Tomatoes

Tomatoes. It was the first time in nearly a decade that they haven't come from my own garden - planted, weeded, picked and hauled in by the basketful - which only made them a greater blessing to receive. Our summer was not marked by the soil this past season, not by the last frost, ripe radishes, bean or pickle harvests, or the excess of sweet corn and spaghetti squash to share. Instead, I only had to put my coffee cup down and open the door to a friend who was more than glad to rid himself of his overabundance. An afternoon washing, peeling and canning was spent beside a rather grumpy teenage girl (No names need be mentioned since this is a public blog and all. Protect the ornery people, right?) who obviously does not see the benefits of homemaking in her future.

Sigh.

I'm tired.

My third teenager in a row, with one more to go, Lord willing, and the gament of creative discipline is running thin. Hand cuffs were the next threat. This girl who, as of only a couple days ago, wanted nothing else but to crawl into my bed and stay close teeters the very next minute to puberty hormones and all that entails. The knees of my heart will soon be wore out with all the prayers that have been going Heavenward.

Sigh.

I'm tired.

Tomatoes. Sustenance for our bodies to be enjoyed in the upcoming cold winter months. Pure torture, if used in the right context, for training up the next generation.

A Mother's Greatest Calling

Children are the greatest mission field a woman can have.

Dear mothers, let us not neglect one of the sweetest gifts that God has granted us: our children. In this hurry-up world, we need go no further than our own homes to find God's calling for our lives. These precious little people have been given to us for such a short time. Childhood is fleeting. Before you know it, they are out of our hands.

Speaking as a veteran mother who thought she would never survive three children under the age of four, and then gladly went on to add two more kiddos to the chaos, I can honestly tell you that they do grow up too fast. In hindsight, the diapers were easy. The tween years, then the teen years, challenge the foundation that was poured out while life sped by. But rock by rock, hopefully with solid Christ rocks, you are making a difference in the long run, even when you can't see past the temper tantrums and the rolling eyes of a twelve year old who thinks she is beyond you. In the end, there is much joy to welcome the beautiful result of a Christ honoring young adult.

Hold firm. 

Love your children beyond measure. 

Love Christ and His word more. 

Be the example.

Eternity is at stake. 

You are not their Savior, but you represent their Savior. You, Christian momma, have been given the task of raising up warriors and maidens for a godly Kingdom. Get on your knees, stay on your knees, and bring them up valiantly. Aim to be found worthy of the treasures you were entrusted with on the day that you meet Jesus face to face.

This life is short. 

Stay eternally focused. 

For you and them.

Stay home. Love your children. Feed and water them. Nourish their souls with the Word of God.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. 

But the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13

Why I Don't Pretend That My Children Are Saved

A friend was curious, quite some time ago, about my interesting view of the state of my children's salvation. Because, you see, I don't profess that many of them are saved. The query has floated around my ever pondering train of thoughts for months until I attempted to put together a response on why I don't pretend that my children are saved.

First of all, it doesn't glorify God to fake our standing with Him. God doesn't mince words, and He's not kidding. This is His kingdom, and He'll run it any way He wants. He says He's jealous, holy, all powerful, wiser than any wisdom we can fathom, and more glorious than we can imagine.

The deeds of mankind, at our very sin-saturated cores, on the other hand, are likened to a woman's menstrual rag. We are called blasphemers, haters of God, wicked and only capable of more wickedness. A somber understanding of ourselves is necessary to realize that a Savior is needed. What transpired in the Fall, and the continuous suffering that resulted because of it, cannot be underestimated. We are sinners. You and I, our sweet dumpling little children as well if they came of our wombs. The church has sanitized our position to the point that we forget who we are.

Until you look down the barrel of your own wickedness, you can not appreciate a Savior who would stretch out His arms and bleed for you, even while you were the enemy, the one wielding the whip and spitting in His face. As sin was put upon the perfect Lamb of Jesus, Holiness turned away so that our sins could be forgiven and we could be welcomed into an eternal Kingdom. Looking at Scripture, acknowledgement of sin is a precursor to salvation. If an understanding of our position with God is not understood, repentance will never be needed.

God takes great delight in how and when He works salvation in His children. It is done on His time table, in His way. The robbing of that privilege is not our place, while at the same time Scripture tells us to seek the Lord and He will be found. God says that it is His glory to conceal a matter and the honor of kings to search them out (Proverbs 25:2). To point out truth to children is to point out their sin, alongside a glorious God who promises salvation, but not on our terms. It is His gift to grant.

Secondly, it doesn't benefit them. Salvation, at its core, from our mortal standpoint, is a very selfish thing. Who do you know that wants all glory to go to God, in all circumstances, even in choosing His elect, even if that glory is most clearly revealed through the unimaginably horrendous truth of the doctrine of Hell? One day every one of us is going to stand before this just God all on our own to give account. Even if the Bible underestimates its inferences to an eternal punishment, none of us wants to get close to the flaming fires that are described. We're all for sliding in to the pearly gates at the end of a self satisfying, lengthy existence here as long as there is an eternity of self satisfaction to look forward to.

But a life that is not clearly being transformed to treasuring Christ does not equal salvation, no matter how many times said person has signed a paper or raised their hands at the Bible camp campfires. Salvation does not depend on mans decision, but on God's. For my children to pretend to themselves that God has saved them, or worse yet, for me to pretend for them, does them no good now or, especially, eternally.

Lastly, pretending that they are saved when there is no evidence, has no benefit to others. If, as a Christian, I attempt to raise my children according to what Scripture says, and if I allow anything else but the Bible's description of salvation to be portrayed while I am toting the good life, and if I neglect to confront them on their own state of salvation, I have not only damned them but anyone else that they have one iota of a godly influence on in their young lives.

Take Trent's life for instance. People assumed that because he was young he went to Heaven. That isn't what Scripture says. Try as I might, I can find no verses that say all twelve year old boys go to Heaven. I do find verses that say that salvation is only offered through the atoning blood of Christ, it is granted by God, by His grace, and the result is a professing of our mouths and lives that reveal the work God has done. That work was revealed in my son's life through his confession of his sinful state and the realization that he wasn't right with God. The confession of that sin, and his desire for a Savior, was the work of the Holy Spirit so that this young boy could boast in nothing but the grace of God.

It's pretty simple: No transformation, no salvation. Our carefully scripted prayers have nothing to do with providing salvation other than to point to the grace of God. They are not the means, but the result, of God's preordained work. That is why it is so glorious, because it's all about God, not us.

Am I my children's judge? By no means. Am I their mother, who has been given the task of pointing these young people to their only hope for salvation as Scripture lays out? Absolutely. Do I strive as in labor pains for the transforming work of the Spirit in their lives, being brought to my knees in tears begging that God would grant them hearts for Him as their ultimate delight? Every day. Why? Because there is no greater joy that I long for them to have than to know their Holy Creator.

Survivor

Sometimes, life has a way of zooming on by without bothering to ask if we can keep up or even looking back to see if we're buckled in for the ride. The past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind of exhausting, amazing, satisfying, God filled, as well as plenty of mundane, activities. One of the highlights of those frenzied activities was running the 5k race.

I survived. I did not come in first. I did not come in last. I did take a wrong turn and instead of running 3.1 miles, I ran more than 3.1, but whose counting?

On so many levels, the activity of running grows and stretches a person. It was growth far beyond the new muscles and the shin splints that kept this middle aged woman putting one step in front of the other. Some stubborn determination to finish what I said I'd do was definitely a part of it, with perhaps some pride mingled in to show the kiddos that I could actually make it. But the best benefit was the spiritual aspect.

Out there on that course it is only your sheer determination that gets you to that finish line. Only the hope of actually seeing those flags flying, possibly around the next bend, keeps you from laying down in the ditch and instead forces you to keep going. Half way through the race I was overwhelmed with why I was out there. The race was in honor of keeping the legacy alive of another little boy who left his momma's arms sooner than she expected. It was a race to honor our children who are not with us.

I was a mother running in honor of my son.

My arms raised as my soul felt again the impact of that reality. That finish line became synonymous with the ultimate finish line of Heaven and the sting of that strained muscle in my thigh became the ache of grief; the ache that hasn't dissipated even after three years and I assume will probably never totally dull. But as it has been a joy to look back upon the accomplishment of crossing that finish line, so will it be a joy to cross over the finish line of eternity when God calls. To look back, to see the ache as a vague memory that was nothing compared to the victory, to look ahead to glory.

So I'll keep running, both physically and spiritually as God leads, because eventually, possibly around the next bend, I'll see those flags flying.

God's Not Dead

(Image via the World Wide Web)

There aren't many movies that our family indulges in. Our home selection includes a limited amount of DVDs and even VHS tapes that are nearly memorized line for line due to the lack of digitally mastered entertainment available in our living room. To spend the small fortune that it costs to enjoy a night in theater seats with buckets of buttered popcorn requires a show of high standing, and this is one of them.

God's Not Dead

If you haven't heard of it, google it. If you haven't seen it and you are remotely interested in furthering the Kingdom of God, go support it. If your dull soul needs a wake up call, definitely head out to the matinee- today. Take any teenage kid you know with you so that you have somebody to laugh with, cry with, dance with and share their treats. Just go see it. You will not leave unchanged.

I am Forty One

Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. 

Hebrews 12:1

I am forty one. Too old to decide that running my first 5k might be a good idea. But also young enough to think that running my first 5k might be a good idea. I casually mentioned it to the kids, and the next thing I knew, I was out on the road, pounding pavement. As they whizzed by me, waving from the far off distance to their mother who was lagging behind, I wondered if maybe we shouldn't have just stuck to another Bible study or started a book club.

Half way through the mile introduction of walk/run, I was tempted to lay down and give up. As we passed the driveway for the first time around, I begged to turn in. Wallowing in the ditch would have been okay, too. But I kept going. One foot in front of the other.

And it hurt. And today it hurts worse, and I still have a mile jog to look forward to. Cole, my newly donned personal trainer, tells me that he'll adjust the schedule on week three if I still can't keep up. Groan. A long winter of sitting in my comfy computer chair has caught up with me.

Perseverance is not my strong suit. I want the instant glory. I want the tone abs and thighs without the pain. I want the medal of the race without the training. I realized that I don't particularly like even being in the race. The sidelines are fine. But nobody asked me if I wanted to be in the race of grief. I likened every step on that training course to grief. I started out strong. It felt good to stretch muscles that I knew were there. Until the stop sign kept getting further and further away no matter how many steps I seemed to take. The small victories - a telephone pole, a line in the road, a mailbox- spurred me on.

On my knees before God this morning, I felt like I did out there on that road yesterday. Like just laying down to have myself a pity party. I'm tired of this. I'm worn out. My heart feels ready to burst. But just one more step. One more step. One more step towards victory. I realized that the strength to continue doesn't depend on me on this faith walk. It's God who's waiting for me to wear myself out in my own strength, so that I finally depend on His. I never said that I wasn't slow.

I guess sometimes it's just a long way home.

Simply Trust

Sixteen Years Ago

But I am the Lord your God...
I cared for you in the desert,
in the land of burning heat.
Hosea 13:4a

Sixteen years ago a son was brought forth from my womb. This morning I am again recalling that day. I remember the pain and the contractions on top of contractions caused by the induction medicine that was administered because he was thought to be several days overdue. I remember the doctor who insisted that I would labor eight hours longer than I did. I remember my mother's hands braiding my hair in an attempt to soothe the pain that was so necessary.

I remember the nurses taking him from my breast shortly after he was born to administer oxygen, a foreshadowing of his life perhaps. I remember my husband stealing him back, refusing to be separated from his firstborn son.

I remember the struggle to feed him from my body over the next several months, and to draw near to him for fear of my intense love that seemed like too much. I remember the battles over his little soul in the years to come. I remember the day of his salvation, the acknowledgement of a Savior's grace, the hope of eternity in the presence of a holy God.

I remember counting his toes again on that hospital bed in the emergency room the day he died, just like the day he was born: one, two, three, all the way to ten. I remember God's grace when He gave and when He took away. This same God, who cared for the Israelites in the desert, who cared that a twelve year old boy needed a Savior, who knows the sound of a mother's falling tears.

I find this pain to be a driving force that pushes me closer to Him, not away, lest I be satisfied here in the temporary, becoming proud and comfortable and ultimately forgetting my God. This beckoning found through suffering, the hurt that penetrates so deep, is an offer to draw near to the Almighty.

The calming words of Scripture from the Sovereign One who intends to carry me all the way until I see His face has assured me that His plans are perfect. I can't see the full eternal worth of this suffering right now, but the God who called me to this trial continues to prove over and over again that He is faithful. He cares for me in the desert. In Him will I be satisfied.

Cabin Fever

My children are witnessing to the dog.

Do we need any other evidence that cabin fever has set in with a vengeance? Creative excuses to get out of home school for the umpteenth cold day in a row runs rampant by this time of the winter season. Their great desire to assure that Lady goes to Heaven probably has little to do with the state of her canine soul and more to do with dealing with their fear of sending their good friend off to her new home. Besides Lady, there are her brood of barking offspring that are just about ready to find somebody else's house to chew everything in sight and demand potty breaks numerous times a day from their lucky new owners. Eight weeks of puppies and I am about dogged out.

The heralding ground hog saw his shadow over the weekend, assuring us that there would be several more weeks of this glorious winter wonderland. Honestly, I am glad. I have taken somewhat of a personal responsibility on myself for torturing all the rest of you in the northern region with such a ferocious season of cold and snowfall. You see, I have needed just such a winter and have prayed often to ask and thank God for it. The longer days have only added to the realization that the time is short to finish the work at hand.

In the midst of our big move I have been convicted to finish several huge projects before the weather turns nice, and the deep freeze has provided the opportunity to stay home and work on them.  Eight picture books are officially completed as of last night and just waiting for the finances to get them printed. Eighteen hundred and some collages later, with an average of at least ten pictures per page, (which doesn't even include all of the pictures taken in the last six years) and figuring that those pictures needed to be handled at least six times before their final format, means that in the last three months I have viewed and sorted some 110,000 pictures give or take. Hmmm.... anybody else convicted that we mothers just might take a few too many photos? But I wouldn't trade a one of them, nor do I regret the many hours behind the camera or the computer screen, other than the fact that my children are tired of not seeing my eyeballs and my back has become a tangled knot from being so hunched over as I peer into the little box of blinking lights.

The collages have been a therapy for me. A grueling, heart aching therapy. To relive Trent's life, and our life, before and after the accident has been emotionally exhausting. One that needed a long, cold winter to sort through.

My next project is to finish the two books that I have been plugging away on for too long now. OurCrazyFarm the Book is our story of life at the farm. Probably just for the family, it chronicles our move here and all the crazy adventures that were lived. When Hope Survives is a devotional book based on First Peter 1:3-9 that lays out God's glorious hope for the sufferer. After those accomplishments, I have great ideas that I feel God leading me towards to continue to write, write, write. Knowing that the time is short, I long to be faithful.

As far as the farm, we *think* it might be sold. A family who looked at it last summer has been trusting God to lead them to their desired farm, and this just might be it. Final details are working themselves out and we await a signed purchase agreement, but the tentative plans are to close by the end of March and move by June. I'm trying not to hold my breath while I anticipate that it could be this easy.

Everybody is starting to get nervous about the move. Living in limbo is so hard, and fear seems to be the first response to the unknown. That and witnessing to the dog. Upset children about getting the room that is minuscule inches smaller and has the window in the wrong direction are really screams to long to be in control. To give up every earthly thing that brings comfort is one of God's hardest and most gracious ways to pry our fingers off of this world. As I try to give the right answers, I am praying that it's the heart that will be changed rather than the living accommodations.

As for myself, I am almost refusing to let my brain race ahead. I am committing myself to the tasks at hand, trying to finish well here at the farm. Wrapping up the photo albums and the books are top on my list, along with home school, college planning, and a graduation in the Spring. Longings for what the new place will mean in terms of serving and seeking God continue to pop up, but I force them to stay in their little compartmentalized places until the other priorities are taken care of. But I can't help it. I am so ready to have our lives poured out in ways that we can't right now due to financial and time restrictions. To live as if Heaven is reality and this life is a mist. To be able to store up treasures there rather than building our Kingdoms here. I can't wait.

So for now we will work diligently on the tasks that God has given us. Continuing to plug away and wondering if this will be the day that Jesus returns. Hoping and praying for it, while at the same time attempting to be faithful until it is.

A Mother's Prayer

I had to repent yet again the other day. As I was driving along, by myself, which was probably why the complete thought occurred, I realized that my greatest desire for my children is still that they would thrive in this world. That they would be comfortable, successful, loved and praised here. That they would look for, and find, their joy now rather than seeking and longing for it in eternity.

The humbling had come a few days after a conversation with Alexis where she accidentally mentioned a wound she had been given quite some time ago. Her nosy mother pressed her for details and got upset enough for the both of us, then I proceeded to go into momma-bear mode in order to protect her from every mean teen-age girl in the universe. My pride swelled for this daughter that I adore so much that I hardly noticed her godly approach to the matter that had already been forgiven and dealt with by her.

 “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first.” John 15:18

A few days later God used that verse to align my soul back to reality. If the world hates Alexis, keep in mind that it hated Jesus first. Keep in mind that it reveals my daughter's allegiance to her King. Keep in mind that it hates her because she shines Light. Keep in mind that the world will not be her friend and will continue to hate her as long as Christ keeps her faithfully bearing witness for Him.

As I was praying this morning, sending up my petitions to the Almighty for my children (salvation, character, bold witnesses, love for Scripture) I revisited this little incident as I got to Alexis' name. Praying for her future, my thoughts went immediately to happy scenes: a happy college experience, followed by a happy missions experience, followed by a happy marriage and child raising experience, followed by a happy death in her sleep at ninety-two where upon she faces God with little to nothing to have to give account to for trusting Him because her life was so simple and indulgent that she never needed Him. Amen.

Tears came because, on the surface, that is what I want for my daughter. I know the alternative: pain, hurt and brokenness which would result in a desperate need for her Savior. My flesh wants the easy path for her, while at the same time I know which road will lead her closer to Christ. As scary as it was to pray, I handed her over again to this God whose ways are higher than mine, as far as the heavens are from the sky, and trusted His plans for my daughter. Attempting to see into eternity, I prayed for more than what this world has to offer her. I prayed for that hurt, that brokenness, that desperate need for God. If it keeps her soul awake to eternity, I would rather have her uncomfortable here.

Now I'm going to start praying that God would give her mother the strength to watch Him work His glory in her life.

Daring to Draw Near

Again on our home school schedule, right at the top, is the daily requirement of Bible and prayer. It has been there as long as there has been a school schedule in our unscheduled lives. But this year I have chosen to torture the children and really require that they pray. Not just crossing it off the list, or quick praying before we eat, or passing the prayer basket, but to dive deep into conversations with the Almighty. To make it worse, they have to do it sitting next to their brothers and sisters. And, harder yet, most of them aren't saved.

The pull came out of a personal desire, a need for an accounting in my own prayer life which has leaned more towards the Jonah side: fleeing from God rather than drawing near. Numbness is easier than the constant tears, so I've chosen that route rather than bowing before my Creator; traded wooden floors and humbleness for a comfortable recliner and cup of coffee. Mornings are hard enough. Conquering the flesh, getting to gratitude for a son in Heaven before my feet hit the old wooden floor has been something that I've too easily passed over. And, because of that choice, find myself heading straight towards apathy. Holding God at arm's length rather than daring to draw near.

Personal prayer with God alone is powerful, but as Scripture says, where two or more are gathered Christ is there as well (Matthew 18:20). Corporate prayer breaks down walls that we easily hide behind when our eyes are wide open, and especially when we live together twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with no escape from each other than the occasional cross country practice. Our battle weapons get dull when we don't refuel with honesty and by drawing deep from God's well. My greatest desire is to see God glorified through my children, and that will only happen when my children are truly satisfied in Him, so I have set off on a determined effort to train them up and give them the daily habit of authenticity before their maker.

Have you been there? Real, raw, spiritually naked before God?

Lately I find myself not even needing to tell God my heart, not faking the hurt, because He knows. The searcher of hearts knows. My sister reminds me that I am right where He wants me. Right now I don't like where He wants me and He knows it, so there is no point of denying it. Not in anger pointed at God, but honest, lay it all out on the alter, sort it out, hash it out for the ten-thousandth time until joy in God's plans becomes my honest joy. But the majority of that starts with prayer. And prayer is hard work.

After the giggles around the kitchen island, God lead the kids and I to begin our prayer session with acknowledgement of who He is. As children who have been raised in church events their whole lives my kiddos know how to start and end prayer. "Thank you God for this, and heal so-and-so, amen." How pathetic. They know they're not saved and God knows that they're not saved. We think we fool Him. We think those piddly prayers honor Him. But He says that He hears the prayers of the righteous, that honesty is what He desires, that only those with faith please Him (James 5:16; 1 Chronicles 29:17; Acts 17:11).

So we started at the beginning: Who is God?

We all thought we knew. But when our answers are only based on what Scripture says about who God is, it starts to put things into perspective. Eyes closed, five voices getting solemner by the moment, claiming the claims of Jesus Himself. Rather than starting prayer with "thank you" we started with acknowledgement. How hard that proved to be, to break our own rote prayer style that has been acceptable to our lazy selves for so long.

That prayer session revealed much- our doubts as well as our own self righteousness. Pride boiled near the top, but sweet voices longing for eternity were mingled in as well. Prayers spanning between an eight year old boy to a forty year old tired mother revealed where our hearts really are.

Day two brought the discovery of a book on the shelf of our home library by John White called Daring to Draw Near. It is full of insights on prayers that are recorded in Scripture and how God is revealed through them. Not a how-to-pray book, but a peek-at-God-through-prayer book. What an amazing concept: to turn prayer into being about God rather than about us!

If my children can get past the torture concept, past the giggles, and God chooses to reveal Himself to them as they dare to draw near His throne I will give them all A's. And God, Lord willing, will have created a few more powerful warriors for His kingdom.

Spring Ducks

Farming must be genetic. Being raised on a catch-all farm with a collection of critters that did little more than to satisfy the beckoning of my father's soul of the need to have them surrounding him, the homesteading gene was passed along strongly. Of the five girls in our family only my sister and I inherited it, and in our home only one, possibly two, kiddos seem to have a knack and love for raising animals like their grandfather did.

Ever the farmer and business man, Cole ordered some ducklings from the local Co-op. They were purchased with the intent being for resale, although I've heard much begging to keep "just two." Nope, we've tried ducks over the years and there is just no place around here for them. Granted we have a pond, but being that pond freezes over in our cold Wisconsin winters means those same ducks have to house with the chickens in the below zero weather - a mess the chickens don't appreciate, either. So, we'll be content to enjoy their peeping and waddling antics for the next couple of days while they grace our basement with their cuteness.

Even if he doesn't make his fortunes on them the excitement, plus the memories made, were worth more than any green printed paper bills could ever pay for. What would the cost be to look in the rear view mirror and see all those smiling faces? Little girls wearing shorts and cowgirl boots, sneaking the favorite farm cat with for a van ride, giggling over baby ducks pecking your fingers, and being happy to do chores: priceless.

The Reality of Home School

 

 

This picture is  the epitome of our home school days: if something better comes along, forget the books and live life. "One more week, one more week, one more week," I keep repeating to myself, and I will (Lord willing, if not that will be okay, too) be done teaching first grade math concepts and basic phonic sounds. Yippee! The race is on between all the kiddos to finish their bookwork for the year. Many subjects have already been crossed off the list and some of them are down to the last few lessons before a summer break- can't wait!

That's Not Funny

 

It's April 15th.

Two snowstorms later and there's enough snow on the ground to build snowmen.

We're not laughing.


 

Spring and Ponies and Ramblings

Spring is in the air. The month of April has brought with it rain showers and even several bursts of snow, but we refuse to let go of the hope of green grass and sunshine. Grace has been so happy to finally be able to get out and ride Sassy again. Jumping is her sport of choice for this year. Not so sure it's mom's sport of choice, but the smile that never leaves her face while she's riding is worth the fear of her falling off.

Sassy continues to give her a run for her money, definitely living up to her equine name, but it's a good challenge. Two stubborn, feisty girls battling it out for who's going to be in charge. At the end of the ride they're both happy, one with grain the other sore muscles. Born fighters wouldn't be happy without a fight.

Grace got her hair cut. She hasn't had it this short since she was three years old and took a scissor to it herself. She's been begging for the transformation, and was thrilled to donate the cut portion to Locks of Love, happy knowing that somebody else would benefit from her beautiful gift. She's turned into a different girl in so many ways.

Horses are one of the harder parts of grief. There is only so much emotion and strength to go around, and some things are just too hard to revisit for the extra energy it takes to live them without your loved one. Too many memories to relive, and too hard to make new ones with the same horses minus one kid. Grace informed me that I haven't rode with her for over a year. So much is lost in grief, more than just your child who is gone, the ones here suffer for it as well.

I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection

and participation in his sufferings.

Philippians 3:10a

The words finally made some sense when I read them again last night. I always wondered, who would want to suffer to know Jesus? It is such a backward way of thinking in our society of ease and pleasure. But the verse has haunted my thoughts for years, moreso of course since Trent's accident. To want to know Christ in His sufferings.

Then it struck me as I read it for the hundredth time: Without suffering we wouldn't know Jesus to the same degree as without it.

Poor Rob happened to walk in during the middle of my revelation. I sputtered at him, "You know how it was when we met Amos and Sue, and we didn't have to explain to them what it was like to lose a child to death on a ski slope? Do you remember that instant connection, regardless that we lived worlds apart? Remember the knowing, on both sides, without explaining to them what that suffering felt like?"

Yep. He knew.

That's what Paul means: to know Jesus in his suffering is like knowing Amos and Sue, or the many others parents we know who have lost a child. You don't have to explain what it feels like to receive that dreaded call, or to walk into an emergency room and see your child's dead body lying there, or how to choose what color of casket you want for the funeral. They know. They just know.

You don't have to explain tears for over two years straight. Or why you haven't answered the phone in days. Or why riding horse might be hard. They just know.

To know Christ in His suffering is to really know Christ. You can almost feel the whip He felt, and the shame He endured for trusting God. You know the tears He cried, and the hope He had. On some level, you set your face as flint towards eternity and the waiting glory just as He did. You begin to live as He lived, not for this world but the next, not for joy found here, but for the treasure found there.

And when you realize that it is all filtered through a Sovereign Father's hand you can even rejoice in it. The participation becomes an honor, just like it is an honor to wrap your arms around a newly grieving mother and try to point her to Christ. To repeat the promises to both her and yourself, willing you both to hold on and not lose hope. Looking forward to what's ahead, not looking behind, but trudging through the deep waters that God wants you to walk.

To know somebody in the trenches of suffering is to truly know them. There is no room for fake, no reason to talk about the weather, no Sunday smiles. There is only full exposure of the heart in sorrow. God is the searcher of hearts. He reveals through suffering, both our hearts and Himself. What a joy, then, to be sought out. What a joy to experience His grace. He disciplines those He loves. He wakes those up whom He loves.

Therefor, it is easier to say it again:

I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection

and participation in his sufferings.

Philippians 3:10a

Why? Because I know there is much more beyond the pain of today.

Our citizenship is in heaven.

And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ,

who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control,

will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.

Philippians 3:20-21

Another Easter

Obviously, our plans are not God's plans. (Isaiah 55:8)

Our plans were to enjoy a big family Easter celebration at my sister's house. God's plans proved to be different. A wide spread cold bug rapidly blazed its way throughout their home and scared all the aunts, uncles and even grandma away lest we, too, get the phobie just when the sun is predicted to finally shine on our Wisconsin tundra. I try to look for the good in the alternative, often amused as I ponder the "other plans" that God brings us. No doubt He has a sense of humour, and no doubt He answers prayers.

After lamenting to that same sister about another holiday to get through without Trent, all the while knowing that I needed to be a mother for all my other little dumplings who are still here, she prayed a Traci prayer, suggested I eat my chocolate bunny plus Trent's, then petitioned God to give me "a sugar rush that lasts all week and has you giggling about all sorts of strange things!  Ha!"

God did not fail.

Easter morning began at our house with my serenading the sleepy children with the song "He Arose!" He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ Arose! Which was followed by a very sincere, wise-cracking eight year old who must have mistook my lyrics since he replied "I don't have rolls. You have rolls!"

Giggles. About all sorts of strange things. Ha!

Watching videos of Easter songs at church, checking on a couple of very pregnant goats and an expecting momma bunny, then making a batch of soap for a customer filled my afternoon. Leftover T-bone steaks for supper with a grumpy card game followed by snuggling on the couch ended the night. It was reported throughout the day that there were a few missing chocolate Easter bunnies. If not the whole, at least their long ears had disappeared. All this joy, and yet the ache never leaves.

A few things I jotted down to keep myself sane:

Our satisfaction should always be sought in God- any other attempts to fulfill it here (feelings, people, material possessions, experiences, etc.) will fail. For the Christian, this is the time of suffering, as evidenced by Jesus' life. He was the example. But like Him, we should trust the Father as we walk this hard road and look to the joy beyond the cross, all the way to Heaven and eternity. Pain drives us to our knees, to the Christ who satisfies. So many other things used to satisfy, now they all pale in comparison.

God's timing is not our timing. To Him a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like  a day. I content myself with knowing that not a single tear, or another long night or the ache of my heart will be without great glory that is yet to be revealed. Glory not even worth comparing to these trials. I force myself to embrace the reality of eternity, of Heaven, of this temporary life. I strive to work for the food that endures to eternal life.

I am weary in the battle. My mind feels numb, by body is on auto-pilot. Just where God wants me: weak so that He can be strong.

(Hebrews 12:2; Romans 8:18; Colossians 1:24; 1 Peter 1:3-9;2 Peter 3:8; John 6:27;2 Corinthians 12:10)

The Harvest Fields

“I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b

Too often, I forget to look up at the fields. My head downcast, or so preoccupied with “self,” or looking at somebody elses field, my own easily gets ignored. The glamor of a different ministry becomes appealing, maybe a stage somewhere, or a big platform, or being a missionary across the seas where I would be “super Christian” and be worthy of the title. Not the mundane of another day of home school in March with two feet of snow still left on the ground to battle through to do chores with a predicted high of only thirty-six.

In the midst of my pity party I am impelled to go back and re-read the words of Scripture:

“I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b

I literally look up and see a teenage boy sitting at the island eating breakfast and reading his Bible. Either way, if even only for the sake of duty to cross it off his daily list, the living words are still being drunk in. I watch him for awhile, wondering where thirteen years have gone. I pray for him once again. No earthly desires top the list, only eternal ones. I beg God, please God, grant salvation to this son, too.

I am reminded of long-ago prayers whispered over sleeping children, standing next to their beds, touching their silent forms that were snuggled under handmade quilts. Prayers, particularly for Trent, that God would use his life in a mighty way for His glory. A prayer I didn't expect to be answered in the way that it was. A prayer that I am scared to request again. My words want to stay guarded before they leave my lips, frightened of what God may ask of me next. But He knows my heart. He knows the uttering of it, He has made the longing for His glory, no matter the cost, to reign.

Fear wants to sneak its way in – fears of what might be for their futures, fears even for this day, fears of more suffering. How quickly my eyes stray from the field where I have been sovereignly placed, stray from my Savior. Quietly, the thoughts of grace eventually calm the fears. I look back to the Bible and read the words again: Jesus answered [the Samaritan woman], “If you knew the gift of God...” (John 4:1) To truly know the gift of God compels me to endure.

In grief there is so much time spent trying to learn how to live without your loved one. Whether you get out of bed or not in the morning, it doesn't make a difference, they are still not here. Every event is met with a brokenness, a neon sign reminding you again and again that all is not right. There is a continuous aching in a mother's heart and arms that refuses to be comforted while your mind is forced to learn to live with the loss lest you literally go insane.

As much as I am learning to live with the loss of my son, I can't escape the continuous thought of Heaven. If Trent were just spending the weekend at his best friend's house, or staying with Aunt Traci for a while, or enjoying time at kid's camp I could associate with where he was. I would not doubt his “being.” Death is only an absence to those left behind, not to the person who died. Trent is still Trent.

As I sat in my recliner late one night last week, enjoying a book in the quiet hush of this old farmhouse, the startling revelation came to me: Trent is in Heaven. The thought nearly took the wind out of me. Tears soon followed as the reality was fresh yet again. The brevity of this life once more became glaringly apparent. The gospel of John reminds me over and over of Jesus' words, “I am telling you the truth,” and “Believe me, woman” echoing truth today while I sit drinking my coffee and crossing the Bible off my own list. (John 4:21)

So somehow I try to measure everything against that eternity. The short days here, the lives around me that God has given me the privilege of influencing, my own heart that has nowhere to hide. Like the Samaritan woman, though, (John 4) I quickly tend to change the subject, busy myself with the cares of this world, consume myself here in some new project rather than face the reality of eternal life.

Jesus met people where they were, even sinful women going about their daily duties. There was no prerequisite, other than brokenness, to feel his healing touch. Jesus meets me where I am today. He answers my prayers and renews my longing for His word, He breaks through my vitamin D depraved brain and lights the fire again so that rather than being lukewarm I may be hot. Rather than investing a little into eternity I may see the worth, as much as my human brain can conceive of the idea, of fully longing for redemption, longing for Christ to reign, longing for that glory that Paul talks about so often.

Bare Toes in January

 

Water balloons in the freezer.

Tea parties in upstairs bedrooms.

Chickens in the basement.

Oodles of stories stored in a laptop computer.

Kisses goodnight.

Kisses goodmorning.

And any odd number of childhood antics in between.

 

Such is my life.

Besides the never ending laundry pile and the creative energy it constantly requires to make three scrumptious meals a day, three hundred and sixty five days a year, unless it's a leap year, then three hundred and sixty six days a year.

 

The grief in between is just a constant reminder of the best that is yet to come.

It drives me to my knees begging for salvation,

which is found in Jesus Christ alone,

on behalf of those I love.

 

A body that keeps going through the motions.

A mind that feels like it can't take in one more single concept.

And a soul longing for restoration and righteousness.

 

Bare toes in January.

Two minute boy showers.

Orthodontics times three.

Tears in the morning.

Tears at night.

 

A Savior leading.

 

Princess Missions

For nearly half of my life my heart has been given to mothering. I can still remember the awe and the fear of holding that first newborn baby, seeing all at once this beautiful creation right here in my arms and, in a sense, all the way into eternity. As much as my concerns were for her immediate needs, of which I was pretty much clueless, they were moreso for her spiritual needs. It has not ceased to amaze me for the past decade and a half how one little soul could be used to transform me, when I was given the responsibility of shaping her.

 

With one child in heaven, another one living with one foot here and one foot there, and three that keep me on my knees, literally, begging for their salvation, I continue to understand my helplessness in raising them. But every so often, God reveals a glimpse of His work through us, His vessels of clay.

 

What started out as another entry on a local Fair form this summer turned into several late, late night sessions of drawing, editing and formatting and ultimately a grand champion prize. Alexis has been gifted in writing, and used that gift this summer to write her first children's book. First, because four months later, after many more late, late nights, she has produced her second children's book; a Christmas story.

 

Now, as if that wasn't enough of an accomplishment for a girl who isn't even finished with high school yet, she has gone on to aspiring in serving God in other ways. She lives with eternity in mind, always fighting for more godly wisdom, more serving opportunities, more growth; less of herself, more of Jesus.

 

After much prayer, Alexis signed up to be a part of a missions trip to Peru in the summer of 2013. For several days she will have an opportunity to allow God to stretch her, to serve in a foreign country, to be the hands and feet of Jesus. As part of this process she is required to build up a support team, both prayer-wise and financially.

 

Already she has earned a good amount of the required fee by herself. It is amazing how God provides when it is His work! Rather than committing her royalties to More Glory Ministries, book sale proceeds will be temporarily applied towards her missions trip. So, if you have a child on your list this Christmas, considering giving in two ways: the gift of the gospel wrapped in pretty paper, and the gift of helping to reach Peru with the gospel.

 

The financial aspect of missions is sometimes easier to raise than the spiritual. More than anything, this team needs prayer. As a way to keep her supporters informed, I encouraged Alexis to start a blog. I expected updates and pictures, but instead got a peek at her heart, and was overwhelmed again by this God I love. Check it out here (Princess Missions), I think you will be blessed, too.

 

What a joy it is when God rewards mothers on this side of heaven with answers to their prayers; prayers for children who will glorify Him.

 



All proceeds from book sales will go towards Alexis' missions trip.

An endearing children's book to introduce young hearts to trust their Heavenly Father, "Remember the Night" is an allegorical tale of a mother and child walking through the dark of the night which reminds us again of the God who walks with us until we see him face to face.

A mother soothes her child's fears of the night by turning the focus to the Creator and remembering to be thankful, hoping at last that her child will look in awe at the God who created all things and holds her in his hands.

$7.00 per book, plus $3.50 shipping and handling.

Click here to order books, or leave me a comment with your email address to arrange payment by check or money order.

Where Were You On Christmas Eve?

A little child discovers the true meaning of Christmas as she follows along the trail to Bethlehem to see who was found in the manger.

$7.00 per book, plus $3.50 shipping and handling.
 Click here to order books, or leave me a comment with your email address to arrange payment by check or money order.

Playing at the Pond

The kids went out to play at the pond the other day, only to discover that there was no pond.