We dance in his bedroom, our nightly waltz. His eyelids droop with the sweet dew of sleep and mine too. I kiss his miniature hands and slender fingers as they caress my face, back and forth, back and forth.
As I hold him I think that he feels much heavier. Though he is still the smallest of his peers, he seems so big to me now, here, in this moment. He used to be nothing more than a peapod to cuddle in my arms, but tonight his head hangs over one end and legs dangle forever down the other.
And I sway, back and forth, back and forth.
He stirs, and I shush, and he sleeps. His one hand rests on my collarbone, with fingers encircling 'round my neck, his other is tucked gently in between his chest and mine. The baby boy breathes heavy and his sleep is sound. He folds like a rag doll, so quietly into his blankets.
As I lay him down, I believe there is nothing this wonderful and yet so heartwrenching. That there is nothing so beautiful and so sad.
I let go. And he doesn't see me leave.
He sleeps and I lie awake in bed, thinking of him. Listening for him. Loving him.
And the Spirit brings to my mind a picture of the Father, "He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is thy keeper:.." Ps 121:3-5a
Our loving Father keeps us while we sleep. So I can rest, knowing the Hand that holds my heart when it is breaking is holding my baby boy too. I can slumber, because He does not.
And though I do not know His plans for his future, I do know that they are better than mine. And though it seems to be flying so fast, I know He controls it all. And I toss and turn some. One or two more peeps into his room.
All is still and calm.
And I return to bed. And I rest, because the Father is watching over us.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
sometimes God uses weeds
The Sun was hot, the ground was hard, my hands soiled and red with the twisting, yanking and pulling. I started with the biggest patch and worked my way down to the smaller ones. These weeds ran deep. So far down into the earth beneath me, crisscrossing back and forth, in and out the good grass, making it incredibly hard to tell the difference between the grass and the weed.
They sneak in, during the Spring, when the ground is soft and barely green. Had I weeded then, these monsters would've been but sprigs, but no. I let they grow and fester, let them take over. Now these monsters run rampant, choking the grass and stealing every drop of water from the thirsty lawn.
As I sit on the bare ground, with the hot Sun beating down on my back, I think that my soul has had some pretty nasty weeds. They start so small and innocent, a look here, a thought there, a hurt feeling that soon becomes an obsession. And after awhile, the weeds take control. At first, they're barely noticeable, similar in hue as the tender sprigs around them, but very soon they are dispersed until they cloak the turf in their horrid blanket. The poor soul has no chance again the weeds in his heart. They've taken root.
Pulling and twisting, yanking and jerking, my nails fill with grit and my face grimaces with the effort. "It's no use" I heave.
The Spirit starts to speak, "Lest any root..." and I know.
He is using these wretched weeds to speak to my heart. My dry, hard heart, like the ground, wishes to be free of it's creeping weeds. I tug, like before, and do nothing more than break off the tip. The Root lying far below the surface, will return at a moment's notice, a moment where the Spirit hasn't control but the dead man inside.
These roots run deep.
"I'm sick of the weeds! God, help me get rid of these pests." I speak to the ground while murmuring out of my heart. I pull, with my fingers below at the bottom of the shoot. "Gotcha!" but not without pulling up some grass. The sweet tender grass is now lying dead in the pile of pulled weeds. The sacrifice leaves an empty patch of earth. I try to stuff new sprigs in it's place. I pile the dirt up on top to no avail. It's bare and sad. The poor sweet grass is suffering because of the weed.
How many are hurting because of my 'roots'?
The parcel of ground is left empty of weed and grass. Everyone can see. Only water can bring this sad patch of ground back to life. Only Water can heal and restore my sin sick and bitterly bruised heart. Once again the Spirit's sweet words "I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely" and I take the water and pour it over the weedy ground and it heals and He heals.
I begin on another plot, using the water to soften and this time a fork to help break up the ground. "There, now it's beginning to come up." My fingers search deep in the grit for the root. A huge mass in my hand, I pull as hard and yet, as gently as I can. These roots come out and they are long. Looking at the long skinny thread that runs so far, I think "So small, and yet, so long. It makes it almost impossible." But it is possible. I did it...with help. The water to soften and the fork to break up the ground.
I glance at the monitor. My baby boy, sweetly rests in his bed. And here I sit, pulling weeds, alone. I am left to fix the yard, and my heart, when I am alone. Away from the hurry and noise, away from the laundry and the mess, I sit and pull weeds and pull the roots of grime from my heart. "How did it get so bad so fast?" And I think of how much higher the weed grows, much higher, much faster than the grass.
It takes time to grow the right things, but only a moment to destroy them.
The Preacher's Mother hears of my work in the yard, she smiles sweetly and says "You know, as soon as you pull them up you'll just have more to pull tomorrow." She's right. But this time, I'll try harder. I'll try not to let them get so large. While they are small I will pluck them up. It's so much simpler when they are fresh and new. One little tug and out they come.
I'm almost done. My hands glow red, fingers sore and gnarled from the labor. I wash the filth from my nails and ask Him to cleanse the inside.
It hurts a good hurt and I weep.
Looking out of the window, I see my pile of bitter roots. They lay sprawled out on the concrete crying and thirsting for some rich soil. Not this time. Not these weeds.
And He whispers "Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled;" (Heb 12:15) And I reply "Sometimes God uses weeds."
They sneak in, during the Spring, when the ground is soft and barely green. Had I weeded then, these monsters would've been but sprigs, but no. I let they grow and fester, let them take over. Now these monsters run rampant, choking the grass and stealing every drop of water from the thirsty lawn.
As I sit on the bare ground, with the hot Sun beating down on my back, I think that my soul has had some pretty nasty weeds. They start so small and innocent, a look here, a thought there, a hurt feeling that soon becomes an obsession. And after awhile, the weeds take control. At first, they're barely noticeable, similar in hue as the tender sprigs around them, but very soon they are dispersed until they cloak the turf in their horrid blanket. The poor soul has no chance again the weeds in his heart. They've taken root.
Pulling and twisting, yanking and jerking, my nails fill with grit and my face grimaces with the effort. "It's no use" I heave.
The Spirit starts to speak, "Lest any root..." and I know.
He is using these wretched weeds to speak to my heart. My dry, hard heart, like the ground, wishes to be free of it's creeping weeds. I tug, like before, and do nothing more than break off the tip. The Root lying far below the surface, will return at a moment's notice, a moment where the Spirit hasn't control but the dead man inside.
These roots run deep.
"I'm sick of the weeds! God, help me get rid of these pests." I speak to the ground while murmuring out of my heart. I pull, with my fingers below at the bottom of the shoot. "Gotcha!" but not without pulling up some grass. The sweet tender grass is now lying dead in the pile of pulled weeds. The sacrifice leaves an empty patch of earth. I try to stuff new sprigs in it's place. I pile the dirt up on top to no avail. It's bare and sad. The poor sweet grass is suffering because of the weed.
How many are hurting because of my 'roots'?
The parcel of ground is left empty of weed and grass. Everyone can see. Only water can bring this sad patch of ground back to life. Only Water can heal and restore my sin sick and bitterly bruised heart. Once again the Spirit's sweet words "I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely" and I take the water and pour it over the weedy ground and it heals and He heals.
I begin on another plot, using the water to soften and this time a fork to help break up the ground. "There, now it's beginning to come up." My fingers search deep in the grit for the root. A huge mass in my hand, I pull as hard and yet, as gently as I can. These roots come out and they are long. Looking at the long skinny thread that runs so far, I think "So small, and yet, so long. It makes it almost impossible." But it is possible. I did it...with help. The water to soften and the fork to break up the ground.
I glance at the monitor. My baby boy, sweetly rests in his bed. And here I sit, pulling weeds, alone. I am left to fix the yard, and my heart, when I am alone. Away from the hurry and noise, away from the laundry and the mess, I sit and pull weeds and pull the roots of grime from my heart. "How did it get so bad so fast?" And I think of how much higher the weed grows, much higher, much faster than the grass.
It takes time to grow the right things, but only a moment to destroy them.
The Preacher's Mother hears of my work in the yard, she smiles sweetly and says "You know, as soon as you pull them up you'll just have more to pull tomorrow." She's right. But this time, I'll try harder. I'll try not to let them get so large. While they are small I will pluck them up. It's so much simpler when they are fresh and new. One little tug and out they come.
I'm almost done. My hands glow red, fingers sore and gnarled from the labor. I wash the filth from my nails and ask Him to cleanse the inside.
It hurts a good hurt and I weep.
Looking out of the window, I see my pile of bitter roots. They lay sprawled out on the concrete crying and thirsting for some rich soil. Not this time. Not these weeds.
And He whispers "Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled;" (Heb 12:15) And I reply "Sometimes God uses weeds."
Thursday, June 24, 2010
watching and waiting
The train is moving fast. "Full steam ahead!" cries the conductor, otherwise known as, Me. This wooden train made up of primary colored blocks disappears around a bend. He watches and waits, craning his neck to see the wooden train hidden behind my back. "Where did it go?" I ask. "Where is the train?"
This is what they call a 'milestone'. You see, a few weeks ago, if the train had disappeared, he would've simply lost interest and picked up another toy, figuring that the train was gone. But not now. Now, He knows. He knows it's there. And he's waiting for a glimpse of that silly wooden train. He searches with his eyes, side to side, back and forth in anticipation!
"Choooo-chooo, chugga-chugga, choooo-chooo!" The conductor brings it on around. We continue the game, he keeps on watching and waiting. It never gets old for him. He never gets tired of the play. He doesn't quickly forget that the train has vanished. He waits. He loves his train and begs for it with his eyes. When it reappears, he is overjoyed and squeals with delight! With arms reaching and eyes laughing, the baby boy looks at the train as if to say, "I missed you, where did you go?"
I slump my shoulders over in shame. He knows what it means to wait. And not just wait, but wait with anticipation, with expectancy. I've forgotten again. I've gotten distracted and have even grown weary with my distractions. What am I waiting for? No, Who am I waiting for.
He's done everything for me. He's given His only Son for me to be free from sin, guilt and shame. And what have I done? I've forgotten, become distracted. I have grown bored of it all, tired of waiting with the urgency I once had. I know He'll be returning, and SOON! I know I'll be answering to Him for my life's work. I know I'll be held accountable for the things I've said, done, thought. He isn't some silly toy, not some game played to stave off the stench of boredom. He's my Redeemer, my Saviour, my King!
And what have I done? I've grown tired of the waiting, the watching. I've forgotten, moved on to other things, moved on to complacency. The locomotion that once rushed inside of me, has now slowed to a pitiful stall. My burning passion for souls has cooled to little more than ashes blown off course with the winds of time.
He sits in amazement, his eyes gleaming with suspense. Sadly, this won't always be. Not too long from now, he'll become bored of it all. Once he learns that the train will come back the baby boy will stop waiting. He will move on to a new adventure.
Lord, help me not forget. Help me to live in anticipation. Teach me to live watching and waiting or Your return.
Psalm 90:12-14 "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. Return, O LORD, how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants.
O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days."
1 Thessalonians 4:16 "For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:"
This is what they call a 'milestone'. You see, a few weeks ago, if the train had disappeared, he would've simply lost interest and picked up another toy, figuring that the train was gone. But not now. Now, He knows. He knows it's there. And he's waiting for a glimpse of that silly wooden train. He searches with his eyes, side to side, back and forth in anticipation!
"Choooo-chooo, chugga-chugga, choooo-chooo!" The conductor brings it on around. We continue the game, he keeps on watching and waiting. It never gets old for him. He never gets tired of the play. He doesn't quickly forget that the train has vanished. He waits. He loves his train and begs for it with his eyes. When it reappears, he is overjoyed and squeals with delight! With arms reaching and eyes laughing, the baby boy looks at the train as if to say, "I missed you, where did you go?"
I slump my shoulders over in shame. He knows what it means to wait. And not just wait, but wait with anticipation, with expectancy. I've forgotten again. I've gotten distracted and have even grown weary with my distractions. What am I waiting for? No, Who am I waiting for.
He's done everything for me. He's given His only Son for me to be free from sin, guilt and shame. And what have I done? I've forgotten, become distracted. I have grown bored of it all, tired of waiting with the urgency I once had. I know He'll be returning, and SOON! I know I'll be answering to Him for my life's work. I know I'll be held accountable for the things I've said, done, thought. He isn't some silly toy, not some game played to stave off the stench of boredom. He's my Redeemer, my Saviour, my King!
And what have I done? I've grown tired of the waiting, the watching. I've forgotten, moved on to other things, moved on to complacency. The locomotion that once rushed inside of me, has now slowed to a pitiful stall. My burning passion for souls has cooled to little more than ashes blown off course with the winds of time.
He sits in amazement, his eyes gleaming with suspense. Sadly, this won't always be. Not too long from now, he'll become bored of it all. Once he learns that the train will come back the baby boy will stop waiting. He will move on to a new adventure.
Lord, help me not forget. Help me to live in anticipation. Teach me to live watching and waiting or Your return.
Psalm 90:12-14 "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. Return, O LORD, how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants.
O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days."
1 Thessalonians 4:16 "For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:"
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Chicken Pot Pie
Ever had a smell invade your nostrils and send you to another place? To another time even? Months, even years can fade into the distance and in that moment everything is so real. Almost like that memory just happened.
Today, I celebrated "2 weeks of pot pie". Interested?
I stood there in the kitchen, wondering, searching. I breathed in the frosty air and let out my own dragony steam into the freezer door. "What to cook...what to cook?" I glanced at the clock on the stove, 8:10, it's green numbers sneering the lateness of the day. Where had the time gone? We'd gotten home late from a fun-filled afternoon as a family. My husband sat on the couch, hungry but pleasant. That's when it caught my eye! "The Chicken Pot Pie." I had frozen this 2 weeks before my son Will, was born.
It defrosted rather quickly, steam rising from it's plastic walls. As I opened the bag, the aroma filled my nose, and my memories. They came flooding back all at once! -The extra bag I had made to "help myself out after the baby arrived," the Pot Pie my mom had made for us five days after the baby's due date, the Turkey and Ham Pot Pie my mom-in-law made with the Thanksgiving leftovers, the Chicken Pot Pie a sweet lady from my church had brought by the house 3 days after Will's birth, 4 Pot Pie's in two weeks time.
And with all of those yummy pie's came the memories, sleepless nights and 'bili' lights, of a new-to-nursing mommy and a sleepy Preacher, of a brand-new-baby's breath and family all around, of days filled with love and weighted with loneliness all at the same time.
And with all of those memories came the tears. "Splat, splat, splat" on the cold glass topped stove. Whirling around, I looked to the baby boy. His sweet face and slobbery smile rose to meet mine.
And the tears kept falling like rain.
"I don't want to forget..." Chicken Pot Pie = Will
When I'm having a hard day with Will, or with anyone else for that matter, I want to remember that smell. That "the baby's here" smell...will help to bring me back where I need to be. Remembering what's important, remembering what's real.
And so I'm reminded that God's Word tells us that when we do right and "walk in love" our Saviour is seen and smelt, if you will, in us!
Eph 5:2 states that Jesus
"... hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweetsmelling savour."
Our God's sees our (as the teens in our youth ministry like to say) "epic fails" and He, unfortunately, has to smell our "stinking savor" (Ecc 10:1) so many times. It's good to know that because of what Christ has done on Calvary, "we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ..." (2 Cor 2:15). Jer 31:34 says He remembers only the good things about us after we are made complete in Christ "...for I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more." He smells the Sacrifice, remembers His Son, and chooses to loves us.
Memories are an amazing thing...
Isaiah 49:15 "Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee."
Interesting link I found:
http://health.howstuffworks.com/smell3.htm
Today, I celebrated "2 weeks of pot pie". Interested?
I stood there in the kitchen, wondering, searching. I breathed in the frosty air and let out my own dragony steam into the freezer door. "What to cook...what to cook?" I glanced at the clock on the stove, 8:10, it's green numbers sneering the lateness of the day. Where had the time gone? We'd gotten home late from a fun-filled afternoon as a family. My husband sat on the couch, hungry but pleasant. That's when it caught my eye! "The Chicken Pot Pie." I had frozen this 2 weeks before my son Will, was born.
It defrosted rather quickly, steam rising from it's plastic walls. As I opened the bag, the aroma filled my nose, and my memories. They came flooding back all at once! -The extra bag I had made to "help myself out after the baby arrived," the Pot Pie my mom had made for us five days after the baby's due date, the Turkey and Ham Pot Pie my mom-in-law made with the Thanksgiving leftovers, the Chicken Pot Pie a sweet lady from my church had brought by the house 3 days after Will's birth, 4 Pot Pie's in two weeks time.
And with all of those yummy pie's came the memories, sleepless nights and 'bili' lights, of a new-to-nursing mommy and a sleepy Preacher, of a brand-new-baby's breath and family all around, of days filled with love and weighted with loneliness all at the same time.
And with all of those memories came the tears. "Splat, splat, splat" on the cold glass topped stove. Whirling around, I looked to the baby boy. His sweet face and slobbery smile rose to meet mine.
And the tears kept falling like rain.
"I don't want to forget..." Chicken Pot Pie = Will
When I'm having a hard day with Will, or with anyone else for that matter, I want to remember that smell. That "the baby's here" smell...will help to bring me back where I need to be. Remembering what's important, remembering what's real.
And so I'm reminded that God's Word tells us that when we do right and "walk in love" our Saviour is seen and smelt, if you will, in us!
Eph 5:2 states that Jesus
"... hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweetsmelling savour."
Our God's sees our (as the teens in our youth ministry like to say) "epic fails" and He, unfortunately, has to smell our "stinking savor" (Ecc 10:1) so many times. It's good to know that because of what Christ has done on Calvary, "we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ..." (2 Cor 2:15). Jer 31:34 says He remembers only the good things about us after we are made complete in Christ "...for I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more." He smells the Sacrifice, remembers His Son, and chooses to loves us.
Memories are an amazing thing...
Isaiah 49:15 "Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee."
Interesting link I found:
http://health.howstuffworks.com/smell3.htm
Embarking
How many times have I endeavored to begin something and have never done anything at all? I'm not able to recall at the moment. Though, I'm sure that my almost all of my immediate family, close friends and certainly my husband (who is both) could count the times using their hands their toes and their friends hands and toes.
But today...Today is different. I am doing something. Right now, it may not seem like much, but years from now, it will mean the world to me and those who want to know who I was, what my life was about, and how I lived it.
Welcome to my world, Tori Gillit and her Heavenly Calling.
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