can think about is "poor me."

Watching those moms and dads and kids in Kenya reminded me that I'm not special and set apart by these trials...they're common!  And when I realize that there's nothing really that special or different about my particular trials, then I'm free to focus on others and the trials they're going through...and how I can help them.

Let me get back to 1 Corinthians 10:13.  This verse comes just after a passage describing the trials the Israelites faced in the desert.  Some of their trials were relatively mild...like the fresh fruits and vegetables conspicuously missing from their cupboards.

Some trials were harder...like the many dying at the hands (fangs!) of fiery serpents.

The Israelites faced these trials, these tests...and most of them failed the tests.  They grumbled.  They complained.  They rebelled.

And so Paul leads up to verse 13.  Here's the rest of the verse:

"No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man; and God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it."

Yes, life can be hard.  Yes, night after sleepless night rocking a sick infant can be so draining and so exhausting.  Yes, the dog vomiting on the carpet at just the wrong time can threaten to ruin your day.

Yes, a visit to the doctor or a visit from a policeman can turn your world upside down and hurdle you into hours and years of agony and grief.

But other believers the world over, countless myriads of them, have been through the same things.  They've cried, they've hurt, they've asked "why?"...and they've grasped Jesus' hand tightly, and He gently, tenderly, has led them through.

And He'll hold my hand, too.  And yours.  And He'll lead us through.  We can stand the test.  He's provided a way out...a way through.

Sometimes we won't be "through" until we open our eyes to see the face of the One who held our hand the whole way.  But sometimes we're "through" the temptation the very instant we decide NOT to give in to grumbling, complaining, and rebelling.

Let's take that "way of escape."  Whether the trial is trivial and irritating or big and life-changing, let's hold His hand tight...and trust Him...and He'll lead us through.

Just like He leads the believers in Kenya...in all of Africa...and Europe...and Asia.  The whole world over.

"This I recall to mind, 

Therefore I have hope.  

Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed, 

Because His compassions fail not.  

They are new every morning; 

Great is Your faithfulness. 

'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 

'Therefore I hope in Him!' 

The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, 

To the soul who seeks Him.  

It is good that one should hope and wait quietly 

For the salvation of the Lord." 

Lamentations 3:21-26

I didn't get any shots of the little girls in the stories above, but here are some of the sweet kiddos we played with.

 Barbara, Adam, Joy, Trezi, Josh

 Joy in action

 Adam.  Love that smile!

 Trezi

Barbara

Nairobi's Best...and Worst

Two nights ago I arrived home from a medical missions trip to Kenya.

I feel like my mind is full to overflowing with all I saw and experienced.  I have a lot to process through.  Yesterday, during one of my layovers, I called my parents.  My dad asked me what the highlight of my trip was.  After thinking for a minute, I answered.  I definitely would not call it a highlight, but it was the experience that affected me more than anything else.

We visited one of Nairobi's slums.

Our host, Ishmael, took us to see the home office of Shelter of Hope, a ministry providing education, physical care, and spiritual hope to, as Ishmael would put it, "the widows and orphans and those who have nothing."

I didn't realize that Shelter of Hope was in the middle of Nairobi's second-largest slums.  I'll never forget what I saw.

"Homes" were little shacks made of corrugated metal siding and roofing, or mud-and-stick walls with metal roofing.  These were pasted together, one after another after another, to create row upon row upon row of these shacks.  A complicated maze of alleyways between the rows branched off again and again, growing more and more narrow as we went.  Had we not been following our host, I would have quickly gotten lost.

Trash was piled everywhere...an unimaginable amount...plastic bags and old shoes and broken glass.  The ground was a combination of mud and hard-packed earth with trash layered into the dirt.

There were no bathrooms.  Open sewage cut jagged, foot-deep ravines into the alleyways.  At times the smell was nearly overpowering.

Navigating was tricky--we jumped over foaming sewage trickling through, trying not to brush up against the sharp edges of low metal roofs crowding together over the alleyways.

Mini open markets lined some of the wider thoroughfares, displaying food of varying freshness and covered with flies.  One stall featured dozens of small birds, skinned, cooking, but still raw...and crawling with flies.

People were everywhere, mostly children and women, overflowing from the little homes and crowding the alleyways.  Most wore dirty, ripped, faded clothing, and were barefoot or wearing only flip flops.  But they were smiling.

They crowded us, especially the kids, shouting "Mzungu!! Mzungu!!" ("white foreigner") and reaching up warm, dark hands, longing for us to shake their hands so they could run off and tell everyone that they had touched a Mzungu.  They also parroted "How are you? How are you?" with unforgettable accent and cadence, a common phrase that nearly every little boy and girl seemed to know, even if they knew no other English word.

Walking into the slums was...overwhelming.

We trekked to Shelter of Hope's little compound, right in the middle of it all.  Hope Bible Chapel stood alongside it.  By the time we got there, I leaned over to one of the other girls on the trip and whispered, "I see why they call it Hope Bible Chapel."

As Ishmael showed us around the tiny compound, little offices and schoolrooms and a primitive kitchen, buildings made of the same materials as every other building in the slums, children spilled through the doorway into the courtyard of the church.  "Mzungu! Mzungu! How are you??"  They stretched out their hands, longing to be touched...smiling shyly but longing for their pictures to be taken...singing for us, "Jesus Loves Me" and other songs.

One little boy pushed through the other kids and came up to me.  He was maybe four or five.  Faded, ripped green shirt, hanging lopsided off one shoulder.  Runny nose.  Shy smile.

He reached up, holding a small, dirty, plastic ball, about the size of a ping pong ball.  He placed this ball into my hand and closed my fingers around it.

He wanted me to have his ball.

I whispered, "Thank you," but my throat was so tight hardly any sound squeezed through.  I spent the next fifteen minutes blinking back tears and trying to breathe around the lump in my throat.  He, who had nothing, had given me, who had everything, a special treasure...maybe his only treasure.

I can hardly thinking about it without tears springing back to my eyes.

Fast forward a few hours.

We were at the airport, waiting for the announcement to board our flight home.  I was so ready to get home, to hug my husband and cuddle my boys.  But instead of hearing, "Now boarding..." we heard "Due to mechanical failure, the flight has been cancelled..."

Chaos ensued.  Passengers flocked the counters.  Finally the answer was given--there simply was no other flight until the next morning...nearly twelve hours later.

The crowd moved on to another counter where we waited for vouchers for hotel rooms for the night.  After nearly half an hour, the crowd still had not grown any smaller.  Over the hubbub of grumbling travelers, a gentleman started shouting, declaring the inefficiency of the Kenyan airway workers and his frustration with them.  He even got behind the counter and rummaged around as he shouted, while the workers just stared with wide eyes.  Several in crowd clapped.

Finally we got our vouchers and were bused to one of the nicest hotels in Nairobi.  Each of us enjoyed a room to ourselves--suites, actually.  Free dinner.  Free breakfast.  Hot showers and clean sheets.

In one day, we went from witnessing the worst of Nairobi to enjoying the best of Nairobi.

In one place, we saw filth, poverty, disease...smiling, singing children..singing, dancing women.  Joy.  Hope.  Giving.

In the other, we saw finery, cleanliness, comfort...and grumbling, shouting, unhappy travelers.  Rights demanded.  Injustices decried.  Indignation flaunted.

Contentment is all about perspective.

The humble realize they have more than they deserve.  They know gratitude.  Know joy.

The proud are demanding...and miserable.

Perspective is everything.

"Buy truth (right perspective!), and do not sell it, get wisdom and instruction and understanding."
--Proverbs 23:23

The giver

 The gift

Straddling one "ravine" we had to jump over.  It's a good foot deep.

 One narrow alley

Some of the happy kids

Home Sweet Home

There's just something about coming home.

Last weekend, we visited family for the holidays, and the weekend before that we combined attending a Bible conference with visiting more family. Out of eleven consecutive days, we were gone or on the road for eight of them.  With the kids.  We thoroughly enjoyed the visits, but by the time we pulled up in front of our house, we were ready to be home.  In fact, little Moses actually laughed out loud when we walked through the front door.

So what's so nice about being home?

Sleeping in your own bed. Playing with old toys that seem new since you haven't played with them in so long (a benefit that lasts long enough for Mama to unpack!).  Toddling around familiar rooms with familiar interesting obstacles.  Showering in your own shower.  Cooking in your own kitchen.

Familiarity.

But also precious about home, and perhaps even more so, is the acceptance we find there.  In your own home, you are (should be) able to be yourself like no where else.  I can roll out of bed in the morning, pull on whatever T-shirt I grab first, and stumble bleary-eyed into the living room with scary bed-head hair without even glancing into the mirror.  I can let down the hyper-vigilance of monitoring the kids' behavior.  I can ignore the messes they leave behind until I get around to cleaning them up...or dragging them over to help clean up.

That's not to say that I don't want to look presentable and have well-behaved kids and keep things picked up, even at home.  It's just that I can accomplish these things with a more relaxed attitude and without constantly looking over my shoulder and wondering what others are thinking about my choice of clothing or Moses's spreading toys all over the living room or CJ's occasional pouting and lack of friendliness.  I can relax, knowing that my husband loves me even when our living room looks like a small natural disaster (temporarily, right?).  I can relax, knowing the kids don't know the difference between my blow-drying my hair or letting it air dry...or going to bed with it wet and waking up to discover another natural disaster.

And at home, I belong.  It's not awkward or uncomfortable.  I don't feel out of place...because I'm in my place.  I'm where I'm supposed to be.

Familiarity...acceptance...belonging...oh, the comforts of home!

Our first night back, I lay in bed thinking about how nice it was to be home.  I was reminded of a verse that had been brought to life for me at a ladies' meeting six and a half years ago.

I remember exactly when because it was just before I married my wonderful hubby.  I was getting ready to move to a new home in a new city in a new state, begin attending a new church, and start looking for a new job in a new career (I had just gotten my nurse's license).

A friend and I had driven to a nearby camp that was hosting a family camp.  We were there for only one day and listened to only one message.  That week, the women's speaker, Nancy Rolinger, was sharing with the ladies from several psalms.  The message we heard was on Psalm 90.  The only thing I remember was what she had to say about the first two verses:

"Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations.  
Before the mountains were brought forth, 
or ever You had formed the earth and the world, 
even from everlasting to everlasting, You are God."

You are our DWELLING PLACE...You are our HOME.

That means that everything that is so precious to me about home, is true about God.

With God, I am unconditionally accepted.  I can be sure of His love.  He knows like no one else when I'm having a "bad attitude day," like a bad hair day.  He knows when I've made a mess of things.  He knows when I fail as a parent.

And He still loves me.  He may not be pleased, but He still loves me.  He accepts me.

He says,

"Yes, I have loved you with an EVERLASTING love; therefore with lovingkindness I have drawn you." (Jeremiah 31:3)

And in my Dwelling-Place God, I not only find the relief of acceptance, but I find the comfort of familiarity.  He is familiar.  Everything that is so precious to me about Him will never change!  He is always kind, always tender, always good, always just, always sovereign.

"For I am the Lord; I DO NOT CHANGE." (Malachi 3:6)

With God, I belong.  I'm His.  At His side, I'm where I'm supposed to be.  Verse after verse in Scripture invites us to come to His side.  That's where we belong.

All this means that no matter where I am, in a sense, I am home...because God is with me.

This brought such comfort to me as I sat listening to the message so many years ago.  And it brought comfort as I lay in bed thinking the other night.  It brought comfort as I thought about the kind of God I have.  And it brought comfort as I thought about my upcoming trip.

Next week, I will travel across an ocean to another continent.  I will leave my home, my hubby, and my boys for twelve days while I take part in a medical mission trip to Kenya.

That night as I lay in bed, thoughts of how good it was to be home mingled with thoughts of the trip.  I was little nervous about going.  Oh, I'm definitely looking forward to it, but I'll miss the familiarity and comforts of home.  I'll miss my family!  So I prayed about the trip...and that was when I remembered Psalm 90:1-2.  The same God to Whom I was praying would be in Kenya, too.  In Kenya, almost halfway around the world, I would find in Him the same familiarity and the same acceptance and the same belonging I found right there in my bed.  And I wouldn't be with my precious family, but I would meet new family...precious people who love the same Dwelling-Place God I love.

So no matter where I am...a state away, or halfway around the world...

Or when I am in my home, but it's one of those times or seasons when "home sweet home" might be a little less-than-sweet...

Even there...even then...

I'll be perfectly at home.

Because GOD is my home.  GOD is my dwelling place!

When in Doubt, Grab a Wet Wipe

Wet wipes are great things.

Those of you that have yet to be introduced to a wet wipe's usefulness and versatility, let me enlighten you.

I first realized what I'd been missing out on after I had my first son.  Now, I know--wet wipes are good for almost anything...like...

Dirty diapers (of course).
Wiping little hands and mouths after meals.
Cleaning up smeared baby food...from the baby's arms and face and eyebrows and neck and hair and ears and toes (yes, toes).
Cleaning up splattered baby food...from your shirt, your hair, the floor, the wall.  Your toes.
Dabbing at spit-up on the carpet while you make another mental note that you really really need to get the carpets properly cleaned...sometime.

As a last-minute substitution for hand washing when you finally get everyone sitting down at the table and you realize that your little boy's hands are filthy.
As a quick sort-of bath when you decide that getting the littles to bed soon is more important than getting them to bed squeaky clean.
Quickly swiping a dirty surface to tide you over until you have time to properly mop...or clean the bathroom...or dust...etc.
Wiping down the restaurant table before you use the surface as a high chair tray for your toddler's finger food.  Oh, and for good measure, to wipe off the restaurant high chair or booster seat, too.  Makes you feel better somehow.

Nearly any mess you can think of, wet wipes can handle.  Except for runny noses.  Tissues work better.  Otherwise, things are just a little too...slimy.  Sorry.  I'm digressing.  There is a good point in all of this. I promise.

Like I said, wet wipes are good for almost anything.  In fact, I'm heading off to Kenya on a short-term medical mission trip in a couple of weeks, and guess what's at the top of my list.  Yep.  Wet wipes.

Nothing highlights how great wet wipes are until you find yourself without them.

Last Saturday, we went shopping with the kids in a downtown area.  My husband and I had been looking forward to it, as we hadn't been to the area in a while.  (We forgot how much more difficult it is to shop with two toddlers...but we still managed to get what we needed!)  We stopped for lunch, and halfway through the meal, I realized I'd forgotten the wet wipes at home.  I fought the panic welling up and told myself, no big deal...we'll figure out something, right?  But then our problem was complicated by the fact that the waitress had only given us three napkins between the four of us, and when the time came to wipe up macaroni-and-cheese leftovers from two faces and four hands, she was nowhere to be found.  But we made it through (a trip to the bathroom to gather a few of those brown paper towels helped). So we finished up our lunch and, a little stickier than ideal, headed back to shopping.

A couple blocks and a few stores later, Moses graced us with a strong smell wafting up from his pants. The panic was greater this time.  We headed to a little specialty children's store where I asked the clerk if they had any wet wipes.  She said, no, they didn't, but they had something else.  Can't remember what she called them, but they looked just like wet wipes and, I'm sure, would have worked just as well.  Thankfully, though, I stopped to ask her what the little package cost...and she answered, almost apologetically, that the wipes were $11.49.  "I think I'll manage," I said with a smile, and headed to the bathroom, where I pulled the last two paper towels off the roll, moistened them at the sink, and completed the task.

Then, a while later, when we were loading the kids back into the car, I happened to look in the back seat...where I spotted a brand-new package of wet wipes sitting there.  As if it were mocking me.

If only I'd had those wet wipes when I needed them!

Because, like I said earlier, wet wipes are great for cleaning up almost any mess life can dish out.

Wet wipes are a lot like love.

I've spent quite a few words praising the value of wet wipes.  Open the pages of Scripture, and you'll find many more words, verse after verse, praising the value of love.

Words like...

"But above all these put on LOVE, which is the bond of perfection." (Col. 3:14)
"And above all things have fervent LOVE for one another, for 'love will cover a multitude of sins.'" (I Pet. 4:8)
"By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have LOVE for one another." (John 13:35)
"The greatest of these is LOVE." (I Cor. 13:13)
In fact, after the greatest commandment to love God, the second most important commandment is listed as "'You shall LOVE your neighbor as yourself.'  There is no other commandment than these." (Mark 12:31)

And on and on.

One of the most beautiful passages of Scripture describing and exalting love is I Corinthians 13.  After addressing several spiritual gifts in chapter 12, Paul stops to emphasize that the best of gifts are nothing and less than nothing if not accompanied by genuine love.  Eloquent speaking, gifted writing; deep knowledge of the mysteries of Scripture; miracle-working and powerful faith; the sacrifice of every last worldly possession; dying a martyr's death, and not just at the hand of the swift executioner's axe, but by the slow, unimaginable agony of the fire's flames...all this is empty, worthless, even repulsive to God, if they are void of love.

We come across a lot of messes in our lifetimes.  Hurt feelings (given or received); cutting words; thoughtless actions...and their ripple effects and the ripple effects of those ripple effects.  Mess upon mess upon mess.  You and I often face these messes and don't even know where to start; cleaning up seems like a confusing and daunting task.

When in doubt...try love.

That's not to say we should smile and turn a blind eye to sin.  But we should deal with messes (ours and others') with a gentle spirit, genuinely desiring the very best for those we love.  Giving others the benefit of a doubt.  Looking for ways to build them up for what has been done right to soften the blow of pointing out the wrong.  Choosing words very carefully.  Yes, sometimes things need to be communicated in no uncertain terms.  But firmness can definitely be accompanied by love.

And, like wet wipes...nothing highlights the importance of love like when a situation is handled without it.

So when we're faced with messes, let's grab our trusty wet wipe...and LOVE.

Because...

"Love never fails." (I Corithians 13:13)

Little Girls and Rug Burns and Poor-Me Lists

"If I should say, 'My foot has slipped,' Your lovingkindness, O Lord, will hold me up." Psalm 94:18

Last Sunday at church, my boys gave me another picture of what it looks like to cling...and to be held up.

During the donut-and-coffee-and-fellowship break, a sweet little girl decided to love on Moses.  Problem was, she hadn't been to church in quite a while, and Moses didn't know her.  Her persistence to play with and hold him frightened him.  By the time I got downstairs to the fellowship area, he met me at the door with pleading eyes, a furrowed brow, and reaching arms.  The little girl handed him up to me, and Moses clung tightly.

Seconds later, I heard CJ start crying at the other end of the room.  I looked up to see him sprawled out on the floor behind a row of chairs, and the sweet girl's equally sweet sister trying to comfort him and help him up (and probably frightening him, too).  Going over, I set Moses down and scooped CJ up to find a "raspberry" rug burn on his forehead.  Moses probably would have been fine on his own by then...had not the first girl followed us over and, trying to be helpful, picked him up.  So Moses started crying too, and the sweetie handed him to me.  

So now I carried a twenty-plus-pound little boy on my left hip and a thirty-plus-pound little boy on my right hip...both crying.  And clinging.

I did the math...and knew I wouldn't last for long.  And--horrors!--all the donuts were gone (nothing dries up a two-year-old's tears like a donut!).  But then the little girl appeared with the last donut that she had scrounged from somewhere, and CJ perked up.  I was able to set him down at a table so he could enjoy it...as long as I stayed close.

Both my boys wanted to cling, and I was willing to hold them...but I knew I wouldn't be able to for long.  And had another crying little boy or two appeared, I would have had to sprout another couple of arms (and grow a few more muscles!) to uphold them, too.  My willingness to uphold surpassed my ability.

This started me thinking.  In a clinging/upholding relationship, how well one clings isn't near so important as how well the other upholds.

Let me explain.  Let's say I was holding one of my boys, and he was clinging to me.  If I let go, just let my arms go jelly, no matter how tightly he clung, he wouldn't be able to hold himself up for long.  He'd slide right down to the ground pretty quickly.  But if I was willing and able to wrap my arms around him, no matter how skilled or strong his clinging was, if I held him, he'd be held up.

What comfort this is to me in my relationship with my Jesus!

He is both willing and able to uphold me when I cling. "My soul clings to You; Your right hand upholds me."  (Psalm 63:8)  And how well I cling doesn't matter; He'll still uphold me!  Psalm 94 says that even should my foot slip (or my clinging arms loosen their grip), still He will hold me up!

Oh, thank You, Lord!  Because I don't always cling like I should....

Like the other morning.  I determined to get up early enough to start my day with some proper clinging--to start it out with some alone time with Him.  But CJ woke up 15 minutes before my alarm went off (15 minutes earlier than my getting-up-early; that's too early!).  After trying for half an hour to get him to go back to sleep, I gave up, got him some milk and something to keep him occupied, and finally sat down with my coffee and my Bible.  Just a few short minutes later, I heard Moses in his crib.  Got him up, got him some milk and sat back down again.  Then a few minutes later he needed a diaper change...then wanted breakfast...then needed another diaper change...then got bored with his toys and needed some entertaining...and you get the picture.

I wanted to cling.  I wanted to start out my day with a sweet exchange of whispers with my Jesus.  

But I couldn't.

Or sometimes, I know I should cling...but I just don't want to.

Like when it's just one of those days, and my mind creates a rut with my thoughts...an oft-rehashed "poor-me list" (a recounting of all the things that have gone wrong or are less-than-perfect that give me good reason to feel sorry for myself; a list that grows every time I mentally review it).  I know I need to get out of that rut...like by coming up with a "thank-You"list instead ("Gratitude diffuses attitude." --Lysa TerKuerst; love that quote!).  But...I just don't feel like it.  I know that to cling, I should think on what is true and lovely and pure, and I try to...but I don't really try that hard.  My thoughts linger on thank-You's for a few seconds...then slide back into that "poor-me" rut.

I know I should cling...but my efforts are only half-hearted.

But even when my foot slips...even when my clinging arms weaken...

STILL HE UPHOLDS ME!

"Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend into heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.  If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Your hand shall lead me and YOUR RIGHT HAND SHALL HOLD ME." Psalm 139:7-10

Roosters and Thunder and a Busy Momma: A Picture of Clinging

"My soul clings to You; Your right hand upholds me."  Psalm 63:8

A couple of weeks ago, CJ, Moses, and I went to visit the chickens next door.  CJ loved it--noticing the colors of their feathers; inquiring if those chickens had batteries; helping Matt, our next door neighbor, feed the chickens (which meant throwing feed at the chickens, which he found quite hysterical); etc.

Moses, however, didn't like it so much.  He would have been fine if one of the roosters hadn't kept crowing at us.  He was perfectly happy looking at those strange creatures in the pen...until...COCK-A-DOOLE-DOO!  He jumped with his whole body, then grabbed at me and my clothes with his hands and arms and squeezed me as tightly as he could with his little legs, turning his face into my shoulder.  Just as quickly he settled down and was happy again...then another crow, another hold-on-for-dear-life.

Then I got the brilliant but not-so-kind idea to see what would happen if I set him down.  So I put him in the grass at my feet.  He sat happily enjoying the outdoors...then...COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!  He whirled around with a cry and frantically tried to climb up my legs.  I scooped him up...and instantly, he was happy again.

He was scared.  So he clung.  And he was comforted.

*************

A few days after that, I was rushing to get the boys ready and out the door for Wednesday night prayer meeting.  I sat on the floor in front of CJ, wrestling socks and shoes onto his feet.  Moses, who had just been woken up by a loud storm outside, was cranky and wanted me.  He stood at my side, then behind me, then at my other side, then behind me, pulling at my shirt and my shoulders and even my hair and fussing.  He continued to make his unhappiness quite clear as I filled sippy cups and grabbed diapers and wet wipes and Cheerios; he crawled around after me, fussing and grasping at my pant legs anytime he got close enough.

Figuring he was cranky from being woken up too early, I sighed and tried my best to persevere through the inconvenient interruptions, lest we be late for church (being on time is so much more important than taking the time to suck in a slow breath and calm the frenzy...right?).  Just then, Micah appeared, and I begged him to take Moses so I could finish getting ready.

Then, in the car on the way to church, I finally took the time to take that slow breath...and realized that poor Moses had been scared of the booming thunder and whipping wind outside.  He wasn't simply cranky.  He was scared.  He wanted his mommy.

He wanted to cling.  But I was too busy.

*************

Moses knows what clinging looks like.   Every so often, he models it for me--grabbing onto me, or whatever part of me he can reach (legs, clothes, hair, etc.), with any and all parts of his body he can use (hands, arms, legs....), and as persistently as the situation calls for (like when I pull away and rush off to grab those Cheerios...and then a pair of tiny Crocs...oh, yeah, and better slap on a little makeup...and try not to trip over the baby!).

I'm supposed to cling like that...to my Savior.  When I'm scared...or hurt...or struggling...or lonely...or longing...or even happy.  My soul is to cling to my sweet Jesus.  In any and every way I can.  As persistently and continuously as I can.

When Moses clings (or wants to cling), I don't always uphold him like he wants me to.  Sometimes my "right hand" is too busy with other things.

But my Jesus is never too busy.  He'll never push me away (or set me down at His feet just to amuse Himself at my reaction the next time the rooster crows).  He is always there.  Any and every time I cling, for as long as I cling, His mighty right hand will always uphold me.

"[Jesus] being the brightness of His glory and the express image of His person, and UPHOLDING ALL THINGS [including me!] by the word of His power..." (Hebrews 1:3)

More thoughts on clinging tomorrow.

Eyes On Me

Our sweet Moses is such a happy little guy.

Sometimes I feel like he's smiling as big as he is, simply because he can't smile any bigger.  Just last night, he was practicing his newest feat--walking--and was cackling to himself as he toddled around.  Plump cheeks split wide by a one-toothed grin (he's had one tooth, and only one tooth, for almost two months!), while giggles gurgled up from inside--one chubby foot in froth of the other, wibbling and wobbling and catching his balance again as he explored the house and explored his new ability.

But he wasn't always this way.

His first six months were pretty rough.  He had gastric reflux--which means that the acid in his stomach that was meant to break down his food escaped "upstream" and instead attacked his esophagus.  Not a pleasant feeling.  Yet it took his nurse-mommy six months to put the pieces together, figure out what the problem was, and get him started on the God-sent medicine that turned poor Moses into a whole different baby once he finally had relief.

But before the medicine, he seemed like he was always hurting.  No, he wasn't one of those babies who cry for hours upon hours.  But he was fussy.  He spit up an awful lot.  He didn't sleep well.  He squirmed and arched his back while he ate, as if he was starving and yet didn't want to eat, all at the same time.

Mostly, though, he just wasn't...happy.We had to work so hard to get a smile out of him, and those we got were short-lived.  He hardly laughed.

It was so sad.

One thing that sticks out the most when I look back is the way he refused to take his eyes off me.  No matter where he was in the room, I knew that if I looked at him, he'd be intently looking back.  From Mema's (my mom's) arms.  From G's (my husband's mom's) arms.  From his high chair.  From his play mat.  If I set him down with his toys, he wasn't interested; he didn't play.  He just looked at me with his big, unblinking brown eyes, with this heart-breaking look that silently cried, "Help me!"

He wanted me.

He had to have known that being in my arms wouldn't take away the burning pain.  He knew that my nearness wouldn't dissolve the physical hurt.  But he wanted me anyway.  He wanted to be as near as he could to the one who loved him and brought him into this world.  He knew my voice, my smell, the sway he would feel as I walked and held him.  And all these things, familiar things, would be comforting to him.  My nearness brought comfort.  Comfort in the midst of the pain.

Have you ever had a pain like that?

An ever-present pain.  One you just can't shake.  You don't need anything to remind you of it because it's always there.  Maybe a physical pain.  Or maybe...a soul-pain.  A heaviness, an ache, a heartbreak that won't heal.

Funny thing about pain.  It reminds you of a need.  A need for comfort...for a nearness to a Comforter.  That's the good thing about constant pain.  It constantly reminds you of your need for God.  I know that the times in my life when I've been hurting the most are the times that I keep my eyes most steadily on my God.  All day long, under my breath, I'll be praying...usually nothing much more profound than "Help me, God!  Help me!"  But it's the kind of cry that comes from deep, deep inside, growing out of a breaking heart.  It's times like these that I long for God most consistently, most incessantly, most all-day-long, than any other.  I don't know what else to do.  I just know I want to be near to God.

I want God.

I know, mostly likely, He won't magically, instantly cure the hurt.  I know He probably won't dissolve the pain.  But I want Him anyway.  His love, His promises, His gentle whisper.  His nearness.  I know without a doubt that His nearness may not solve my problem, but His nearness will bring comfort.

Comfort in the midst of the pain.

"We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You." --2 Chronicles 20:12

Babies' Cries and Clean Underwear and Life Lessons

I want to know God.

I'm convinced that there is no greater goal in life than to know the God who created us, who saved us, and who longs for us to know Him intimately.

I want to dig deep into God's Word, uncovering the precious gems I know are hiding there, just waiting for me to discover them.  I want to dive in and pick it apart and understand the meanings and the pictures and the mysteries.  I want to be able to say, "Oh, the book of Zephaniah?  Yep, I know what that's about.  Great little book.  There are some awesome truths about God in that book.  Let me break it down for you."  I want to know God's Word backward and forward.  I want to know God.

But...I can't seem to find the time to start digging in.  I'm barely able to squeeze out a few uninterrupted minutes each day to sit at Jesus' feet and put my day in His hands (the key word here being "uninterrupted"!).  And I don't think I'll find much more time in the foreseeable future.

But I'm learning...that I don't need hours upon hours of coffee-fueled, lamplit studying; or textbooks and notebooks and outlines and Greek meanings; or college-level classes with complicated-sounding names.

All I need is to keep my eyes open.  The lessons are right before me.  The classrooms are my home, my back yard, the playground, my car...every place I normally go.

And the teachers?

A blue-eyed, curly-haired almost-three-year-old.  And his brother, a brown-eyed, all-but-bald just-turned-one-year-old.

And the lessons?

Life-changing.

***********

God wants to be known.  Isaiah tells us that "The whole earth is full of His glory." (Isaiah 6:3)  He's plastered truths about Himself everywhere!  I like to think of looking for these truths as looking for His fingerprints.  Most thieves try to hide their identities, stepping gingerly so as to leave no clues, wearing gloves, carefully concealing their actions and purposes.  But the Lord, Thief-God who wants to steal my heart, has left His fingerprints everywhere!  He's dropped clues in strategic places for me to find, all pointing to who He is and what He has done--truths about Himself.

All I need to do is keep my eyes open.

And to help me keep my eyes open, I'm going to keeping track of some of the clues and fingerprints I'm finding.  Truths that come to light day by day, pointed out my two adorable little boys...

Like when my younger son was so very tiny and I fed him and changed him and swaddled him and rocked him and sang to him, and still he cried and cried and I cried and cried...and I wished I could understand his heart and know how I could comfort him.  And I was reminded that I have a heavenly Father who "understand[s] my thoughts from afar," who understands me better than I understand my own often-confused thoughts and longings and feelings.  This God knows better than anyone else how to comfort me...because He really understands. And I was comforted.

Like when I stepped in a tell-tale warm, wet spot in the carpet, and looked up to see a corresponding wet spot in my two-year-old's pants...after months and months of frustrating potty-training.  And I held my breath in an attempt to hold my tongue and hold back the frustration boiling up in my chest and trying to escape from my mouth in sharp words. Then came clean underwear and clean pants and a few less-than-gentle words and carpet cleaner and paper towels.  Then, a little later than ideal, I stopped to look for clues about God...and then I remembered my God's grace and His gentleness time after time in my own life, when I'd made yet another unforgivable mess of my life...and how again He forgave me, cleaned me up, and helped me learn how to do better the next time.  And my frustration fizzled...and I was humbled.  And grateful.

So I learn...about me.  About my kids.  About my God.

Will you join me in my journey?  You'll laugh at the crazy cute things my kids say and do, and maybe sigh and nod with me at those fall-apart days and unglued moments.  Maybe you'll learn something along the way.

And maybe...maybe you'll be encouraged to look for clues a little more often, too.  To look for lessons about God...taught by the most unexpected teachers.