I Am...

Strong, confident, independent, outgoing, talkative, energetic, sarcastic, fun-loving.  I am...daughter, mother, sister, wife, cousin, granddaughter, friend.  I am...  It's easy to start answering that with the positives isn't it?  Well, I'm confident, so I'll say yes ;).  But if I want to go the other direction, though not as fun, it's still pretty easy.  I am...often angry, a yeller, frazzled, impatient, ungracious, expecting more from others than I'm willing to give myself.  If I had to pick one that I feel has defined me for quite a portion of my life, maybe even most of it, I would say, "yeller."  I yell.  And in that moment, I feel powerful.  But in the next, I feel deep regret, to see the pain I've inflicted, pain that I cannot reverse, but only offer apologies for, try to mend.

As I was reading this morning, several verses stuck out to me.  I've gotten in the habit of reading a bit in the Old Testament, and some in the New, when I do at all that is.  In Psalms 9:20 it says, "Let the nations know that they are but men!" Ah, how relevant that is on a daily basis.  I am just "man!"  I cannot change things outside my power--I cannot bend time back and regain those minutes to do something more, or take back something that has been said, or change the weather to suit my needs, or heal a wound instantaneously (although kisses seem to work miracles on wee "boo boos").    I am but woman, do what woman can do.  Then I flipped (and by flipped I mean tapped as I read mostly on my iphone) to Romans 6:12, 14, & 16-17,"Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, to make you obey its passions...For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace...Do you not know that if you present yourselves to anyone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one whom you obey...But thanks be to God, that you who were once slaves of sin have become obedient from the heart to the standard of teaching to which you were committed."  And here's what I got from that.  I am a woman, and can do what only woman can.  But I am a woman who has committed my life to Christ, have become a slave to Him, and therefore I DO NOT, I CANNOT be a slave to sin, if I am obedient to Christ.

You know I have heard that verse about not being a slave to two masters all my life, and I have always put weight on myself with it--just be better, you have to choose always the good.  That's exhausting!  But that's not what it's saying.  It's saying--you were chosen, and you chose Christ yourself as well!  Now you don't have to listen to that voice that says, "I must control it all!  I must yell and storm and rage and exert my reign!!!"  I don't have to--He will do it.  I just have to sit, and let Him!

Well, at THIS moment I must let him, as my toddler is banging on her door (she's supposed to wait on me in her bed).  I'm going to go get her, and hopefully bring her out to my lap, love on her, and pray for our family with her.  Thanks for letting me share with you today!

ps--the snow has pretty much stopped, but the rain and wind is whipping itself into a frenzy!  So there's ice, and a little less snow now.  Hoping the roads are clear on Saturday so I can go to Perth for thrift shopping day!!!

Snow Mom

I am sitting quietly in my living room, trying not to make enough noise to wake my toddler from her nap, as getting her to sleep today was an all-out battle.  Apparently she's "still a baby" and does not want a new toddler bed, but prefers to stay in her crib/cot.  Who knew.  I think I should have made a front-loading plan for this like potty training.  Oops.  Now I've got to hard-ball it.  Other than that it's a beautiful day out.

It's been snowing for a little over two days now.  I haven't seen this much snow accumulation since I was a 20 year old living in Canada as an intern.  There are feet of snow--British feet or U.S. feet it doesn't matter, there's both.  Our cars have slowly disappeared.  Fiona's little legs can't quite walk in the snow, and she doesn't really like being pulled in the sled because she keeps falling out face first.  Thankfully the powder is very soft, and she doesn't mind too much.  Her favourite thing to do is eat it.  "We" made a snowgirl today--putting pine bows as her pigtails.  Fi put on the arms and collected pebbles for the face and buttons.  She was quite excited about putting on the carrot nose we begged from the centre kitchen.

Last night we made snow cream, which doesn't seem to be a thing here--no one has ever heard of making ice cream from snow.  My Daddy use to make it any time we had a big snow as a kid, and I'm continuing that tradition.  We even put sprinkles on top, and had it before dinner--dessert first!  It's snowing again as I type; if this keeps up we are gonna run out of some essentials.  I think I might be able to barter some milk from the centre, and we have enough frozen food to last a few more days, so we'll be fine.  Thankfully Dave is all about making bread in the bread machine, we have two different homemade types right now.  We will run out of fruit and fresh vegetables after today, but we have pizza, mac-n-cheese (which I brought back from the States), and hotdogs, so junk food it is!  We also have gin, which is important, and some wine.  So we're stocked!

Even though it's been snowing for a few days, Fiona still says, "It's snowing!!! Look Mommy it's snowing!" every time it picks up again.  The dogs disappear in the drifts, and like it, except they would prefer grass to pee on.  I'm worried I'm going to loose them--white dogs, white snow--what could go wrong?

Well, I thought I would write today, because I haven't in a long time, and thought maybe something profound would come out, but that was pretty much a journal entry.  Well there ya go--a window into my soul ;).  I really should start the fire now as my nose is getting cold even though I'm wrapped in a big fuzzy fleece.  I wonder what the sheep are doing?

ps--I may participating in a Women's Rural olympics next week--apparently it consists of throwing beanbags in holes and seeing how many goals you can get with a soccer ball/football and the like--and we usually have the youngest team (aka some women in their 30's as opposed to 50's & up!).  Should be "good crack" as the Irish say ;)

Magical Unicorn Morning

My husband is gone for three days on a business trip.  Usually he does mornings with our toddler.  I'm not a morning person--I would prefer to stay in bed lounging or sleeping till about 10, get up, then have a leisurely breakfast.  As it is, he gets up with her about 7:15, and then I get to sleep or snooze till 8:00 when he has to get ready for work.   I like staying up late, extroverting by hosting movie nights or game nights at the house, or just sitting with a drink and chatting to whomever.  When he's away I keep my nights pretty busy.  Last night was no different.

 I had a movie night and watched Malificent.  It wasn't bad--not as good as I'd hoped though.  The chat afterwards was more fun.  We all sat around and talked about how differently Americans and Brits manoeuvre boss/minion tasks, different actors we like, upcoming holidays, etc.  It was lovely.  But then I looked at my clock and realized it was past 11 pm and I had to get up when the toddler does in the morning.  Ugh.  I usually get her up about 10 pm for a potty break, but since I was busy it was 11-ish by the time it happened.

This morning I saw light sliding into my room and knew it was a special day.  "Light" doesn't really happen till closer to 8 am in the winter here.  I heard Fi stirring in her room, and waited for the crying/"MOMMY!"  It didn't come.  Instead I heard her talking and playing with her stuffed animals.  I lounged for 30 minutes before she called me.  8:30.  It was awesome.  Plus I had the whole bed to myself last night (I love my husband, but I love having the bed to myself too).  Talk about rested!

I went in to get her milk, then picked her up and brought her in bed with me while we quietly snuggled and contemplated the morning--key word "quietly."  I was enthused.  I decided to attempt a "big" breakfast for a weekday.  We trundled into the kitchen, and I turned on a some fun music.  We danced happily around while I made scrambled eggs, cheese grits, and used the last of the wheaten bread for toast.  We ate it all up.  She helped feed the dogs, put away her dishes (all the plastic ones), and clean up the kitchen.  I made coffee.

Now we are retiring in the "other room" or living room.  She is coloring, and I'm writing!  It is a Magical Unicorn Morning.

Heroes of Our Reality

We all know them.  We see them every day--they are family, friends, that guy around the corner, or the one we went to school with.  Maybe we are them.  Those people that have been put through the ringer by life, and were all expected to be shredded bits of a person, never amounting to much, because of the hand they were dealt.  But they exceeded everyone expectations--they persevered, they grew lovelier, more loving, by the year.  They are artists--in and of themselves or by the work they produce.  And we marvel, that those who had no means to "be something" became more.

And yet, our society says that's not possible.  That we are only products of the things we have been born into, subjected to.  So how do these people exist?  Well, evolution.  Godly evolution.  God created each of us to be God-centered beings--to seek him, to seek something greater than ourselves.  He created us to be able to overcome, to grow, evolve, change, and sink into the strength that we were not given, but are able to receive from Him.

I was reading this morning about the story of Joseph in the Bible.  He was not set up to be somebody that would succeed.  His mom died when he was young, his dad favored him above all the rest of his brothers, and they hated him for it.  His brothers literally sold him into slavory.  Enslaved he did hard, honest work--but a lonely wife fancied him, and when he didn't return those affections, she told her husband he attacked her, and he was put in prison.  His story goes on, and eventually he gets out of prison and becomes a great man in Egypt--his brothers end up having to beg him for food, and they are rightly afraid because of what they did to him.  And yet he says, "Am I in the place of God?  You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good...don't be afraid" (Gen. 50:19-21).

God actually allows us to be greater than we can be.  He loves us so deeply that he gives us the strength to achieve an outpouring of love when no earthly love has been given to us.  What an amazing gift.  We get to be the heroes of reality--to "bear up" when we are expected to fail, and point up and say, "It's all Him, to God be the glory."  That's all He wants.

Enough Lessons Already/Beer-Thirty

I just put a cider in the fridge--it's just after 1 pm.  If I didn't have a new babysitter coming over to meet our toddler at dinner time I might have just gone ahead and cracked it open.  Today has been a "mountain" day with Fi.  You know that saying, "Don't make mountains out of molehills?"  Well, today she has just been climbing the mountains--no hills in sight.  Every battle she chose was a battle I couldn't back down from--from climbing into the high windowsills to kicking the dogs to throwing dishes.  If I were talking to another parent I would say, "terrible two's huh," but I gotta say, I am calling B.S. on that.

She's just over two.  She sees, hears, understands, and misunderstands so much now.  She knows about control, and she wants some.  And I think that's normal, great, should be encouraged in a safe, loving way.  Potty training has been a success!  And now she says, "Wait outside Momma," so I do.  And she says, "Me-me do it" (for some reason she calls herself "me-me"), and I let her try until she asks for help or succeeds.  I think the "terrible two's" are something that happens when we stop parenting--when the tantrum wins every time, when we forget that freedom has limits. I'm not saying if your kid is strong-willed you are not parenting, I'm saying parenting is what happens when the strong-willed are loved into independence with care--and tears and sweat and probably some of our blood too (raise your hand if you have gotten a busted nose or lip or something from your child!!!).

 Independence is something we all crave.  But there are things that she just can't do, because if I let her do it, I wouldn't be a loving mom.  I can't let her climb in the windowsills, because even though she is a great climber, she isn't a great walker, and rather uncoordinated once up to the height she would like to climb.  She can't kick the dogs, because they are living things, family, and she needs to know that inflicting pain just because she feels frustrated is not a good way to deal with her emotions.  She can't throw things around, because she needs to learn the value of things, and how to be a good steward (plus those things often hurt people or dogs).

 It would be great if she only chose to push one of these issues a day, not one every 30 seconds, but today she has chosen them all, over and over again.  And I. AM....I refuse to say tired, I'm am exhausted of saying and hearing that word...I am b r e a t h i n g slowly, and accepting all the grace that God is pushing my way.

I have not yelled today--which is a miracle, because I have fought not to be a yeller for the last 10 years, and I quite often fail.  I have taken lots of deep deep breaths, I have teared up, I have let her scream and yell and tantrum in the hallway alone until she can calm down (and I can calm down).  I have said, "I love you," "That's not loving, that's why it's not ok," "We do nice things because Jesus loves us, and it's how we show others He loves them too!"  She has had quite a few "time outs."  And even though I have not seen amazing, immediate results, I know this is parenting, that hard thing to do to help guide, shape, encourage a child to grow into an adult.  A person that can be a blessing, a rock, a lovely beautiful, self-controlled, self-sufficient adult (I'll throw in well-rounded too).

Today has been full of lessons, most of them, probably all of them, learned by me.  And today I have taken the time to be patient, knowing it's a process, that "Rome wasn't built in a day," and potty training took several bad days before it got good.  But mostly letting God love on me by showing me that in the tough, teary, ugly, He is there, with more love, grace, kind words, and encouragement, ready to give it all if I will just say "yes please, and thank you."

So I put a cider in the fridge--and by that I mean a hard cider, because as much as I have tried (especially being married to an Irishman), I do not like beer.  I also made sure my tonic water is chilled, just in case cider is not cutting it by bedtime (I do love a good Gin-n-Tonic).  Because I know I will quite happily "wine-down" this evening once she is in bed, and thank God for that beverage, and hope I will be as open to receiving his small mercies tomorrow too.

ps--watch the movie Mom's Night Out if you haven't yet--I'm serious it is hilarious, and so relevant!!! And a great book to read for a stomping toddler is Rude Mule, well written enough toddlers can understand why being polite is so much nicer.

Musings

 The weather is so strange today.  If I lived coastally I would well be worried about a hurricane.  The winds are skittish, and then suddenly violently raging.  The fog was so deep just five minutes ago I thought it must be snowing, but now it’s sunny again, though the trees are still swaying perilously.  I’m sure snow is not far off in this weather, but at the moment the only thing of concern is that there is actually too much water to kayak on (or so I’ve been told—it was raining and I’m a fair-weather boater). 

Fiona has done something to the computer once again.  She only hit a button or two while I was actually using it, but I didn’t see which ones, and now I can’t even view the whole screen at once.  I tried hitting the ‘zoom out’ buttons but that hasn’t changed anything.  It’s a very odd feeling—like reading a “large print” book without realizing it and wondering what is different. 

Thursday night is my first go at being in another book club since the one I started in Cali (I only got to go twice before we moved, but they have “soldiered bravely on” without me).  Last month was supposed to be my first month, but everyone got the flu, so it was cancelled—I hope that wasn’t a bad omen and I missed it.  This month there were three books picked instead of the usual two, so I’ve read the first one and am halfway through the second two.  You’re only really supposed to pick the one you think you would enjoy the most and read that one—but of course I’m an overachiever and a teacher’s pet, and I want them to like me!  Being an American can be tough here, or any place not there really, as we get the rep. of being rather annoyingly loud and obnoxiously pompous (not underserved most of the time).  So I try to tone down the pompous and use my “indoor” voice for the first few times I meet someone. 

Well, I promised Fi we would “paint with the new paints” when she got done resting.  And though she hasn’t really slept at all, she did quite happily play in her cot for about half an hour.  I picked up some finger paints at ASDA the other day (British Wal-mart—owed by Wal-mart—yes I have crossed over to the dark side), but as Fi has Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease, I think we will just use the other new regular paints we can use with brushes and sponges.  Wish me luck/let’s hope up it cleans up nicely.

Short End of the Stick

I have read quite a few books lately--some fiction, some non.  Most of them have mentioned, if not centred around, the idea of motherhood from the child's perspective.  These books include: Glitter and Glue, Orphan Train, and the letter Lift, as well as parts of My Name is Memory.  Here are two passages  from Glitter and Glue, by Kelly Corrigan, that really got me.

• I'd tell her [her mother] that I know now that there are no daughters who never embarrass harass, dismiss, discount, deceive, neglect, baffle, appal, incite, or insult their mothers...I don't long for other mothers anymore; i don't even wonder about them.  I was meant to be her daughter, and I consider it a damn good thing that she, of all people, was the principal agent in my development. I want to tell my mom that I admire her...the way she marched head-on into each uncertain moment, changing as the circumstances demanded.
• This strikes me as  a key to the story of my mother and me. She often said that I was a different person for my father, that I'd do anything for him, without an ounce of backtalk...She also said, Lemme tell you something Kelly, you changed me a lot more than I changed you. I didn't know adults could be changed, I thought they were finished pieces, baked through and kilndried.  I never understood that when we fought my mother was having actual emotionl reations.  I assumed her behavior was a front...designed to yield the best and safest possible kid...I see that, sturdy though my mother was, she must have been gutted by the sound  and sight and sheer vibration of her rabid daughter raoging, I HATE YOU! I HATE YOUR GUTS! I HATE YOU FOREVER! I had thought a good mother would not elicit such comments, but now I see that a good mother is required to somehow absorb all this ugliness and find a way to fall back in love with her child the next day.

Sometimes I wonder if we mothers don't get the short end of the parenting stick.  For the most part, we women are the ones that grow up thinking about whether we want kids or not, and how that will work, and what kind of mothers we will be. We think about our mothers, and whether we want to be like them or not, and often whine about how, what, when, where, and why our mothers do what they do.  We agonise over conceiving, pregnancy, and delivery.  Then we feel the first whiff of fear for this little being we bring into the world, and realise we have just unleashed a tidal wave of anxiety over how they will turn out, and their survival in this universe.  We research and re-research and change our minds and analyse statistics over how we should raise them. And we beat ourselves over the head for minor mistakes, never letting go of the notion that we will ultimately fail them somehow...And then they grow up and we spend the first 20 years of their lives trying to convince them to like us, and understand how much we love them, and teaching them what that means.

 It does seem they will always favour their father over us--and how much does that suck sometimes?!  And yet we want them to have a great relationship with their father, and appreciate they have one who cares and plays with them and is in existence on their radar.  I hate looking back and seeing what I put my mother through--realising the difficult person I was as a teenager and beyond.  I did idolise my father, still do, but now I realise how much of the hard stuff mom had to do on a daily basis that dad didn't, and I blamed her having to be the hard-ass.  

My dad is an amazing man, I'm not trying to discredit that.  But my mom is an amazing woman.  The bluster can blow you back from time to time, and I have inherited the bluster, but I'm trying to somehow contain the rage that sometimes pops out as a mother---the rage mentioned below in this excerpt from letter Lift, also by Corrigan:

•  I see how that happens now...coming unhinged over all manner of spilt milk--wet towels, unflushed toilets, lost brand-new! whatevers...Almost every day I yell at one of you so loudly that my throat hurts afterward...I hold it together and hold it together and then, when the bickering picks up again, I just detonate...I leaned down into your faces and ranted at you through set teeth, like the heartless tyrannical caretakers in movies about orphans.  I was so disgusted with both of you; your impatient overreactions, your loss of self-control--then I turned right around and disgusted myself.  If John Lennon was right that life is what happens when you're making other plans, parenthood is what happens when everything is flipped over and spilling everywhere and you can't find a towel or a sponge or your "inside" voice.

And yet, though we need to step up to our growth, dig into our development as "non-ragers," there is a point where we have to give ourselves some grace.  Another passage from Lift helps me see the truth of this.

• I am your mother, the first mile of your road.  Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations.  That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of tribe, a run at happiness.  You can't imagine how seriously I take that--even as I fail you.  Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done.

Motherhood is effing unfair sometimes.  It's so stinking hard if you are trying at all--it blindingly bruising on the hard days.  But it is a precious gift.  I do know that.  I know that in the moments my two year old looks up at me through those thin strands of blond hair she pulled out of her hair band for the dozenth time that day and smiles, giggles rising up and out of her throat just because.  I know that as I proudly listen to her tell her daddy about what she did that day, or repeat a difficult phrase someone is asking her to say perfectly.  I know that when I watch her take a hard fall from running flat out towards something she wants, getting up, brushing off, and saying, "I ok Mommy."  I know that when I kiss her goodnight and she cries for one more kiss, cuddle, and snuggle.  I know that.  But I know the hard days too, and I pray that God gives me grace to overflow to her, more and more each year, to teach her not just who she doesn't want to be, but who she does.

Would I believe?

I'm looking up the hill out my living room window this morning--seeing clearly the white dots of sheep ambling all over.  Yesterday Dave, Fiona, and I went back to the Callandar swimming pool together.  It was so fun!  I found some swimmies/water wings at a thrift shop just before we went, and she tried them out for the first time.  She had a hard time remembering to keep her mouth closed, and was nervous having her mouth close to the water, but quickly became braver and ventured further away from me each time I let her go.  It's so much to watch her grow in her independence.

This morning I have been reading in John, chapters 11 & 12, in and around the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead.  Every time I read this account, I wonder how the Pharisees could still ignore the power of Christ.  Lazarus had been in his grave for four days--traditionally bound with funeral wraps, and when Christ said, "Lazarus, come forth," he did!  How did they rationalise that happening by anyone other than God himself?!...And then I remember my faith.

What if Jesus walked the earth today--with our technology and knowledge of science and how things work?  Would have tried to rationalize away the miracles that Christ did?  Don't I still?  Surrounding me are millions are God's creations that I walk by without a glance of acknowledgment every day.  Miracles happen every day, and don't I often find myself asking, "Was that God, or just a coincidence?"  This is why sometimes I doubt that God is good all the time--because I refuse to notice daily, hourly, minute-by-minute the things he does to hold this world together and further his kingdom, shining his glory and grace on this world that rejects him.

His growth in me are these moments: the whispers and knowledge and moments of absolutely awe in the things he has done for us--to show us his glory and power and love, to show us the only way forward is in him.  I often imagine God as my heavenly father, sitting on his lap much like climbing onto the Lincoln Monument in billowing robes and soft arms and a warm laugh.  I know he loves when I grow a little, get braver, see his heart a little clearer.  He laughs at my awe of discovery; smiles at my wobbly antics as I try to get it right.  His pride is in his glory shining through my created humanity.  Thank you Father.

one day past "swimming cool"

Sometimes I gaze out the windows and see nothing I recognise.  There are tiny things of all different shapes waving from taller things of slender-ish presence.  These stand in and between and before rounded mounds rising from beneath, dotted with moving beings. Colours vibrant and dim splash across hedged bundles and green fuzzy covered heaviness, stacked one atop the other. Something squinty makes an appearance from time to time, between droplets on my window panes.  These mornings are weary--these days of unrecognisable things, preceded by nights of wakings.  Muscles seem sorer than the previous day, and I think back to why these things have occurred.

It's lunch time--but even though our bellies are nye near empty, noses, faces, hands, lips are pressed eagerly to the glass, reaching towards the aching nearness of the "swimming cool" on the other side.  We prod them to eat, each bite a laborious regime of torment when happiness is so tantalisingly near.  Our "stood" ground slips, and '2 more' becomes 'all done.'

My lips curve naturally as the wave of chlorinated smell fills me up--this is happiness to me, Mr. Buble'--this smell brings memories more abundant than can be recounted.  It blows past my ears, whispering my hair as we enter.

Pitter-paterings are herded into stalls, bathing costumes donned (I am embracing these foreign words--of my choosing--some of them are rather exotic, and they bubble in my mouth).  The excitement that is the warm showers before entering is entered into.

I've just warmed my coffee for the 3rd time.  The haziness is being embraced--but pj's have actually been shed AND replaced with practical clothes and it's before noon.  Progress.

Whether it will be too warm or too cold quickly passes as splashing feet somewhat timidly enter.  All becomes joy.  Gentle. No running. Wait for Mommy.  We float we jump we jump we jump...we c l i m b out, we s l i d e in. again again again.  There are lifeguards with socks and shoes on...how will they swim like that? Just like My Daddy I lace her fingers around my neck and we swim the length of the pool--kick kick I say--this is harder than I thought it would be; I smile reassuringly to the l.g. so he knows I am not going to drown with this Little on my back.

Heads go under and splutter back up, wide-eyed, but not crying.  Cuddles are warranted and wanted.  They go on with their waddling water adventures, up down side to side back & forth. A nose it dipped in, this and that ear, bubbles are blown, and quite a bit of water is consumed.  Skin wrinkles.  Is there another happiness to find?  Yesssss....ice cream is promised.  We patter back through the warm sprinklings and towel and dry and disrobe and rerobe and squeal and promise again.

The refreshedness has worn off by the time the car is reached.  We are back in town--and cones of "ice 'ceam" are proffered.  Mommies "help with the melting."  Faces are happily melted onto.  Caffeine energy is earned for the trip home--as toddlers fight naps in the back seat, but helplessly yield.

These are the days that preface mornings of haze, but today, as my coffee cools for the fourth time, I remember that my muscles weary from happiness, and I can smile instead of gloom into those pools of blue that are her eyes.

Mommy-bodies & a new-found enjoyment (Shhhh, don't tell Dave)

I am currently doing the 90-day-bikini-body-mommy challenge on youtube with my older sister.  It is not something I would usually do for fun, well let's face it, traditional exercise is not something I would usually do for fun.  I seriously hate most of the exercises--burpees, you are my nemesis.  But, ~whispery voice~ I'm kinda starting to rock this new schedule/regime.

About 8 am every day Fiona and Dave walk quietly into the bedroom (usually Dave is reminding Fi with our "shh shh shh" sounds, and she is repeating that).  She says, "hi mommy!" then climbs into bed with me, pulling her books, baby, and whatever other toys she decides to bring with her each morning, while Dave hops into the shower.  Fi and I read or play "tent" in the bed, then she hops down to brush her teeth with Daddy.  We give goodbye kisses, and "snuggles!" and "cuddle!" and wave to Daddy.

 I pull on my stretchy workout clothes, and we trundle off to the living room (I love that word "trundle"--it is so very fun), where I pull up the bikini-body-mommy video for the day and roll out my mat.  Fi, still in her footie pyjamas, and usually holding "Little Baby," jumps around beside me as I do push-ups or jumping jacks or "figure skaters" (my favourite) for ten to twenty minutes.

Sweaty, a bit breathless, and smelly, with Fiona yelling "Again! Again!" we head into the bathroom so I can take a shower (morning showers--crazy!!! I have always been a staunch night-time shower girl).  Fi's current toy of choice is her block shape sorter.  I jump/limp into the shower.  While Fi, on the other side of the shower door, holds up blocks and we talk about what shape and colour they are--and if I'm not out in five or so minutes she starts yelling, "Out! All done Mommy! All done shower!"  To which I reply "Almost...soon....ok ok I'm done."  She then grabs my towel for me (to which I remind her, "No, not the little one/hand towel, BIG one"), and I check the weather app to see if I should pull on a sweater or a tank top (it's Scotland, so let's face it, it's usually a sweater, but these 3 weeks of summer have been really amazing).

Then we scuttle off to the kitchen (like that, eh? Scuttle?) so I can eat breakfast--Fi, my wee hobbit, usually has second breakfast.  If I can hide the yogurt from her (she loves yogurt, but it's usually a treat/dessert for her), I have my favourite breakfast--yogurt, granola, + fresh fruit.  Then she plays with Play-doh or colours while I do a few dishes or we put the laundry on (if it's going to be a nice day aka the clothes actually getting dry).

About ten o'clock I put Fi down in her cot for a rest.  Sometimes she sleeps, most of the time she just plays with her stuffed animals.  I make myself a cup of coffee, browse the internet a bit, then read my Bible.  If I still have time, I write (hey!  Look at that!  I had time today!).

About now--she wakes up/gets done with playing and yells "Mommy coming!!!" which means I am supposed to be coming ;).

I'm now 9 days into this new regime--the soreness of the first week is finally wearing off, and it's starting to feel good!  I may actually like exercising in the morning/at all.  I maybe am starting to feel refreshed by the invigorated feeling of accomplishment after my short morning workout.  I just might like this morning showering thing...but there's 81 days to go still, so I'll hold off commenting till later ;).

The Works

How often do we as Christians sit around and think, "Am I doing what He wants me to do?  Do I have it right?  What is the Will of God?"  I have been reading in the book of John lately, and it has been too long since I have done so.  Today I was reading chapter 6, and verses 28-29 stuck out to me.  "Then they said to him, 'What must we do, to be doing the works of God?' Jesus answered them, 'This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent."  Believe.  Just believe.  What does that look like in my life, when I truly believe--do I live it?  Do I need any other prompting than believing Jesus is the Christ, Son of the Living God?  Does my going and coming give an account of that belief?

Later on in the same chapter of John, Jesus tells his disciples that even though they have seen many things, there are some of them who still don't believe.  After hearing this, some of them leave, and don't return to following Christ.  Do you feel a little punch in your stomach at those words?  For me, I remember times I have chosen not to believe, to walk away, and it hasn't turned out well.  I run out of "hope," and have to keep refilling it with the next big thing, the next vacation, or adventure, or challenge, or visit with friends....or or or...I end up exhausted.  In John 6:27 it says, "Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you.  For on him God the Father has set his seal."  Belief in Christ Jesus will never lead us to hopelessness.  It will never lead us to say, "God is not enough."

Our bodies decay; grow sick, weary, and old.  I am learning this so much more each year that is added to mine.  As I grow older, so do my parents, siblings, friends, and friends of the family.  Each year another body I have loved leaves this world for eternity.  It weighs heavy on my heart--to know I will continue to walk this life without those beautiful souls.  After some of Jesus' disciples left the group, Jesus asks the rest if they want to go too.  In John 6:68 Simon Peter replies, "Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God."

This is it.  If I believe on the Holy One of God, where else better is there to turn and say, "You are enough--you satisfy?" I believe, and that is enough, and it will be enough though this world gets shakier every day.  It will be enough in the pain, in the heartbreak, in the despair, for "to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life."  We have believed.  Walk. Believe. Live it.

Trudging and Birthdays

Today I read the end of Nehemiah, and also part of the first chapter of John Piper's book Desiring God for my quiet time.  I can't say that I have been doing this on a daily basis lately, but I am working to get back to a place that I remember to fill my longing for joy with my heavenly Father before I fill it with other things.  This longing for joy, for happiness, is one of the main themes of Desiring God, and it is really very interesting to me.  Often we as Christians feel we need to suppress our desires to be happy and just "do without" or "push through" life.

This makes me think of the scene in one of my favorite films, A Knight's Tale, where the character of Chaucer's comes into the story.  He walks by the three main men, and they ask him what he is doing.  He says, "Trudging. You know, trudging? to trudge: the slow,weary, depressing yet determined walked of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simple soldier on." I think sometimes we think we are made to trudge and nothing else.  Just to "get it done."  But we are made to be happy, to seek happiness through the joy of Christ.  God is a God of joy--always.

There are parts in this book (Desiring God), even in the first chapter, that I am fighting against, but it is a good fight.  On page 41 it says, "Sin and pain he abhorred...sin-covering, death-conquering obedience he delighted in...so it is with all pain and sin: Grievous in itself, it does not thwart his plans, or diminish his deepest delight."  What I get from that is that God is deeply sad that we choose to inflict pain on one another, and that we are terribly hurt by things in this world, but that even through those things, his plans are not disturbed.  His plans will come to fruition whether we have cuts and scrapes, smelling like manure, or clean as a rose and well, and he delights in this--he has joy in this.  And that does give me a sense of calm.  A picture of that on this earth is a mother and father.  They raise their children well, keep them safe, teach them the things they need to know, and lead them out into the world.  Their children make mistakes, fall down, sometimes get put in jail, but that is their life to lead--though it saddens the parents when their children don't succeed, they are still able to live a joyful life even through knowing the children are bringing pain on themselves, and still able to reach out to give comfort and care and unending love to them.

Today is my daughter's second birthday.  Two years ago today I was just 3 hours shy of meeting this wonderful being God presented to Dave and I to help grow and nourish and love and respect--cherish.  Through that awful pain--the worst I have ever endured and hopefully will ever endure physically--a joy came into my life that I am daily surprised and delighted with.  Ever day has its tediums and hardships, but every day has its all encompassing joy.  I cannot accept God's joy without also accepting the pain.  I cannot gain strength without pushing into the hardship, like lifting weights and gaining muscles.  And through all the pain, I know that God is still happy; through the joy, God is happy--he is constant in his strength.  Praise be to God for birthdays.  Thank you God for this day to celebrate, and help me celebrate even when tears come, because you are good and your love endures forever.

Unsaid

We do no plan to not be here.  To say the things left unsaid.  And words are so extravagant, splendid, beautiful creatures.  So many of my hours have been spent with books, and so far I don’t regret those.  They are truly lovely.  Words are power and blessing.  These are words at this moment that I want to share, because I never want to not share them.

 To my husband: If I go first, make sure the family get-togethers are good and often.  Call our kids, still go on adventures, don’t make them do all the planning, don’t forget to ask them about them, always say “I love you.”  And know you are my greatest adventure—always have been.  My horizons have widen literally and figuratively because of you, as they never possibly could have without.  Do you not know I saw the world because of you?  I saw them through the places we saw, but also through the politics we talked, the books I read, the movies we discussed.  You pushed me to have a heart for it—this world God made and we broke.  You gave me a heart, just like the Tin Man ;).  You are my truest, best friend. 

Or to siblings: I notice you—I think about you—you’re important.  Don’t forget to have dreams for yourself, and embrace them, even if they change every day.  Be content to be where you are in the moment, but don’t just let the next one pass you by.  You are fantastic people, the lot of you.  Just know I talk about you more than I talk to you, and it is mostly good things ;).  I love you like crazy.  I’m so glad you belonged to me.  And you guys are crazy good parents; seriously.  You are fantasmic.  Be proud to be proud of those kids—they love you because you helped them be capable of love.  That’s a pretty cool thing.

To my parents:  thank you.  You were good ones.  I’m sorry for all the complaining as a kid; I have nothing to complain about.  I had adventures, love, and security galore.  I had freedom, thought, God.  I’m sorry it took so long to realize that.  I love you.  I’m proud of you—I tell everybody that will listen about my parents, their job history, their family life, their hope, their mission (I’m pretty sure a doctor wouldn’t need any more info that what I share, oops).  I’m so excited for you guys.  What a story! 

To my kid(s): You are awesome.  I have been giddy with just looking at you, watching your world unfold.  I have l o v e d it.  You have brought me joy that I would not have experienced had it not been for you, just you—I revel in it.   My hope for you is that you will experience the joy of Our Maker, Creator, Friend, and Savior more closely than anything else in your life.  You are divine—a child of the King, and don’t forget it! Love it!  Live it!  Your smile and laughter has brightened countless days, far far more than any sadness or madness or “hurtness” has darkened them—never feel guilty for those moments of “hurtness.”  I have hurt others as you have hurt me, and that is all taken over by God’s grace, His immaculate grace and mercy.  Thank Him for his forgiveness and move on—I did. 

To my friends:  Oh you have brought me so much good heart hurt.  I ache to have you spread all over God’s green, and not so green, earth!  But what a joy it’s been to know you!  To listen, and probably mostly talk, to you.  To have coffee with you.  To love you—sometimes selfishly want you to myself, ok almost always want you to myself.  I love triumphing with you!!! I love making butter with milk from your very on cow with you (because I will never do that on my own).  I love loving brown babies with you—knowing their stories, sharing their sorrows.  I love gardening and crafting with you (even though I can’t do any of that stuff, when you do it, I know it’s possible, and that makes me proud).  I love seeing your babies grow, and I love how proud of them you are—it makes me proud too.  I love how I can still remember silly things from childhood with you (remember memorizing the Winnie the Pooh song on that weird beach trip?).  Or how you used to buy CD’s with pennies just to give that poor cashier a hard time (I still think you “suck as a person” because of that).  And, this is a secret I keep from you, I am MUCH better than you at hating people who have hurt you—I rarely forgive them; thankfully, you are a better person than I am, and you do. 

To you: thanks for observing my life.  Though facebook is terribly impersonal, I do actually know who has “liked” what I post.  Friends of friends of sibling’s/parent’s friends—that tells me you love me, even if it’s through them, and that means you love me because you love them.  What an amazing blessing—to be able to observe someone’s life.  Don’t stop; it is sometimes all that matters.

ps-if you wonder where all this came from, other than “out of the blue,” I am reading The End of Life Book Club, and though a bit sad, it is wonderfully thought provoking.  And the writer’s mother an inspiration of what God created us to be.

Glump

A teacher once instructed the class not ever to start off a presentation or speech with an apology or a self-detrimental statement—things like “I’m really nervous, so bear with me” or “Not feeling very well today, but I’ll do my best.”  I wanted to start off this writing with, “I really don’t know what to write,” but then, why bother making you read it, it obviously isn’t important.  I know that writing is something I need to do, a creative outlet that usually makes me feel accomplished, but some days I don’t feel accomplished.  I feel sluggish.  I feel like a failure—mainly because I got up with no plans and fully followed them.  It’s just a day ticked off the calendar of life—how wasted.  Have I encouraged anyone today?  Have I paid more attention to my daughter—loved her well?  Have I been active (well no, it’s rain/sun every 5 minutes, if the weather can’t make up its mind, how am I supposed to)?  I’m in a glump (that’s glum & grump together—yeah, I know it’s awesome; no need to thank me).  In this mood I just wanna binge watch American TV (which I can’t do), eat good chocolate, and maybe open a bottle of my favorite Trader Joes peach wine (too bad TJ’s hasn’t made it to the UK yet).  Even my quiet time is depressing me.  I am reading in 2 Samuel right now, and it’s the part where all David’s son’s are dying and doing awful things, it just makes me realize humanity has sucked since then and makes me feel hopeless (see—glump).  I’m also reading another non-fiction depressing book about a woman who has cancer and is most definitely going to die, as her son is the one writing the book, so I’m already assuming she’s dead by now (it’s not really a downer book, but the subject is just not that sunny).  Dangit, now the sun is out again—jeez this weather is so weird.  Also I’ve been trying to plan what to do with my parents when they visit in a couple of weeks, and I just want them to see everything they want to see, but I don’t know what that is.  And then Fiona’s 2^nd birthday is coming up,  and I’m thinking of planning a party for that—but it all depends on the weather, and it’s not making up its mind very far in advance (case in point today—oh it’s now cloudy again).  Well now Fiona’s awake from her nap, so I better just get over myself and get her milk and snack ready.  

A Letter to My Mother

Sometimes I judge myself by what I am not, and realize maybe I could have been—a gardener, a baker, even a candlestick maker, or some sort of art to profess.

But my drawing consists, so like yours, of stick men and rarely straight lines, and I think to myself, “If she had been thus, I would have had a craft to pass.” 

I am stuck, I must admit, with pictures of 50’s wives and Mother Hen types in my head, rendering me quite out of place.  I was asked, “What are you good at,” and I replied, “I don’t know.”

Though, now that I think of it, I do have quite a few talents, brought to be by you.  They are not the stick and glue types, needle points and rising bread types, confidences in the blooms.

Here are a few things gleaned from you, and I think you should take heed (For though you think you passed so little, it really was a great deed):

I am not fussed by glam or sparkles, they’re pretty, but not much help.  Because you were not so good with hair, well, God gave me hair that doesn’t need much—and I must say I have still had quite a few compliments. 

I speak, (that could just stop there, do the women in our family ever stop speaking?) with confidence, even sometimes eloquence, and find joy in being able to do so.  For you taught us to speak up, and maybe we have done so even more than you at times wanted.  But you also taught us for whom to speak up, and created a fierceness in us—to protect those that can’t, and stand for what is right, and though we often do not show it, we can be quite tender.

I love simple joys of handwritten notes, and home-picked flowers, of dandelions & daffodils sprinkling my windowsills.  You always put them in a jar, middle of the table to show off, and how that filled my small child’s heart, to be lifted to such high esteem.  Now when my girl picks dandelions, I smile, and love them too.

I love to read; that statement is much too simple.  It is a burning passion that could take my life to fill.  My favorite rooms have always been libraries like in Beauty & the Beast, or the one from Biltmore house, grand rooms where books never cease.  Our weekly trips to the library, but also the shelves full at home.  Never a book denied me, thank you for that love alone. 

I do not back down from leading if it is a thing that’s needing done.  I see the usefulness in it, the guidance that it gives.  You taught and led and danced up front, and it taught me I could too.  You said, “Stand up straight, don’t slouch, don’t slump,” and it’s what I’ve tried to do.

This may not seem a strength, but listen to the end.  I can get rather blustery, my temperature rising, red in the face mad—I can rage with the best of them, yes, I almost “like” to get mad.  But this, this very thing, has taught me self-control.  I feel the steam coming on, and have to breath real slow.  I have not mastered this task just yet, but I’m learning, maybe patience too?  All that Momma, that came from you.

Mom, there really are a plethora (see how that reading came in handy? I couldn’t spell it, but thankfully Spell Check could—since you were my teacher I guess I got that from you too ;) of things that you taught me.  I can’t list them all, you see, I’m still finding them all over.  Their popping up, hidden like the Easter eggs I used to love finding, all colorful, and wonderful, and in the most random places.

So thank you, for this and that, and the stuff that will continue to come.  Thank you for the tears you shed, the time you gave, the anger you choked on, the breaths you took, the smiles you gave, the “righteous anger” you showed for me.  Thank you for giving me talents that are priceless, and don’t involve a pan, a spade, or a needle.  You gave me things that can’t be taught, or bought, and those are the most important anyway.  

Southern Fried Kindness

I've been reading a lot of Fannie Flagg books lately (ie Fried Green Tomatoes, I still Dream About You, Can't Wait to Get to Heaven).  I think it probably has a lot to do with me being a bit homesick.  Sitting here this morning, thinking of those books, I can so relate to the grumpy old women characters in almost every one of those books.  Those southern women miss the gentility and niceties of people, and I get it!  Sometimes I just wonder how come everybody has to be so angry?!  And goodness knows, I'm one to talk about getting all blustery, but I sure am working on it.  Looking out the window as it rains this morning, I think, "Man I sure wish Christ would come back, I'm tired of all this anger and awfulness!"  At the very least can't we just all remember we're human and have frailties and care for each other?!  It doesn't take everyone "getting along" or being all the same mind or having the same beliefs to see that kindness and grace are something to be favoured.  I know, I sound like a crotchety old woman at the moment, and in my head I am saying all this with a southern accent so thick you could spread it on a piece of Bunny bread (though unfortunately I don't sound like that over here, even though I try to keep my southern accent, it just won't stick--maybe when Mom and Dad come over at the end of June I'll get it back).  Well anyway--there's my rant for the day.  I told myself I would stop doing that, ranting, but there it came.  Ugh.  Maybe it just came with my "womanhood" that decided to show up yesterday normally for the first time since Fi was born; it sure took it's sweet time.  Now I want some sweet tea (though I'm not sure you can make it with hot tea bags here...maybe i'll try anyway).  Hmph.  "Bless my heart," I'm having a grumpy day, but if I see you I'll try to smile and bless you with kindness anyway, cause that's what I wanna do.

It's all about the confidence

Heb. 10:23 & 35 "Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful...So do not throw away your confidence, it will be richly rewarded."  I have greatly dragged my feet as I memorised this passage, Heb. 10:23-39, but I am getting much from it.  I was struck today, as I was making my coffee and looking over this passage, saying it aloud to cement it in my memory.  The first and last verses I worked on, verses 23 and 35, both sandwich the other verses perfectly, and they focus on something I forget daily, and therefore must be reminded.  It is my hope and confidence in Christ and his promises that I will be held responsible for in eternity--my heart actions seeking him again and again and again; when I am downtrodden, dirty, ashamed, pale, weakhearted, angry, lazy, thoughtless OR happy, clean, invigorated, desirous, joyful, full of pursuit, and thoughtful.  If I maintain my hope and confidence in Christ crucified, and I turn to him with all that am, wherever I am in mind or body, I will be rewarded.

I had read that verse dozens of times over that last months--and each time thought, "What would I ever do to be deserving of a reward?!"  But it is not the "thing," the "doing," but the hope and confidence that there is a God who has done everything already, and therefore deserves my every praise and hope in him.

What a thought!  And he already made me quite a confident person, so there's a boost already! :)  Thank you Lord for giving me every opportunity to love you, to be loved by you, and to shine your love to others.  I could ask for nothing greater.  Oh thank you Father.

Inward Struggle

A few years back our church in NC challenged us to start actually connecting with one another in our community, especially with our tendency to say "good" or "fine" every time someone asks how we're doing.  I still battle with it.  I have to purposely stop myself, and be real with people when they ask me how I'm doing, or how i'm "liking it here" in Scotland.  I like to struggle inwardly, meaning the harder I'm struggling the more I want to push it down into myself and "make it work."  I say, "Great!  It's so beautiful!"  And it is...beautiful that is, but it is not always great.  I am partially hyperventilating typing this.  I am in a community of Christians, once again living among them, but it is different still than the last time.  They are younger, or single, or not parents, or haven't been married long, or I just haven't known them long enough...to burden them with my struggles.  Or how about that my husband is the director of the centre where we live and he works.  And how would that look, to confess my/our struggles to his employees?  But I am no good at nodding, smiling, and saying, "Great!" for a long time--maybe it's a weakness, but I think God is showing me that living well is living lovingly showing my weaknesses.  So here goes.

Scotland is not the US, though it speaks English (not American), and I can understand (most) people, there is still a cultural barrier (I have to say trousers instead of pants, figure out the coinage and currency, and spell things differently, to name just a few).  It doesn't yet feel like home--and that sometimes makes me sad and homesick and often just out of the loop on what is normal.  I am cautious too, because I feel, maybe mistakenly, that British culture is more subdued and isolated with its intimate sharings of self.  How do I tell someone that marriage is hard right now, especially with having been in moving transition for the last 6+ months, that I'm struggling to find my friend and confidant in the husband that I have and desperately love?  How do I say that motherhood is isolating, in that I'm not used to being the only full-time stay-at-home-mom I know here (though I am so enjoying the new friendships I am building)?  How do I jump in to a culture and community (which I'm so used to doing in normal circumstances, just jumping in and getting to know it and doing everything I can to make it home) where I don't know the rules or "etiquettesies" or even know who to ask, as my husband has never officially lived in the UK as an adult?  My vision seems to be blurring even now, just trying to figure out how to push myself, how to grow myself....and here is where I have been learning lately.

It is in this tragic earnest bending that I am failing, that all seems so heavy and impossible.  As the rain taps on the windows, as Fiona sleeps in her bed, as toys lay scattered around me, and an empty coffee mug by my side, he is helping me finally get it.  I'm sure I'll have to "get it" a thousand more times, but here it is: stop. bending. the. wrong. directions.  I can only break from bending in every direction, the creases getting more pronounced the harder I bear down with the grit and sweat of trying.  But if I bend towards Him, I can't possibly go wrong.  Even as I type that worries pop into my head--how do I just stop caring? Or trying too hard? Do I stop trying at all?  What does that mean?  But I know that I'm at least headed in the right direction, even if I don't fully understand it yet.  Ever opening and bending to Him, his joy will be my strength in weakness.  And somewhere in my heart I'm wondering if God has something greater for me in this season, just around the corner, just through these woods I am wandering through, if he is preparing me for somehow serving his glory.  I hope so.

Why We Can't Just Leave You Alone

A short answer to why people who believe in Jesus Christ can't just keep it to themselves.

If what I believe is true--mainly that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, that he came to earth and died and rose again for everyone so that they could be forgiven of all their wrongdoing, and join him in eternity, and that his Spirit guides those who believe in him to their fullest potential life on this earth, then not sharing this belief with you is wrong.  Not only wrong, but cowardice, and unfortunately I have been guilty of this countless times--mainly because I'm worried you won't like me for sharing my faith (as it is now generally looked down on to do).  If you don't share your beliefs or lack thereof with me, it doesn't harm anyone, but if I do the same, and I'm right, it could damn you to hell.  So take it as a compliment--that someone, as crazy as he/she may seem, as odd and sometimes quite weird as they look would even approach you, they didn't have to.  Next time they say, "Jesus loves you," just remember that they are trying to show what they believe is love.

The Irish' Ability to Suffer

It seems Scotland has been on my case since I arrived--from a hurt back, to colds and headaches, even pushing into migraine territory.  Dave and I have had plenty of discussions about what he calls, "The Irish' ability to suffer," and I call, well, stubbornness.  See, when Dave gets sick, he does nothing.  And therefore, from my point of view, the sickness drags out for much longer than it would have being treated.  When I get sick, I start shoving vit. C down my throat like it's going out of style, along with anything else I can think of that may help boost my immune system back into normalcy (mostly thanks to Heather Currado for showing me what that looks like, though I still refuse to swallow garlic like a pill; there are lines i do draw).  But when I look at my daily life, my God-filled life, I realize I need a bit more of the Irish' ability to suffer.

I'm weak.  I like comfort, friendship, my things, going out for coffee, etc.  But when it rains for days on end, or when I'm lonely, or when the shipment of our stuff we shipped in November still hasn't arrived, I get frustrated.  I don't automatically look start using the supplements of my faith in Christ to bolster me.  And there are so many!  If I only would, I could look around at the friendships God is forming in my heart in this new place, I could thank him for the rays of sunshine (no matter how brief), for the delight on my daughter's face as she encounters the local animals, or the TWO new coffee mugs Dave bought me to enjoy my morning coffee in.  And even more than that, SO much greater, is my ability to sit down with the Word of God whenever I wish.  To actually read and memorize this amazing piece of literature he left to encourage and guide me is a blessing beyond words.

For some reason, I have been on a few atheist facebook sites lately.  I have friends who would post atheist memes or links, and I find myself intrigued and click on them.  I usually spend most of my time looking at the comments below the link, and they selfishly make me sad.  A lot of them demean Christians' intelligence for believing in a god.  Most of the comments usually center on our insistence to base our faith and "rightness" on the Bible.  And yet, I try and think what would I be without it.  It's hard to think that way, since it's here, but I think I would believe in God anyway.  At this point in my life, I would say God is more real to me in my life and heart and the actions he has displayed in my life than in reading the Bible.  The Bible encourages me, teaches & guides me, but I know Christ is real in my heart, whether a piece of paper says it or not.  And historically, this must be true as well.  Were there not people that followed God before they could read his word, before it existed?  Of course there were.  Are there not still people that cannot read his word, either in their own language, or their own abilities, that believe anyway?  Still yes.  The Bible is my base, the thing that teaches me about my faith, but if no more existed, I would still believe.

As I sat this morning, with my coffee and my iphone--reading the Bible app (i really miss having my printed Bible, I didn't realize how much until I haven't had one in my hands for 4 months, but I do!), I was struck by one particular passage.  My friend Elli and I are memorizing Hebrews 10:23-31, and I'm working on verses 32 & 33 right now.  These verses are about times when persecution happened, and how they reacted to that persecution--how they stood strong in their faith and didn't waiver.  I can't say my faith has ever brought me to a place of true persecution.  My feelings have gotten hurt by callous words, my intelligence insulted, but my body and mind have never been beaten.  How can I truly call myself a Christian if I cannot stand in day to day life with the confidence of my Saviour?  I want to wear his name on my heart, his love on my sleeve, his truth on my lips, his smile of grace and mercy on my face.

Friends I need your encouragement to remember my Christ with every step.  To be content without "my things," to be helpful when I'm lazy, to be kind when others are not so (and all I want is to be sarcastic).  Will you challenge me?  Will you tell me, when I've stupidly posted of facebook about my bad day, that God, my ever-loving, ever-LIVING Christ, is by my side, waiting for me to step up?  Please do.  I need it.  I want to pursue Christ with a vengeance, not a whine.  And I step into the hope of Christ as he teaches me to "suffer" with a smile.