What My Parents Taught Me

It was late Sunday morning, and I took a break from packing and cleaning to meet Matt in the den. “Are we going to church?” We had planned to, but with the non-stop pace of vacation (is that an oxymoron?), we never made definitive plans. Matt whipped out the computer and began looking up local churches and church times.

And as Matt searched, I thought about my parents.

We never missed church. If we went on vacation, we found a church. If I had a gymnastics meet in another state, we’d catch up with the crew after Mass. There was never any question as to whether or not we would go–we always would.

One of the benefits of being Catholic was that we knew exactly where we were going and what to expect. We knew the dress code, the formalities, the length of the service; there weren’t any surprises. I can’t remember exactly what my feelings were toward church as a child–I’m sure I thought we should go–but I’m fairly certain I didn’t actually look forward to the idea of pausing vacation to go to Mass.

I did like noticing the differences between the church we were visiting and ours at home–whether or not the church was crowded or empty; if the church pews had cushions and if so, what color; from what country was the priest; did his homily have anything to do with the readings; and, if in the midst of tradition, the church had a relaxed feel or not. I would take in all these differences as we took the hand of the priest after Mass thanking him for letting us visit.

At that time, my parents didn’t understand that God desired an intimate relationship with them, but they did know that He was and is worthy of their awe and respect. I never had the sense that we were going to church to put a check in the box but because we should. God was God, and giving Him an hour of our lives every week to learn about Him was the right thing to do.

So that Sunday morning at the beach, Matt and I looked at all the church services we missed because they started at 10 a.m. (what happened to 11 a.m. being the church standard?). And then, doing something that my Catholic grandmother would have said didn’t count as church, we typed in the web address of a local church at home and watched their service live. We listened as the pastor taught that sometimes we don’t need a reason other than God. When He calls us to change jobs, adopt a child, move–whatever the call–we don’t always need to know why, just that God is God. And God can be trusted.

My parents knew part of that fact, and now they know His grace and the rest. And I am forever grateful for their example, an example that taught me that sometimes the questions are not necessary. Sometimes, we just need to take the time to do what’s right. Because God is God. And, really, that’s the only reasons we need.

I enjoyed our few days away, but it’s good to be home where we’re taking another ‘vacation’ day of lazily unpacking, a little writing while the kids watch T.V., and some relaxed cleaning. I’m linking up with Michelle and Jen today before we get back to business tomorrow!

Neighbors in My Jerusalem

I’ve lived in my neighborhood for almost five years. I know the names of my neighbors who live next to me and across the street. I know the first and last names of the homeowners association board members, and I know the first names of a handful of others. Some I recognize from repeated sightings at the neighborhood pool. But I’ve never had a neighbor over for dinner, nor have I been invited over to dinner at a neighbor’s house. On a few occasions, I have brought meals to those who were sick or just moved in, but the relationships ended there.

I remember living in New Jersey as a young child, sitting around the table with my mom at one of the neighbor’s across the street. I watched as the man brought his coffee cup to his lips, and I was intrigued by his pinky that he kept curling under. I eventually realized that he was missing part of that finger. Jim and Diane lived next door, and when I watch old home videos of Christmas, they are there. Jim was loud on the videos, fitting right in with family. Diane sat laughing at the goofiness. After seeing my mom push the stroller with my sister while I walked next to her in the cold one time too many, they donated an old Volkswagen bug to my family–the car that caused a few fights as my dad tried to teach my mom to drive a stick.

And there were other neighbors, neighbor kids whom my mom babysat, and neighbors who took me for a ride in the little box that attached to their motorcycle. And there were neighbors who were always ready to share cake and coffee.

I don’t know what made that neighborhood in New Jersey so different, but I don’t ever remember my family having those kinds of relationships again when we moved to Georgia nor have Matt and I formed those kind of friendships in any of our homes. Maybe life got busier for everyone. Maybe the newer houses without front porches and with attached garages encouraged people to drive in their homes and not come out. Whatever the reason, even though I was only a young girl at the time, I miss having those kind of neighbors.

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8, New International Version, 2011)

This Sunday our pastor explained that Jerusalem was the disciples’ neighborhood. Judea was the surrounding area, like people in our own area code. Samaria was an area full of people with whom they wouldn’t normally associate, people who made them uncomfortable. And, of course, the ends of the earth included lands they had never seen.

I know more about the little boy we sponsor in the Philippines than my next-door neighbor. I’ve done more to help people in remote African villages than those who are unemployed in my own neighborhood. But perhaps God would like to use me in my Jerusalem. Perhaps there is a little girl who needs to form the memory of sitting around a neighbor’s kitchen table while her mom enjoys a nice cup of coffee.

It doesn’t seem too hard…and while I don’t make coffee, I can bake a darned good cake. Maybe I’ll start there.

Linking up today with Michelle and Jen. Do you have childhood memories of your neighbors? Do you really know your neighbors now? How have you reached out to those in your neighborhood?

The Bride

I woke up that morning and couldn’t really eat, my body full of excitement rather than food, and I carried that emotion with me the whole day through–as the last pin was placed in my hair and veil secured to the top of my head, as I completed my make-up with the shiny lipstick and a smile, and as I stepped into the full, white dress that transformed me from an ordinary young woman to a glowing princess.

I wasn’t nervous, but I was eager. The day was full of newness. We would see each other for the first time that day as I walked down the aisle, and we would leave together for the first time that night as we drove away, never again to return to separate homes.

The waiting was beautiful and fun and, parts, reminiscent of elementary school as we passed notes and messages through the hands of our best friends. The waiting, which started months before and, at times, seemed to pass too slowly, was now at its end, as I stood alone with my father outside the doors to the sanctuary.

What would he think as I walked down the aisle? Would I take his breath away?

And then the moment came as the piano played, and the crowd rose, and we walked through the open doors.

And the day was beautiful, the one day in my life that was truly full of joy and nothing else, not tainted by the pain brought into a fallen world, a day when my smile stretched from ear to ear as I took the hand of the man I would love forever.

Almost nine years later, that day can seem so far away sometimes.

But I remembered as I sang the lyrics that flashed across the screen, and, for a moment, my body tingled with joyous expectation. I remembered feeling beautiful in white; I remembered longing to meet my groom. And for the first time in my entire journey of faith, I understood for a moment what it means to be the bride of Christ:

When we arrive at eternity’s shore
Where death is just a memory and tears are no more
We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring
Your bride will come together and we’ll sing… You’re Beautiful*

The excitement, the twinge of nerves. Facing the one who knows my past yet sees me radiant, clothed in white. And finally taking His hand as we begin our new life together, no longer going home to separate places but instead stepping into eternity together, an eternity with joy, an eternity with the absence of pain or tears from a fallen world, an eternity begun with redemption.

It’s beautiful.

* “You’re Beautiful” Music and lyrics by Phil Wickham

What emotions did you feel as you waited for your wedding to begin? Has a song ever brought to a life for you a truth found in Scripture? Linking up with Michelle and Jen this week.

Rethinking My Thinking

It was 7:45 a.m., and I had already made three trips up and down the stairs. Little children, on a quest to find hidden Easter candy, would take turns sneaking downstairs while I was helping their brother or sister get ready for school. By the third time I pulled a toddler off the kitchen counter, my mood was wrecked for the day.

When is he going to install those baby gates?! If I can’t even change a diaper without a child climbing on top of the refrigerator, I certainly can’t do any tasks myself that would require power tools!

And with that thought I recalled every item on my husband’s ‘honey-do’ list. I began to organize the list into a book with chapters, and I wrote a mental preface explaining how hard my job as a stay-at-home mom to three crazies five and under was and how it was exponentially harder because my husband’s list had grown too long.

I know the power of thoughts. I can drive from 0 to 60 on the witch-mobile in two seconds flat.

So I really didn’t appreciate the sermon yesterday on Phillipians 4:8-9:

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies. (The Message)

Think about the best not the worst? The beautiful not the ugly? Please! How can I not think about the four inches of hair my daughter clipped from her beautiful head?! And of course, if I think about that event, there’s no way I can stop myself from thinking about something on the ‘honey-do’ list that was the inevitable cause!

But then I realized that there was a time when I taught myself to think differently, to find thoughts full of praise instead of curses. For Lent, I decided to give up complaining about when Matt came home from work–and I didn’t plan on indulging in complaints once Easter arrived, either. I knew that my complaining was a sin, and every time I was tempted to do it, I wanted to remind myself that it was sins like this one that sent Jesus to the cross.

After all, Matt’s doing his job and providing for his family. He comes home right after work and can’t help it that he sits in traffic for an hour and half. We tried to move–it didn’t work–so now it was time for me to move on in my thoughts. I needed to provide a place of refuge in our home, not a storehouse for tension.

I don’t know if Matt noticed, but I learned to bite my tongue. And after biting my tongue enough times, I trained myself to not have the thoughts causing me to bite my tongue in the first place. I wasn’t perfect–I slipped right before Easter–but I saw how changing my overall thinking for 40 days changed my entire mood.

And I hate to admit it, but John Maxwell was right. In his sermon yesterday, he challenged us with the thought that “when we want to fix others, it’s normally we who need to be fixed.”

Ouch.

I don’t like thinking that way. I’d rather think about baby gates and cluttered attic spaces instead of the junk cluttering up my own mind.

The best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.

But, perhaps, there just might be something to not thinking about the baby gates after all.

Linking up with Michelle

and Jen

What I Don’t Deserve

A whisper broke the momentary silence, filling the black room.

“Did you have fun at Easter?”

“Yes!”

I reached over across the bed and grabbed my husband’s arm. After enduring a bedtime routine that started at 7, we thought we would finally get to go bed at 11 after bringing the two trouble-makers in our room, making little pads on the floor with the new blankets their Grammy made. But our three-year-old couldn’t resist the temptation to talk to her brother one more time before finally drifting off to sleep.

Randomly throughout the day Hannah Grace would order me, “Ask me what I did today in church,” and when I would comply, she’d scream, “Jesus is Alive!!!!”

I guess a day with that much excitement, that much candy doesn’t turn off quite so easily. And I have to admit, the frustration I would normally feel if my children were up for four hours after we began bedtime gave way to the warm sensation that filled my heart. The day spent celebrating did me good.

Many days I focus on what I don’t deserve–disobedience, totaled cars, fatigue–and those thoughts are never productive. But this day was different. I was consumed with my unworthiness.

I looked around and saw my parents and siblings, laughing and playing with five young children running around the yard. My heart ached for my sick nephew and my sister and brother-in-law at home with him, missing our celebration. I remembered the image of my husband, vacuuming and setting out chairs as we prepared for the day. And I smiled at the beauty of my two daughters dressed in purple flowing dresses, my son growing tall, but still my little boy in blue.

I don’t deserve this.

And I thought about my deeds that should leave a dark stain on my soul. And, yet, I am marked white as snow, pure in His sight because of this day, Easter. Of all the blessings I don’t deserve, His gift is the greatest.

Today was different. As I thought about all I don’t deserve, the greatest gift that I don’t deserve, everything was put in perspective. I realized the magnitude of my unworthiness, and my heart was glad.

Linking up with Michelle at Graceful and Jen at Finding Heaven. How did you celebrate Easter? What does Easter mean to you?

In the Dark Belly

As the days grew longer and my belly bigger, I began to marvel at this life growing inside of me. Crammed in this watermelon-shaped space were two little legs that would find the need to stretch, revealing just how tight my skin had pulled across my belly. Little fists and elbows used my insides like a punching bag, and Matt and I would look with amazement as one side of my stomach would bounce in and out in its quick rhythm.

And during this time, I wondered what it felt like to live as this developing fetus, crammed into a dark space, living every day rolled up in a little ball amidst warm water and the constant sounds of the mother’s heart beating, her voice echoing to down below. Frankly, to this claustrophobic lady, the concept seemed terrifying, yet we know that babies don’t enter the world with a mind full of phobias–they don’t want to be dropped or experience loud noises–but beyond those two conditions, they are at peace.

I’m always amazed where my mind travels during a sermon at church. As we were studying the story of Jonah, and the pastor was describing Jonah’s anxiety at finding himself in the dark belly of a fish, my mind traveled to when I was pregnant and recalled the three different times I pushed babies from within the darkness of my belly to the light of a new world.

In the story of Jonah, Jonah disobeys God and tries to flee from his calling but, instead, finds himself trapped inside a giant fish. The first time we see this prophet pray is when his anxiety is at an all-time high, when he has no where else to look but up:

The engulfing waters threatened me,^[b]
the deep surrounded me;
seaweed was wrapped around my head.
⁶ To the roots of the mountains I sank down;
the earth beneath barred me in forever.
But you, LORD my God,
brought my life up from the pit. (Jonah 2:5-6, New International Version, 2010)

Like Jonah, we have experiences in our life that bring us to the height of anxiety. Our anxiety over our jobs or lack of jobs in a tough economy, anxiety over parenting and rebellious children, anxiety over secrets in our marriages–all of these anxieties squeeze out our breath, leave us feeling like we are trapped in a small, dark place with no way out.

And my pastor pointed out that these times of anxiety in our life are a signal for us to communicate with God, a time to get on our knees in prayer and share our worries with Him.

But my mind kept traveling to the image of the developing baby, also in a small, dark place. This baby, kept in its warm home for the perfect amount of time until his fingers and toes are developed, his eyes ready to take in those first fuzzy images of the mother ready to hug him close into her bosom, his lungs ready to take its first breath outside in the new world–this baby who undergoes a traumatic ordeal to leave its small, dark home for a wide-open space. Yet this baby enters the world without fear.

While Jonah lay trapped in the belly of the fish, he grew. He learned there was no escaping the will of God, and he learned who is sovereign. And, perhaps, we are kept in our own dark spaces so that we, too, can grow. And we will grow, and we will learn until we can look up with peace at that wide-open space on the other side, trusting that we have a Father waiting to hold us close to His chest, whisper softly in our ear, a Father from whose arms we will never fall.

Linking up with Michelle today. What’s your giant fish?

Ripping Out Pages

Last week in church, we finished up the “Puzzled by the Bible” series with a look at Revelation and the end times. Scripture references alluding to evil and suffering and hell are never among my favorite, so I chose to pass on writing a post for Michelle’s “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday.” Instead, I wrote about the hell of shoe-shopping with my daughter.

However, as the week went on, I couldn’t escape one image that my pastor created. He recognized that some people don’t like discussing hell–they’d rather ignore those passages in Revelation–and by doing so, they are effectively ripping out the pages of the Bible they don’t like. The only problem, he pointed out, is that if we rip out those pages in Revelation, then we have to rip out the passages in the Gospel where Jesus alludes to hell. And if we rip out the passages with Jesus, then we have to rip out the prophets who foretold of Him, and so on and so on.

And as he started ripping pages, it became obvious that soon we’d be left with nothing.

While my pastor later revealed that he was actually ripping pages out of an old encyclopedia, the image stayed in my mind. Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we all figuratively rip out pages every day.

Perhaps we are very comfortable pointing out the sins of society, take a literal view of Creation and God’s commandments, and strive to live a righteous life, but we gloss over James 1:27:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

All of a sudden, our literal interpretation of Scripture becomes figurative or allegorical. We read a general mandate of doing good deeds, so we’re content to continue pointing out the sins of others while 143 million children live without parents in this world. We drive by the nursing home on our way to work, not once stopping in to visit that widow without family.

Or maybe we devote our life to doing good deeds and working for social justice. We do care for the orphans and widows and spend our Saturdays in the soup kitchen. Yet, when it comes to the reason for why we are compelled to act with mercy and love, we stay silent. We read the story of Peter healing a paralytic, yet we ignore the most important words he speaks: “Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk” (Acts 3:6, emphasis mine).

Perhaps we don’t want to call sin, sin. We look to the changing time and culture, so we rip out pages there. We don’t want to forgive our brother for offending us ten years ago, so we rip out the passage that says to forgive seventy-seven times (Matthew 18:22). We keep ripping and ripping, and pretty soon, we’re left with some passages from a good book.

But not the Word of God.

Because we wouldn’t dare destroy words that God himself instructed.

As I walked through last week thinking over this image, I became fearful. Where was I ripping out passages, and what do I believe? Do I truly believe the Bible is the Word of God, or have I made it a good book, treating it like a buffet where I grab a little of this and a little of that?

The implications for either are great. Because if the Bible is the Word of God, then there are serious commands that I must follow, but there are also wonderful blessings. However, if this book is a just a good book, then I can pick and choose what I want, but there is no more power in those words than the bestseller I grab off the shelf in the bookstore.

And on which type of book would I rather place the foundation of my faith, the reason for how I live?

So this morning I knew I needed to at least give the topic consideration. I could no longer ignore the question chasing me last week. And so I ask (nervously) this morning, God, where am I ignoring you? What pages have I ripped out of your book?

Where are you ripping out pages, and are you content to do so?

One Special Boy

We pulled into the parking lot, and I was immediately struck by the cars lining the curb. Every inch of asphalt was taken, in addition to the lined parking spaces. The lower lot was was blocked with orange cones, and the kids and I noticed the abrasive sound of machinery at work near the facility. Some sort of maintenance was taking place. I stuck out in the middle of the lot as I tried to create my own space as others had done.

A lady signaled to me from her car that she was leaving, and I watched as she backed out of her own impromptu space, a bigger home for a car than the one I had just created. I slid in next to the grassy curb, and Caleb immediately unbuckled and walked down to the front of the van. I came around to the kids’ side, washcloth in hand, ready to make clean the chocolate-covered hands and faces before me. Today was special, and I gave in to earlier requests for doughnuts, a treat that the kids had not tasted in probably over a year.

I unbuckled Hannah Grace and looked over at Caleb, already bouncing off of one foot and then the other. I began to regret my breakfast choice that morning, worried that mixing young children hopped-up on sugar with the elderly residents of a nursing home might not have been the best idea. As I lifted Chloe from her car seat and grabbed my purse, Hannah Grace skipped next to Caleb, and I took the opportunity to warn my kids about the behavior I expected:

“You guys cannot bounce around like that. You can have fun, but we have to stay calm. Some of the people here might not feel well, and they’re not going to want to watch kids who are acting all crazy.”

After about three attempts, all four of us finally connected hands, and we proceeded to walk, with a little less bouncing, down the small flight of concrete stairs to the front of the center. We walked quickly as the activity hour had already begun. We reached the front door, and I opened it while looking down at my three helpers, doing my best to usher them in and keep them from running straight back to the large room where we had played parachute last week.

But before I had even looked up, a woman blocked my way.

“Can I help you?”

“Well, we’re here to help with the activity today,” I said while looking around, suddenly noticing people working in the dark, a lack of residents sitting in the front waiting area like last week.

“We’re closed,” the lady politely, but intent on making this conversation quick, replied. “The roof caved in the other day, so we won’t be open until we get everything squared away.”

“Oh my goodness!” I replied, wondering if I should’ve noticed a missing roof as I walked up to the building, suddenly understanding why the phone just rang and rang the two times I tried to call earlier to prepare them for our visit. I felt silly, wondering how long the center had been closed.”Where did all the residents go?”

The woman explained that they had been moved to various facilities in the area, and then she checked to see if we had family staying at this center.

“Oh, no. We’re just here to help with the activity.”

“Well, thank you; we appreciate that. But just try calling to check when we’ve reopened.”

She wasn’t sure when that day would be, and I apologized for just walking in to the closed center.

I ushered the three kids back out the door and tried, once again, to create a chain of all our hands. However, Caleb wouldn’t join in. He walked ahead quickly, his shoulders hunched forward, his head hanging down.

“Caleb, are you okay?”

He wouldn’t answer, and I knew from his posture that he was crying.

“Sweetie, do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” He could’ve just been disappointed that he wasn’t going to get to play parachute that morning, but I sensed he was feeling more than disappointment.

He grabbed the van’s door and began pulling on it, willing it to open so that he wouldn’t have to look at me.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk, but if you want to, let me know,” I told him as I unlocked the sliding door.

He hopped in the van and went back to his seat silently, and I watched as the back of his hand moved up to wipe his eyes.

I know my son, and I know he was worried. He heard that the roof caved in, and when my first thought was, “How did I miss that?” his first thought was, “Are the people okay?” I found out later from my husband, always quick to do an internet search, that all the residents were, in fact, okay; none were present in the dining area when the roof, undergoing a renovation, collapsed.

I started the van and pulled out of the space we had made and drove around the circle. I looked in the rearview mirror at Caleb, who didn’t want to talk, and we headed toward home. And as we drove, with little talking at first, my heart warmed. When God made Caleb, he made one special little boy.

Contemplating this week’s sermon on ‘Being the Church,’ and am grateful for the example found in my children. When was a time you witnessed a young child sharing the heart of God? Linking up today with Michelle.

And now I need your help. For the last couple of months, I have written a blog each Friday for ‘Journeys,’ the last few weeks being devoted to the fruits of the Spirit. I provided the opportunity for others to link their own posts, but there really wasn’t that much interest. The ‘Journeys’ topics have been good for me, and, while this blog is mine, it’s also yours! You all have been faithful readers and commenters, and I am interested to know what you’d like to read.

Before I eliminate the link-up all-together, would you be willing to link up on a less specific topic, perhaps just an open-ended God journey each week? Do you have another idea for a link-up? Or would you prefer to just read my take on ‘Journeys’ each week but not actually participate?

I appreciate your feedback. Feel free to give your opinion in the comments below or e-mail me at jennifer at matt dash davis dot com. Thank you!

Washable Finger Paints

Sometimes I take my job as a parent to teach right from wrong so seriously, that I forget my responsibility is also to model grace. I allow my children’s acts of disobedience to ruin my day, erase my memory of all the good they do. Granted, sometimes they take disobedience to a whole new level, but I forget that even finger paint stains can be made clean (at least if they are of the washable variety).

Finger paint on chairs.

Finger paint on the carpet.

Finger paint on the sofa.

And various spots that will continue to surprise me throughout the week.

They will all wash clean.

Yet, it is on these stains that I tend to focus. I forget that these children who took the opportunity of Mommy using the bathroom to redecorate the downstairs are the same children who, earlier in the day, shared God’s love with the elderly at a nursing home. These children, on their first time meeting these men and women, most bound in wheelchairs, some with blank stares across their faces, others with sores or masks covering their mouths and noses, didn’t hesitate to walk into a room and share their smiles.

Caleb didn’t hesitate to tell everyone he is five now and share all the details of his life. Hannah Grace, my shy little girl, was able to work through her cautiousness to stand in between two people she had never met and shake the parachute with them during activity time. Even Chloe, once she got over her toddler anger that the ball in the middle of the parachute was not for her kicking enjoyment, watched in amusement at the game.

They were living examples of God’s love. And when they picked flowers lining the sidewalk entrance (to my horror) to give to the man enjoying the birds chirping and fresh, warm air on his skin, they shined the face of Jesus more clearly than any sermon explanation.

Yet that night, I only remembered finger paints.

And at the end of the weekend, as I rolled the steam cleaner from spot to spot, I had to ask myself why do I remember the stains my children make so easily when God willingly forgets mine?

While disobedience comes with consequences and must be addressed, it is not the whole of my children. I need to see them for the beautiful creations they are and the wondrous splashes of color they bring to life.

After all, that’s how God views me, and I’ve left more than my own fair share of finger paint trails.

Reflecting today on the ‘Puzzled by the Bible’ series at 12 Stone Church and the amazing dichotomy of God’s holiness and the offer of Christ’s forgiveness. Come back Friday for ‘Journeys’ and the last fruit of the Spirit topic–self-control.

Parting the Red Sea: Part Two

Last week I wrote how God had given me an unusual calm, but as the week played out, I became fully aware of the gift He had given me. I want to write this post not to entertain or improve my writing skills but simply to remember.

I wish I could recount all the details; a part of me is afraid that the change won’t stick, and I want a formula to follow to produce the desired results. But I know better; faith is not a formula but a condition of the heart, a way to live.

Last Sunday night I came home from small group utterly dejected. I went to bed as I had done many Sunday nights previous, with a heaviness on my chest and a dread for Monday morning. Not only was I physically tired but mentally tired, too; as hard as I had tried, my attempts at observing a Sabbath never produced the rest of which I hoped.

Monday morning, I remember sitting up in bed and praying as I do most mornings. I don’t remember the words, but I think the prayer was simple. In fact, I think I said something to the effect of “God, I want to have a good day.” I can’t remember if I had thought these words Sunday night or if they were part of my Monday prayer, but I remember the cry of my heart to God was that I wanted my children to have good memories of their mother. I wanted my husband to like me and not grow to hate me over time.

As much as it pains me to admit, I had grown to thinking that my children would be better off if I went to work full-time, my husband if he married someone else. I didn’t feel happy, and while I put little stock in the fleeting feeling of happiness, I didn’t have contentment, either. My entire life I had been called a calm and patient person, but I had discovered my temper and the ease that frustration came to me after the birth of my third child.

The last two years were rough. I think most moms would find having three kids in three years challenging. Then add a husband whose work is far away and his hours away from home long, and the situation is tougher. And I resented the hours that I was home by myself. Even though I knew in my heart my husband was good and was providing the best way he knew how, I was tired. Waiting for him to come home until seven or later every night, eating dinner at nine after the kids were tucked away in bed, was taking it’s toll. And I didn’t think I could handle this routine that we had established any longer.

Last Monday morning I prayed, but I think even before I thought the prayer I felt different. As I already wrote, I had a calm. During a week which should have sucked, I felt a peace. I didn’t feel the weight on my chest, and I felt like I could love, be a good mom for my children, a supportive wife for my husband.

That day I wrote my blog post not looking for help because I honestly felt fine. However, that night a friend sent me a message that she was coming over to help make the light sabers for my son’s Star Wars party. The next day another friend called and said, “Oh, honey! I just read your blog–what can I do to help?” She went to the store for me since my kids were sick, and later that week, she brought her kids over to play with mine and watched them all while I cut out belts for the Jedi robes. A friend from small group brought my family a meal on Thursday, the day of Matt’s procedure and Caleb’s first baseball game, so that I wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. Another friend sent me messages of love and support on Facebook.

And I knew God was whispering, See? I will take care of you. When you focus your eyes on what’s important and not on all the other stuff that is a distraction, I will give you the help you need.

To some, the help of my friends would seem a coincidence or just what friends would do regardless. But I know better. I know how I felt Sunday, and I know how I felt all the Sundays before. And more importantly, I know how I felt Monday. God was confirming that He was in this change.

I didn’t do anything different. But there was peace. God lifted the darkness and depression that was crushing me, and as I shared last night with my small group, the same group whose prayers I coveted the week before, I broke down in tears. God had answered their prayers.

I don’t know why God answered our prayers on Monday. I had prayed many, many times before. In fact, during this past year as I have increased my writing and been more consistent with prayer and reading my Bible, I have felt closer to Him than ever before. But I struggled daily.

I wish I knew the formula, but I think God just wants me to have faith. He wants me to acknowledge that He is the source of all good and all miracles, and I don’t need to know the hows or the whys.

He is the One who parted the Red Sea, and He is the one who brought me peace. And that is enough for me to know.

“…he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6, New International Version, 2010).

I’m linking up with Michelle today, and I know I’ve kind of cheated because I’m not sharing what I learned in a sermon or book that I’m reading, but I think learning something straight from the Source counts, too! 🙂

I’d love for you to join me on Friday, as well, and share what God has taught you. This week’s journey is on ‘gentleness.’

“²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010).

Finally, I want to thank everyone for all of your thoughtful comments on my blog. I am severely behind in my replies! I love replying and/or visting your blogs, too, and I promise I will get there; it just might take me a little while.