Weepy Little Girl

They’ll say, “Quit cryin’

Or I’ll give you something to cry


They’ll say it’s a man’s world,

A dog-eat-dog world,

Suck it up, buttercup,

Big girls don’t cry.

You might dry every

Haphazard tear,

Choke and swallow hard until


No not nothing

Can break you.

Woman, don’t you know?

Your tears are your battle-cry,

An alarm to take up arms,

Defend the injustice

And shame the unrighteous.

Your cry is power and might,

A warning to the oppressors,

The conscience of your people.

Turn your cheek, woman, and

Let them see.



N.B. I wrote this piece initially for Mother’s Day, but I hesitated to publish it because, well, writer-y hesitation. You get it. Maybe. Anyway, I hope it speaks even in August.

I had one child today. For an hour while my younger girls were at their respective schools, I had the care of my oldest child. He is the one who can play at an enclosed playground without constant hawk eyes and spotting hands.

I sat on a bench, darted my eyes, fidgeted with my hands, fumbled with my coffee cup.

What do I do with myself? Stare blankly back at my phone? Half-read the news? Play Candy Crush?

Do you ever forget how to be you?

Eight years of parenting three stair-step babies and three years of homeschooling have made me a mother machine. I have loved it, not because motherhood was my dream job, but because I love my children.

But in these few fleeting moments, I find I cannot easily switch gears. I do not know how to hold my hands.

Strangely, I see that coming return of an identity outside of mother. My youngest is only two, but maturing quickly. The years are beginning to slip faster, like your grandma always said they would. Sooner than I realize, all three of them will be playing independently, taking themselves to the restroom, and getting their own snacks. They will drive cars and work jobs and apply for colleges, mostly without my hawk eyes and spotting hands.

And I am scared.

I am scared I will not remember who I was. I am scared I will not know who I am.

At 25 I was sharp and vibrant and accomplished. I had toughed my way through the first years of teaching. I was a leader in my field – I was confident in my intellect and abilities.

I happily walked away so I could walk hand-in-hand with my children during their formative years. It remains the best choice I have ever made.

But as any veteran will tell you, motherhood is like going to war. My body is worn and damaged. My mental and emotional reserves are depleted daily. I cannot remember my last uninterrupted night of sleep. I have survived in the muddy trenches of potty training and stomach viruses. I have been hit, kicked, pelted, and poked with regular frequency. Every ounce of personal dignity has been lost.

How can we hold on to the pieces of ourselves while in the midst of the battle?

Motherhood is an all-consuming calling, particularly in those early years. Friends, it is vital for us to not only honor the love of a mother, but the sacrifice she makes. Do not give us flowers to hold in our already full hands, but help us pick up the pieces of ourselves we have had to drop. Help us to unclench our fists for a moment that we might see their strength again.

Let us help the mothers in the trenches to survive the battles and not lose themselves. Let us help each other to emerge stronger from the fight. Let us remind each other that the sacrifices we make have rewards that reach far into the coming generations. And let us honor the veteran mothers who have carried us on their strong shoulders.

Let us all be reminded of the strength and sacrifice it takes to exchange your life for the call of motherhood.

Jesus Cakes

Jesus would totally bake a gay couple a wedding cake.”

Jesus only judged, like, religious people and financiers.”

“They’re just using some hypocritical morality to justify their bigotry.

So goes the arguments when a baker refuses to bake a wedding cake for a gay couple because he or she is a Christian. I often wonder if a person demanding shrimp at a Kosher deli could file such a lawsuit. This is a world in which we must go to the highest court in the land to decide what kinds of cakes a baker must make.

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

But I am less focused on the ruling than on this interpretation of Jesus as humanist. I would like to explore and share some perspective on what and whom Jesus “judged.”

First, I feel we must know Jesus’ purpose in relationship to sin. He said,

““Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them.” Matthew‬ ‭5:17‬ ‭NIV‬‬

By this statement, we can conclude that Jesus is not the deliverer of a new law or standard for what constitutes sin. He did not stand in street corners listing what qualifies as sin under his new rule. In fact, I believe the only laws he did abolish were those he made obsolete – those ceremonial laws concerned with sacrificing, the Temple, and what was clean and unclean. His death and resurrection necessarily abolished those!

That being said, no one needed clarification on their sin status before Jesus.

So, Jesus didn’t judge those sinners, only the church-y people, then?

Well, Jesus did not judge anyone:

““If anyone hears my words but does not keep them, I do not judge that person. For I did not come to judge the world, but to save the world.” John‬ ‭12:47‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Jesus did not judge then, and he has not judged, yet. What he did do is call some people on the carpet, so to speak. And there is a distinct difference between those he called out and those he did not.

It has nothing to do with the type of sin, either.

When Jesus called Matthew the tax collector, Matthew dropped his coffers and followed Jesus.

When Jesus spoke to Mary Magdalene, she left her livelihood behind and followed him.

When Jesus spoke to Zaccheus, he returned the stolen money and became a disciple.

Jesus did not call out their sins because he did not have to. They felt his love and conviction, and they turned away from it.

When Jesus revealed himself to the religious leaders at the Temple, they threatened him and plotted against them.

He called them out in words and actions. He pointed out their sin because they refused to acknowledge it themselves.

This difference is crucial. Jesus doesn’t love one group of people more; he loves one response more. He loves a broken and contrite heart.

Culture is quick to label people as bigots and claim an understanding of Jesus that is incorrect. Jesus does not overlook or condone sin. Jesus didn’t buy Mary Magdalene perfume or a new bed so she could have a better prostitution business. He didn’t give Zaccheus more bags so he could keep swindling money.

God does not change. Sin is not relevant. Withholding judgement does not equate to forcing an endorsement.

Jesus loved people in their sin, and he loved them right out of it, too.

2018 Word of the Year

In lieu of a New Year’s resolution, for the past few years I have adopted a word of the year which becomes something of a theme and challenge for me. While some arrive at their word by simple selection, I seek my word through prayer and paying attention to things that seem to resonate around me. Different people will call it different names depending on their worldview, but I choose to believe God speaks to us in ways we understand.

I cannot now pinpoint the first instance my word for 2018 popped up, but I know that it has been echoing around me for about a month. I see it in print, hear it jump out in music, and have had it prayed over me recently without the person’s knowledge. The word is “free.”

Like the thinking person I am, I conducted my due diligence and researched the word in scripture. Of course, the oft repeated verse, “Whom the Son sets free is free indeed” (John 8:36), appeared first. Good and true, yes, but it did not impact me. A little more reading brought me to Galatians 5:1.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.

On first glance, the fact that we were set free for freedom seems redundant. However, the point made here in is that we are not free from one system of bondage only to be placed under another. Christ does not free us from the law of sin and death only to be burdened again by the rituals of religion and expectations of man.

We obey God because we are compelled by love and are free to choose Him.

The second part of the scripture stood out even more: “Stand firm, then…” I had an American History professor who said all great empires of the world fell because they became too civilized to fight.

There is always something seeking to enslave you.

Whether human or spirit, self-imposed or outside influence, our freedom is always in danger of being choked out by something. And any soldier worth her metal will tell you freedom must be defended if it is to remain.

This scripture reminds me that the task of defense is mine – I can let myself become burdened again, or I can stand firm against all comers.

I do not yet know the implications of my word for 2018 for me personally. Perhaps I will gain new understanding of what it means to be free; maybe I will better communicate freedom in Christ with my words and life; or maybe, I will have to defend my freedom like never before. I do know that I am prepared for the new season because I am submitted to the Creator, who calls and equips for any challenge.

Make Room

Judah pulled out a Star Wars jigsaw puzzle as I read his literature selection from Parables from Nature. I do not mind him keeping his eyes and hands busy during read-aloud because he is an auditory learner and listens best when his other faculties are occupied. Seraphina, following her brother’s example, reached for another puzzle from the shelf and immediately begged for help. So, there I was, reading aloud, toddler on lap, assembling a puzzle of construction equipment.

I forgot how much I enjoy jigsaw puzzles. Jason even asked me a few weeks ago while Christmas shopping why I never do puzzles anymore. They have always been one of my de-stressors, like baking and hiking. These are my ways to wind down and reset my mind.

I don’t do puzzles because I have three small children. I have no time, much less space that is untouched by six grubby hands.

There is a big, wooden desk downstairs we use for school. It is a catch-all for everything else, it seems: coloring books, bills, random hardware, books, binders, toys. I rarely see the wood of that desk. Today, I thought, if I just put some of these things away; if I just deal with the clutter, I can make room for a puzzle. I began to clear and stack and re-organize. I found a box of beautiful puzzles my mom gave me years ago, largely unopened.

(I realize I am revealing my nerdy old-lady-ness hardcore here. We will call it “being vulnerable.”)

The joy I felt at the prospect of making room for something I love was surprising.

Sometimes we forget how much relief there is in uncluttering our lives;

our minds;

our hearts.

Advent is about making room. When Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem, there was no room for them. No one could make room for this young man and his heavily pregnant bride. The story reminds us all to check our lives for room for Jesus.

Modern life is the definition of distraction. It is clutter personified. Busyness is a virtue and occupation is how we identify ourselves.

My heart looks like my desk – a functioning space, to be sure, but also a catch-all for every wayward, unresolved issue of life. I do not realize when I have run out of room for the things I love, that give me peace.

My prayer for this Advent is that we can all make room for the thing we love, our first love. I do not mean our hobbies or our relationships or our religion. I mean the Lover of our souls. I mean the Wonderful Counselor. The Prince of Peace.

I like to tell my children that we have time for what we make time for. We have space for what we make space for. Help us all to choose to make room.

“You know the tree by the fruit,

but just between me and you

I never do what I want,

I do what I’m taught

and I’ve been learning a lot

about the violence I’m capable of.”

– Derek Webb, “I Don’t Want to Fight”


I turned on the computer to set up school this morning. Another day, another disaster. Today it is an earthquake in Mexico. Tomorrow Hurricane Irma will hit Florida. If it isn’t the storms, it’s a fire. If it isn’t a fire, it’s a war. If it isn’t a war, it’s a riot. On and on and on. The whole world is under water or on fire, and I don’t just mean natural disasters.

My son’s Bible reading came cane from Matthew 5, the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed are the poor in spirit, the meek; those who mourn; those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. If you hold anything against a brother or sister, make it right quickly. If you hold hatred in your heart, you are as guilty as a murderer.

As I stand on the sidelines and watch the world burn, I cannot help but hear Jesus asking me, “Did you learn to love?”

Is my opportunity to live a life of love running out? In this world of turmoil, is my heart truly right towards others near me? Do we take Him seriously when He says, “I tell you the truth”?

Do I say nice, Christian things with my mouth while operating in judgement and criticism in my heart?

Are we bringing our offerings to the altar while holding resentment against our brothers and sisters?

The earth is quite literally shaking, and we the Church are being given a wake-up call.

This is not a fire and brimstone sermon – it is a desperate call to believers to stop playing nonchalant, self-serving church and start living lives of sincere compassion. This is an opportunity  to remember that our world is fallen and our time is fleeting. We must daily check our hearts and and pursue love with our whole selves.

Our moment of truth has arrived, Beloved. Let us be called Children of God.

Know Myself

“I must first know myself, as the Delphinian inscription says; to be curious about that which is not my business, while I am still in ignorance of my own self, would be ridiculous.” – Socrates

Why does it matter, that statue, that name,
Not yours?
Why do you seek to save that which was lost already
In spirit and in truth;
Not yours, or your father’s, or his father’s,
Not even?
Why grasp burning straw, say right, might, fight,


Why does it matter, that statue, that name,
Not yours?
Why let someone’s else’s past haunt your future;
Shadow your stride and your pride?
Stone is stone.
Why not let it be your victory stand, your remembrance post, your reference point?

Art is in the beholder. Meaning in the reader.

Dear reader.

Make your meaning.

Play Rooms, Peanut Butter Crackers, and Graceless Exits: The secret life of ministry moms

If you empty the contents of every bag I own, you will find peanut butter crackers: unopened, mostly crushed packages; opened, half-eaten ones; even (gasp) the lone naked cracker slowly coating the bottom of the bag with salty, oily film.

As I write this, one arm around the toddler on my lap, I am being crusted like a chicken casserole.

We are a ministry family, a missionary family, who can spend as much time in the car and in meeting houses as we do our own house. Three kids means food must portable. PB crackers are life.

There is a small group of mothers like me. You can see us if you look closely. We stand in the back at the conferences swaying a baby on our hips. We walk the halls of the churches to wear out little legs and loiter the bathrooms because, well, potty training. We scope out playrooms and cry rooms like cat burglars on the hunt. We mark perimeters around tent meetings and pray the loud one gets it all out of his system during worship.

Shushing and chasing. Shushing and chasing.

My oldest is getting old enough now to engage in some of what is going on, but it has been a long time coming. And with one still in diapers, I have a long road ahead. Time for some real transparency.

When I talk to people about what we do, I get a variety of responses, ranging from awe to condemnation and the ever-welcome advice in how to do it the right way. I am no expert on this life – I just met a pastor’s wife with her seventh on the way with nary a gray hair in sight – but I have started to find purpose in the placement.

The realization hit me hard on a recent out of town ministry trip. I  laid down the expectation that the children would spend an allotted amount of time in worship, either dancing and singing or sitting and meditating.

All arrangements hit the fan when they found out there was a children’s room.

There was weeping and wailing until I said we would look at the room. Then there was weeping and whining until we relented and stayed.

I realize this makes me look like a pushover mom, but with a packed crowd trying to worship, I was trying to be polite. Judge if you like, but hang with me.

So they played, and I strained to hear through the door. I was about to send my oldest in to worship with his dad when he started complaining of a stomach ache.

Yup. We went back and forth to the bathroom until worship was over.

Memories, let me tell you.


Wearing out of legs in progress

It was about the time I collapsed back into a tiny children’s chair that one of the children’s workers walked in. She was just there to take care of some business, and we chatted for a few minutes before she left again. Then I heard the familiar voice whisper, “Why didn’t you pray for her?”

I don’t know. It should be my natural response, right? That is who we are – we are intercessory missionaries. We pray. But I was so absorbed in my mommy frustrations, I did not think of it.

I righted my wrong, even if she was gone. I prayed for her, her team, her family. I looked at that room where my children played and I saw prayer all around me. I laid hands on each of those tiny plastic chairs. I prayed over the changing table, baby swing, bassinet. I blessed the toys as we put them away (and as Seraphina pulled them down again). For an hour, that room was my assignment.

I know so often, we weary mothers feel on the sidelines of the world, standing on edges and back rows and hoping to contain the circus.

We forget that God has no sidelines, only front lines. We are always on His front lines.

So this is my resolution: that no matter where we land on mission, be it a prayer room, play room, or even a bathroom (yikes!), I remember I am placed. God can and will use me and the children to love others, speak life, encourage, and bless if I will be conscious enough to engage with the Holy Spirit.

Even if I have to dole out the peanut butter crackers. Peanut butter crackers for all. Make it rain.

Careful Words

“… a careless word is like the thorn of the honey locust thorn tree – it can cause a deep wound that can lead to the ‘infection’ of bitterness…” – Wally Armstrong, Practicing the Presence of Jesus

“All bitterness, anger and wrath, shouting and slander must be removed from you, along with all malice. And be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving one another, just as God forgave you in Christ.” – Eph. 4:31-32

I have been on the receiving end of bitterness, anger, slander – spiteful words. I am quite certain we all have. As a young person, these words damaged me to my core. Thankfully, I have healed from these wounds and walk free from their pain. As an adult and a believer, I have felt mostly compassion and sorrow for the unbelievers who rage against me or my worldview. I cannot expect those who do not understand me or my views to accept them, and their opinions do not injure me.image


However, there is one party from whom careless words continue to hurt – fellow believers. While there is not typically shouting involved, or even discernible anger, careless words from believers can cut a person’s confidence, self-worth, and spirit. They can cause a person to question his/her calling or even leave the church. This pain has not been my experience alone, but the story of many people I have walked with over the years. Careless words lead to a wound of offense, which can easily become bitterness. Tragically, I have seen many walk away from friendships, from churches, and even from the faith, over offenses rooted in careless words.

I am talking about hastily delivered criticisms.

I am talking about sarcasm;

about gossip;

about jesting;

about snarky side commentary;

about words said out of earshot,

because they weren’t really out of earshot. These things have a way of getting around.

I am talking to myself. I used to pride myself on my sarcastic humor. You know what sarcasm means? To tear the flesh. And I gloried in it. Now my six year old son calls me out on it, and I realize my foolishness.

Careless words break trust. As believers, we should be covenanted to one another, preferring one another in love, anxious to honor each other.

“But I’m speaking the truth in love!”

Is it in love? Is it patient and kind? Is it rude or self-seeking? Does it always protect and always trust?

“People are too easily offended! That is their problem!”

We have a responsibility to forgive offense, yes. We have an equal responsibility to guard our words, to be slow to speak. The Bible charges us to use our words to encourage, heal, and extend grace.

If we find that offense tends to follow us, perhaps we are the problem.

If I am to dwell in unity with my brothers and sisters in Christ, I must carry slow to speak and quick to forgive in equal measurings like offerings. Then I can give in trust the words of grace which build and heal.


The Story

“All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am.” – Brandi Carlisle, “The Story”

I read something recently that said, “Thank goodness we do not look like what we’ve been through.”

I look in the mirror and have trouble relating to that statement. I look every bit of what I’ve been through.

I have never been the beautiful girl. I have not even been the pretty girl. I’ve been the marrying kind, as some say. Of course, I thought I’d be the “live alone in an apartment with too many cats” kind.

And that has always kind of bothered me. We women have this innate need to be lovely and adored, and, if we do not get that need filled, we likely become either lowly, desolate, and bitter; or over-bearing and attention-seeking (see Stasi and John Eldridge’s book Captivating for more on this topic). I became the former, often depressed and self-deprecating with regard to my appearance. Cerebrally, appearances should not define us, should not matter that much, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, we know. Every one of us knows. We tell ourselves all the time. But, the facts do not matter much in a world revolving around image.

I hear your thirties are supposed to be that magical time when we stop caring as much about what others think. But instead, I have found myself more critical, mainly due to my inability to maintain (you know, the oft-spoken “she let herself go”), in addition to the marks of life upon my body.

So, when I read the statement above, about looking like what I’ve been through, I had to step back for an assessment. On the bridge of my nose is a scar from years of wearing glasses, often having those glasses hit by flying sporting equipment in P.E. classes. My cheeks and chin are bumpy from the blemishes of youth, years I spent fielding taunts and sarcastic comments from the bullies and the cool kids.

Those marks, however unsightly by cultural standards, remind me that I made plans to end my life, but I survived.

My abdomen has a probably permanent bulge and dark vertical line from carrying three babies. I have scar tissue in my side from their kicks and residual pain in my tailbone, which broke when I delivered the first. I have literally been torn apart and put back together.

But it is the back together that matters. And those children are alive and healthy and beautiful.

I have gray hair and split ends and unpainted nails because those things are low on my list of priorities (no shame if that’s your thing, it just isn’t mine). I have bruises on my legs from carrying car seats and kicking children. I have freckles on my arms and sun spots on my feet from days spent outside ministering on mission trips or making memories with my family. The veins of my hands protrude, and my knuckles are growing knobby from nights writing out whatever is heavy on my heart. There are lines between my eyes, across my forehead, around my mouth – all the remnants of emotion and thought. There are a dozen other stories on my body too personal to tell.

My body is a testament to the depth of my soul, and I must learn to love it for its imperfections, not in spite of. If I love “in spite of,” I will always resent those flaws and diminish their stories.

Yes, my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, and the Temple of God in Jerusalem was lovely and ornate. However, let us not forget that God’s presence also resided in a tent, and it was glorious. As Momma always said, it’s what’s inside that counts.

Ladies, sisters, love your story. Love the evidence of a full life that is written on your body. You are not your body; it is simply a precious, ever-changing portrait of your story.

After all, nobody ever says at a funeral, “Look at that beautiful corpse.” They will say, “Look at her beautiful life.”