For months I've had so much to say, so much to work through in writing, and so little physical and mental capacity with which to do it. Our lives have been flipped upside down by a cross country move during an already challenging season with four little ones. Beckham is undoubtedly our most unpredictable sleeper (though our easiest baby otherwise!) and waking to his cries at all hours of the night has required me to strip away anything that is not absolutely necessary. 

But even so, it's easy to look around and wonder if I'm doing enough. 

Our culture, as presented on social media, screams that women can have it all. We can be devoted and ever-present mothers, we can run our own thriving businesses, we can show up on Instagram in full hair and makeup and share deep inspirational thoughts. It's exhausting and, frankly, it's a lie. While the culture screams that I should be doing more and more and also taking time for me instead of sacrificially pouring it out for others, the Bible says quite the opposite. It's in the serving, in the lowest places, that we meet Christ most intimately. Each of us is called to worship God and love our neighbor in whatever context we find ourselves. In this season as a mom of little people, these children are my closest neighbors. Bending low to serve them is a constant practice in humility, self-sacrifice, patience. But it's also a calling. Not a constant interruption, but exactly where God has me.

Flexible.

If there was one word that my sister Kelsey and I were encouraged to embrace as little girls, it was "flexible." As daughters of full-time Christian musicians, we traveled as a family nearly every weekend to churches around the country. We slept in countless hotel rooms, were expert flyers, and navigated late nights and early mornings like pros. We became the embodiment of "flexible."

Kels and I, outside Alcatraz

It felt like a true privilege, this adventurous life we’d been given. After an evening spent at a church concert - selling product, unpacking and repacking sound equipment, greeting church members - we’d get to stop at a gas station on our way back to the hotel and choose anything we wanted for dinner. I’d pick a cherry Icee and a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips and revel in the fact that I knew none of my friends’ Sunday night dinners looked like this.

This was my early childhood.

But God.

Parenting three (almost 4) little ones is hard work. There are endless spills and tantrums, sheer exhaustion, and your time and energy are pulled and stretched and twisted in every direction.

But that's not exactly what I'm talking about.

Parenting their hearts is what I find so challenging. Between making hundreds of chicken nuggets and reading thousands of stories and wiping bottoms, there is the need to gently guide their souls. To teach and train and discipline with patience, kindness, and consistency.

In this season with kids ages 1, 3, and 6, I've said it before that I feel the stirring to do less, and do it better. Instead of schlepping the kids all over town for soccer practice and play groups and even school, we've chosen less: to be home, together, for the majority of our time. Even though it's exhausting in its own way with so few mommy breaks, I doubt I'll ever regret this ongoing decision toward simplicity.

I'm learning that daily choices form habits, and habits form legacies. Fifty years from now, when Liam and Lanie and Brooks think of their mom, will they see me in their memories hunched over my phone? Will they see the back of my head in our minivan as I cart them to one more activity? Or will they see my eyes, engaged with them and eager to hear what they have to say? Will they remember seeing me read my Bible? Will they see me reaching out to others in need, consistently opening our home because we've made the space in our schedules?

A few months ago, the kids and I zipped into the church parking lot after a hairy morning (as most Sunday mornings as a pastor's wife are) and Liam tried to get my attention.

"Mommy," he said. "I think Jesus is kind of like a vent. If God is on the outside of the vent, we are inside and we are trapped and we are so cold in there because of our sin. But on the cross, Jesus breaks through the vent and helps us to get to God!"

"Buddy, did you hear that somewhere?" I asked, knowing I'd never thought of a Gospel metaphor involving a car vent.

"No. I was just looking at the vent and thinking of Jesus."

Right there in the car, it hit me once again that Shawn and I have planted tiny seeds of faith. Others have watered them. But God (my favorite two words in the Bible!) has made them grow. It is He who is growing our children's hearts with deep roots in Him. It isn't even the habits or rhythms or atmosphere I try to create in my home that will grow them in godliness. And you know what that means for me as a mom? The pressure is off! The very best thing I can do as I walk this journey of motherhood is also the best thing I can do as I walk this journey as a human: to be firmly rooted in God's Word, faithful in prayer, abiding in Him, and listening to His voice. The rest? That's up to Him. It is He who prepares the way and the good works before the world began. It is He who promises to complete the good work He began in each of us. Because of this, I can truly rest. I can experience true freedom. I can take a deep sigh of relief that it's just not possible to screw up this mommy gig too badly with Him as our safety net, our guiding light, the very hope for our souls.

The juror's seat.

For six days, I found myself in the most unexpected place: a juror's seat.

I'd known about my summons to jury duty for a few weeks. But when I reported to the Wake County Justice Center that day, I thought my chances of actually sitting in a trial were slim. Hundreds of us had reported for duty, waiting to be called and either sent to a court room or dismissed. A couple hours in, my name was called and I was led to a courtroom on the 7th floor. There, I and other potential jurors were asked hours-worth of questions. What did we do for a living? What did our spouses do? Did we have children? Would we believe or not believe a child's testimony simply because it was a child testifying? Tragically, the case involved a child victim and a litany of sexual offenses committed against her. I was convinced I'd be dismissed for having young children, for being a pastor's wife, or for working with sexual abuse victims as a nurse. To my bewilderment, I watched juror after juror be dismissed while I stayed seated. I was staying on this jury.

For the next six days, I listened to the testimony of a little girl who was violated again and again and felt powerless to tell. She'd been threatened by her abuser (who lived in her home) and believed that he would destroy her family if she spoke up. This young girl was robbed of her childhood and traumatized to the point of needing years of therapy. We also heard the testimonies of her therapist, her social worker, the pediatrician who examined her, and the detective working on the case. It felt exhaustive, emotionally draining, and agonizingly slow... nothing like the courtroom dramas you see on TV that cross-examine a witness for 30 minutes, get to the bottom line, and deliver a verdict.

After all witnesses were presented, the jury was sent to deliberate. It was immediately apparent that we agreed: if we believed the victim, then the defendant was guilty on all counts. There was no physical evidence - and often, there is not - so we based our decision fully on what we believed. This is obviously such a hot topic right now, especially in the case of Brett Kavanaugh and the FBI investigation. Do I believe that all victims who come forward must be believed? No. That isn't just. Both sides must be weighed and examined equitably. In this case, though, we had every reason to believe the victim. Not because she was a child, but because if this had all been manipulated or concocted, she should have been nominated for an Academy Award for being able to dupe an entire team of therapists and professionals into believing the trauma she had endured. And without going into details of the case, it was clear to all of us she had no motive for that.

After a few hours, the jury returned to the courtroom to deliver our verdicts. I watched the unmoving expression on the defendant's face as each of the five "guilty" verdicts were read. My heart pounded visibly through my shirt. It wasn't that I second-guessed our decision. It was that our decision had sealed a man's fate: in this case, up to 40 years in prison. The weight of that made my knees buckle.

I will undoubtedly process this experience for the rest of my life. Shawn asked me if witnessing these testimonies was more traumatic than the stories I hear in the hospital, and I'd have to say yes. Because instead of just providing a listening ear, I was expected to discern and act.

As soon as I knew I'd be kept on the jury for the duration of the trial, I can't begin to tell you just how many people - specifically Christians - told me, "Why didn't you write a letter to get out of jury duty in the first place? You care for small kids and work as a nurse. They would've let you go." While I understand that they were just trying to help, I was bothered by this response. To give a bit of background, the case was truly awful timing for us: a record-breaking hurricane was on its way, Shawn was flying to Germany for the week, and I was piecing together childcare through friends and other pastors' wives all week long. Ultimately, though, I firmly believe Christians should be on the forefront of the cause of justice. I believe - now more than ever - it should be Christians who lean in to hear a victim's testimony, praying that Christ would redeem her life from this point forward. It should be Christians asking themselves what can be done to prevent this kind of abuse from happening to others. It should be Christians who fight passionately on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves. It should be Christians in the deliberation room, praying for wisdom as weighty, life-altering decisions are made. And for those of us who aren't lawyers or law enforcement or judges, what better opportunity than to serve on a jury?

Finally, sitting in a courtroom for a week helped me to understand the concept of substitutionary atonement more clearly than I ever had. As believers, we acknowledge that Jesus stepped in and took our place and took on the full punishment for our sins. He died on the cross as a substitute for sinners. I pictured myself in the seat of the defendant, hearing "guilty" read over me over and over again, not only for my known sins but those that had never been exposed. Then, in a radical turn of events that no one could have seen coming, Jesus stepped into my place and bore the full consequence for my sin. And my punishment should have been far worse than 40 years in prison: it was a lifetime separated from God. Instead, I was given full rights as God's child and heir while Jesus hung on a cross in my place. If you're a believer, that's your story, too. If you're not, I invite you to consider that stunning picture and contemplate the true and eternal life Jesus died for you to have.

An encouraging addendum.

If you read my last post on reading, this video could not be more pertinent. I'm a big Gloria Furman fan and have read nearly all of her books and been so encouraged by them. I couldn't love this more.

"God made us to live on the Bread of Life. . . so in your limited, very precious time, focus on the good stuff. . . Take big chunks of Scripture and just work hard. Don't settle for little sound bites that aren't going to give you very much hope."
How Can a Busy Mom Become a Better Theologian? from The Gospel Coalition on Vimeo.

True, kind, necessary.

An elderly woman with deep wrinkles surrounding her water-blue eyes looked up at me from her hospital bed and said, "You've found your calling: caregiver. By day, you care for us patients. By night, your family. It's what you were clearly meant to do."

I was stunned by the gift she gave me, realizing she knew so little about me and yet spoke such deep affirmation. She was bed-bound and could have chosen a miserable existence, but instead, chose kindness. And I realized: there are people in this world who choose kindness and those who do not. There are people who walk into your home (which you've poured so much time and energy and sweat cultivating into what it is) and curse it. They point out the crack in the ceiling or the wilting plant in the corner. It makes your heart beat a little faster as you muster up a response, knowing full well their attack was borne of insecurity. But still, it hurts.

Then there are those who are kind, those who bless. Those who welcome you into their homes with spit up on your shirt and dirt under your fingernails and look you in the eye for longer than 2 seconds to ask, "How are you really doing today?" with every ounce of sincerity. They're in your corner. They're your advocates, your cheerleaders.

Our world could use so much more kindness.

I vividly remember being 13 years old and all of the 7th grade girls were called to the library to have a meeting with the school counselor. We were nervous... what had we done? The counselor calmly told us that she'd been catching wind of a lot of back-biting and gossip. So she taught us a little phrase she wanted to go through our heads before we said anything: "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary? If it isn't all three, it shouldn't be said."

It's been almost 20 years since 7th grade and I still remember that phrase.

Is it true? 
Is it kind? 
Is it necessary?

Maybe we should all start thinking about that before we "say" anything on social media. As a mom, I see so much that, if filtered through these questions, would never end up in my newsfeed or yours.

Is it true?
Is what I'm posting real life? Or is it completely posed, pushing the mess out of the way in order to show forth a cleaned up, dishonest portrait that you'd like to send out into the world? I'm not advocating posting pictures of your dirty laundry (no one wants to see that), but simply... is it true?

Is it kind?
I'll be honest. I'm not a huge fan of hashtags on Instagram as I think they can often veer into unkind toward others, or trying to "one up" others. Not always, but so many hashtags seem to say #Iambetterthanyou #andyou #andyou. Is what you post pushing others down to lift yourself up? Or is it kind to those who see it?

Is it necessary?
This is probably the most controversial of the three, or up for debate. Is anything really necessary on social media? Perhaps it should be asked this way: does it lift others up? Does it point them to hope?

In college, I held a host of nannying jobs in downtown Chicago, some more gratifying than others. One woman I worked for had advertised for a nanny, but was actually looking for someone who would hand wash her lingerie while she played Solitaire at the computer a mere 10 feet away. (Her kids, meanwhile, played video games unsupervised for hours on end in the other room.) The aura about this woman toward anyone beneath her social stratum was demeaning at best. But the money was decent and she provided a free place to stay for the summer, so I stayed.

Meanwhile, she employed another woman in her home: an older black lady who worked as a maid, tidying up the same corners and dusting the same ledges day after day. This dear woman had worked for the family for more than 40 years. I'm sure she must have suffered. She must have felt the scorn of white privilege and menial tasks she was given and the ungodly hours she was expected to work. But her smile lit up every corner of that dark apartment and when we'd talk, she'd often say, "What a blessing!" with a broad smile. I'm sure she had plenty to say about her very unkind boss. But she chose kindness, and it made all the difference.

True, kind, necessary. Don't you think using those three simple filters could go so far?

The helpers.

Her husband was in the final stages of liver failure and I was his nurse. She called me in the late afternoon to say, "My favorite nail lady is coming by the hospital to give my husband a manicure and pedicure. If you'd like, I'd love for you to sit for a pedicure, too. Just put it on my tab!" The thought was a silly and impossible one - receiving a pedicure in my scrubs, at work, in a hospital room - but the idea was generous.

I watched the manicurist from Viet Nam lovingly crouch over a jaundiced, dying man to make him feel more human. She probably never pictured herself in a hospital room with a client who could barely respond. But as I watched her going about her work with great compassion, a Mister Rogers quote came to mind. When Fred Rogers was a young boy and would witness a catastrophe in the movies or on the news, his mother would remind him,

"Always look for the helpers. There will always be helpers... If you look for the helpers, you will know that there's hope."

I'd love to add this: so often, the helpers aren't wearing badges or stethoscopes or a uniform of any kind. They're teachers who spend many more hours than are required of them to teach kids to read. They're ladies enjoying retirement who pass their days knitting hats for NICU babies. They're nursery workers at church who allow moms to enjoy an uninterrupted hour to hear the Word. They're truck drivers who buy an extra lunch for the man who calls an underpass his home.

Always look for the helpers. They often go unnoticed, but if you look, you'll find them everywhere. In the saddest and loneliest and darkest places, they'll be there bearing the light.

Showing them Jesus.

A few times through the years, I've been asked to share what resources we use to help point our kids to Jesus. By no means is this an exhaustive list. It's simply a handful of books and music we've found helpful in helping us point our kids to the hope we have in Christ.

As much as these resources are helpful, they are simply resources. They don't replace daily conversations about Jesus that must happen for our kids to really understand our faith. In our house, we confess our sin to each other often and ask one another for forgiveness. We allow the kids to see us reading our Bibles and if they interrupt, we just read it aloud to them. We encourage them to join us in the worship service, if they're able to somewhat participate (mostly just Liam at this point). We sing worship songs in the car. Our faith in Jesus is personal, but not private. It's to be shared, and our greatest audience is our tiniest disciples.

If you have questions about something I've recommended, please leave it in the comments section and I'll be happy to go into more detail about it.



Kids' Bibles:
The Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones
The Rhyme Bible Storybook by L. J. Sattgast
The Biggest Story: How the Snake Crusher Brings Us Back to the Garden by Kevin DeYoung
The Bible in Pictures for Little Eyes by Kenneth N. Taylor

Some Favorite Books:
The Garden, The Curtain, and the Cross by Carl Laverton
The Storm That Stopped by Alison Mitchell
Found: Psalm 23 by Sally Lloyd-Jones
Just Because You're Mine by Sally Lloyd-Jones
Song of the Stars by Sally Lloyd-Jones

Kids' Devotionals:
Thoughts to Make Your Heart Sing by Sally Lloyd-Jones
The Ology by Marty Machowski

Catechism:
For those who are unfamiliar with the purpose of a catechism or how you use it, these are simple questions and answers about God that we can teach our children that will form a framework for their theology. The questions and answers contain core doctrine for our faith. So when we read a Bible story, they might remember from the catechism, "Who is God?" "God is the creator of everyone and everything!" It has become an important part in our week - every Friday morning - to rehearse a new catechism question and answer with our kids. The New City Catechism has made this simple with a free app that includes the questions and answers as well as kid-friendly songs to help us all hide these truths in our hearts.

The New City Catechism by the Gospel Coalition
The New City Catechism Devotional by the Gospel Coalition

Music/Audio:
The Jesus Calling Bible Storybook Audio by Sarah Young
Hide 'Em In Your Heart by Steve Green
Hide the Word by Steve Green
Only Jesus by Austin Stone Worship: Kids

Lent through the eyes of a 5-year-old.

A couple days ago, Liam walked out onto the deck while I was working on a Bible study lesson. When he saw the title, he asked me, "What is Lent?" We talked about Lent being a season of longing in anticipation for Easter, a time where we recognize our deep need for a Savior. I tried to explain why some people give things up during the Lenten season. I gave the example that some give up dessert so that when they crave something sweet after a meal, it reminds them that what they truly crave is Jesus.

I asked Liam if he could think of anything that distracts him from Jesus.

"Oh yes," he said confidently. "Playing with my cars, eating cake, thinking about dinosaurs."

I tried to explain that these were good gifts that God wanted us to enjoy, and we can do them all to His glory. Then I asked Liam if he would like to give anything up during Lent to focus on Jesus.

After a long time of thinking, he said confidently. "Bandaids. I want to give up my Lightning McQueen bandaids."

My initial thought was that this was a small sacrifice - that he was choosing bandaids so he didn't have to give up something he truly cared about.

But then he continued: "When I hurt myself and I want a bandaid, I'll remember that Jesus heals my body, but He also heals my heart."

Sitting.

A few days ago, I was caring for a patient who had recently been diagnosed with cancer. She had begun chemo for it, but the therapy had weakened her heart and landed her on our unit to recover before resuming treatment.

Her family - a husband and three grown sons - rarely left her side. I asked them to step out into the hall for a small procedure, and as soon as they closed the door, the floodgates opened. The woman began to cry like a small child, her face twisting as if she was in agonizing pain. She was, of course.

"I just don't want them to remember me like this," she told me.

So I asked her what she did want them to remember.

She looked toward the window and gazed through the blinds.

"Our sons and their families took us to the mountains this past summer to celebrate our 50th anniversary. They hosted games and dinners and we had the best time." More tears rolled down her nose and onto her hospital gown.

I wished in that moment I could have promised her something. That visions of her pale grey skin and nausea and chest port would fall from their memories like the whispy hair on her head. I wanted to promise her that this treatment would be curative, not just palliative. I wanted to promise her another trip to the mountains.

But of course I couldn't promise any of that. So I simply sat, rested my hand on her knee, and let my eyes water with hers.

The longer I am a nurse - and a human - the more I understand the gift of just sitting with people in their hurt. In the Bible, when Job's life was ripped to shreds in a matter of days, the first and only thing his three friends did right was to sit on the ground with him for 7 days. They didn't say a word. They simply offered their empathetic presence.

And when Mary and Martha's brother Lazarus died, Jesus himself didn't rush in to fix the situation. Instead, he sat with them in their hurt and he himself wept for his friend. He could have bypassed the hurt and brought Lazarus back to life with a single command (which he later did). But I think there's a lesson for all of us that he chose to sit with his friends and weep.

So I am learning to sit. I am learning that is a much weightier gift than any advice or pleasantries I could utter. And as I choose not to speak, I whisper prayers that the hurting one would be filled with the hope and peace that can only come from Christ.

Jesus Storybook Bible

If you're a mom of little ones, you probably have the Jesus Storybook Bible (or have at least heard of it), but it's our very favorite children's Bible and it's on sale for $3.94 today on Amazon, so I thought I'd let you know.

Jesus Storybook Bible - Gift Edition

It's the Bible I love to read each day with my kids because 1) they get it, 2) the illustrations are beautiful and creative, and 3) the connections made from the Old Testament promises to their fulfillment in Jesus make me cry almost every time. Who knows how long this deal will last, so I wanted to pass it along!

A new heart.

It's an unspoken house rule that we don't mix play dough colors. My kids don't get in trouble if they do, it's just that the type-A side of me would rather have clean colors to work with instead of a mashed up brown blob of dough. Liam agrees. So when I saw him take a tiny piece of green play dough and try to mix it into the yellow, I was surprised and looked on.

His tiny fingers kneaded and pushed and smashed the dough, slowly at first and then furiously. I watched disappointment cloud his eyes when he realized that the green wasn't mixing in. It wasn't going away. He brought the marbled yellow dough to me and said, "Mama, I want it to just be yellow again. I have an idea! What about we add yellow food coloring?"

"Oh, buddy," I said, "That's a good idea, but even that isn't going to take out the green."

But I could read his determined face: he had to try this for himself. I reluctantly pulled out a bowl, the yellow food coloring, a spoon, and his yellow-green wad of play dough. I watched as he mixed with gritted teeth and still saw flecks of green.

"Hey buddy, you know how we talk about sin and that only Jesus can forgive us and make us completely clean?"

"Yeah," he whispered as he continued to knead the dough.

"Look at this perfect yellow play dough. There's a little green in there now... let's act like the green is sin. Maybe you told me a lie, or maybe I talked angrily toward you. A lot of times, instead of running straight to Jesus to ask forgiveness and make us clean again, we try to cover it up. We mash it in and try to hide it. And does that work?"

"No."

"And sometimes, we try to make it better by our good works, like adding more yellow. I might be extra nice to you after I've been in a sour mood, or you might do a super helpful thing because you feel bad about lying. And does that make the play dough yellow again? Does that clean up our sin?"

"No."

"Here's the thing. Jesus loves us so much that He isn't ok to let us stay in our sin. He doesn't want our hearts looking like muddy play dough. When we ask for His forgiveness, He forgives us and gives us a brand new start: a perfectly yellow piece of play dough. We will mess it up over and over and He will clean up our mess again and again.

"Buddy, I don't ever expect you to keep your play dough - or your heart - completely clean. God's Word tells us that all of us sin and fall short of God's glory. I actually expect you to mess up, to fall down, to make mistakes, to sin. But what I hope is that you'll run to Jesus in repentance. That you'll confess your sin to him and ask for a clean heart. Only He can give you that."

I realized I'd just done a lot of talking, a lot of preaching to myself. That God is so graciously, persistently, faithfully parenting me as I parent my little loves.

After a long silence, Liam's fingers stopped working the dough and he looked up and asked, "So He gives us a new play dough heart, Mama?"



The other day, I had a low moment in the drive thru line at Chick-fil-A. I was running on fumes. I'd had just a few hours of interrupted sleep after a difficult night with Brooks, and my kids were begging for ice cream cones, not cups, that they expected me to hold while driving for the 20-minute trip home. On top of it, my order was wrong. So there I sat, holding up the drive thru line with three crying children in the backseat and my head about to explode. In an effort to appease them, I tossed Lanie's kid's meal toward her carseat where it landed short and tumbled out of her reach, spilling fries all over the floorboard. More crying ensued.

I was not ok. I grumbled to myself, "If I could only have more sleep, I'd be able to cope with this."
"If we only had grandparents in town, I'd get a little break."
"What I need is more help, more money, more rest."

And like a heavy brick that thrust me back in the driver's seat of my minivan, I heard Truth: "What you need is a new heart."

Yes, Lord. A new heart.



Last week, my uncle went to heaven. Uncle Jeffrey was born with a myriad of birth defects and was severely handicapped throughout his life, both physically and mentally. His body was disfigured to the point that his heart was housed on the right side of his chest. He defied many odds in his 55 years, but his limitations were very real.

My mom and uncle flew in and we traveled to his funeral, not knowing who or how many would show up. Because of his severe disabilities, Jeffrey couldn't give back much - and he didn't know anyone outside the walls of his group home.

After arriving at the funeral home, a handful of family members congregated near his casket, talking quietly of his humble accomplishments. A few minutes later, the most beautiful, unexpected thing happened. The back doors of the funeral home swung open and six of Jeffrey's housemates were wheeled in by smiling caregivers, like a royal procession of stately men coming to honor their fallen comrade. These were the guests of honor, dressed in their finest, wheeled in to sit for a moment near the casket of their friend.

Meanwhile, more guests trickled in. Jeffrey's doctors, his nurses, his caregivers who had known him for more than 20 years. An onlooker never would have known of Jeffrey's disabilities when they saw a room packed with people who beamed when they talked about him. You'd think he'd been their best friend, the way they spoke of his quirks, his stubbornness, how cute he looked in the photos that flashed across the slideshow. Accomplishments like seeing and hearing and taking a few steps were celebrated as if he'd earned an Olympic medal.

As I looked around at this upside down kingdom, the tears welled up. The able-bodied and able-minded were celebrating those who were not. The lowest of this earth were being lifted high. What should have been a day tinged with mourning felt so unexpectedly hope-filled.

Ultimately, each one of us celebrated the wholeness that Uncle Jeffrey now experiences. He was given new arms, free from contractures; new legs, unhindered by cerebral palsy. He received a new mind, without the limits he'd always struggled against. Jeffrey even got a new heart, one that didn't beat on the wrong side of his chest. A heart that, even this minute, hears and sees and beholds Jesus in a way I can't even fathom.

And he who sat upon the throne said, "Behold, I make all things new." - Revelation 21:5

This newness, this wholeness, this unwavering hope is not just a promise for Jeffrey who has now experienced the ultimate healing. He has what we, as believers, crave: a new heart, a new spirit - one that is unable to sin because it has been perfected in the presence of God.

So there is a bridge that links the new heart that Jeffrey is experiencing in its fullness to the new heart I can experience in the drive thru line at Chick-fil-A. It's this same God - Redeemer, Restorer, Healer of Hearts - who is there in heaven and is here with us now. When we look to Jesus in our desperation and beg of Him, "Lord, create in me a new heart," it's a prayer He loves to answer. This same God who replaced our hearts of stone with hearts of flesh when we first believed is delighted to create in us new hearts and right spirits within us (Psalm 51:10) when we ask.

Isn't this incredible news, friends? It is for me... in the frustrating moments with my kids, in the midnight hours of exhaustion with a new baby, in the hospital with difficult patients. I hope it is for you, too, wherever life finds you.

A habit of life.

"It is always possible to be thankful for what is given rather than to complain about what is not given. One or the other becomes a habit of life." - Elisabeth Elliot

When we moved into our house three years ago, the one drawback was the lack of outside entrance to the backyard. Sure, we could wander out the side of the house or through the storage room to the yard to watch the kids play, but it wasn't exactly convenient. So we just didn't use our backyard. We'd almost always pile kids in the car and drive a few miles to a nearby playground.

So Shawn and I began to dream in color, knocking out a window and turning it into French doors in our minds... and adding a deck that would lead to our unused backyard. After a year of saving up and another year of hiring out the work, that dream became a reality. A glorious, life-changing reality for our little family. The kids see it as another room in our house, freely moseying in and out at their leisure while I make lunch or catch up on laundry. We build a gate with a hidden latch so we know they aren't going far, and it's been such a luxury to enjoy the Spring outdoors. 

The Elisabeth Elliot quote about gratitude streamed across my Facebook page the other day and I couldn't help but think of these happy kids and our new deck. We live in a small house, much smaller than most of our friends. We try to live simply, well within our means. So when I watch Liam and Lanie and how they appreciate things big and small - from a new lunchbox to a new deck, a sunny day to a newly discovered popsicle flavor - I am convicted and enamored by their gratitude. And I'm inspired to have the same perspective: choosing awe and wonder at our very good, very generous God. 

PS - Lanie was also part of this near-daily pool party, but wasn't adequately clothed to make an appearance on the internet. ;)

Behind me, before me, with me.

Some days, when I walk into my house after a long day at work, Liam sweetly asks, "Mommy, how were fings at the hos-a-pital today?" It's an innocent question. I should probably just respond, "They were good, buddy. How was your day?" But some nights I walk in carrying so much weight, and it's difficult to translate to 4-year-old speak.

If I could say what was on my mind, I would talk about the hospice patient who died alone because his estranged daughter refused to visit in his last moments. I would talk of the way he gripped my hand and stared at the wall blankly before his eyes closed forever. I might mention the woman who came into the ER with a stomach ache and would leave the hospital with a terminal cancer diagnosis. How her husband wept at the news. I might even mention the dementia patient who was fully convinced she was a famous politician's wife, and how it kept a smile on our faces. Or the way another's illness brought his grown children and grandchildren into town for the first time in years.

There's a heaviness that comes with working in the medical field that only others in the medical field can really identify with. It's as if this sacred space - the convergence of life and death - can hardly be discussed outside hospital walls with well-meaning family and friends because it's just too much to grasp. And recounting a day in my life as a nurse probably makes my job seem thoroughly depressing, which it's not. It's peppered with plenty of hilarious moments, often involving bodily fluids. (They're usually just funny after the fact.)

Transitioning from the hospital back into my real life can be tricky. I often fall into bed past midnight and wake up just after 7am to toddlers asking for blueberry waffles. Images from the night before haven't left me, and I'm shocked awake a few hours later to the stunning joy of my life with my family. I remember during clinical in nursing school, I would walk out of the trauma unit and cross the street toward my car, passing a playground full of giggling children and smiling teachers. Did they have no idea that just across the street, someone was being pronounced brain dead? That another was just receiving news that his son had died? I found it hard - and still do - to break back into "normal" life, chatting about potty training and meal planning on the playground with other moms after what I've witnessed the night before.

There are days I wish my feet didn't have to carry me rooms so devoid of hope. Then there are other days I know for certain the Lord has led me there with great purpose. People lying on their death beds usually have big questions, and some have looked me square in the eye and asked, "There's something different about you - what is it?" It's there I can look right back at them and say, "The difference is Jesus Christ. He is everything to me: my joy, my peace, my hope for salvation in this very dark world." I never quite know how those tiny seeds will grow, or if they've fallen on rocky soil. But I'm reassured in that moment that God is so near, I am so unworthy of him, and he has called me to this very moment.

If you're thinking about becoming a nurse and this all sounds unimaginably heavy, let me encourage you. It's a lot like I've found motherhood to be: hard, but extraordinarily rewarding. When you see a patient recover from an illness that should have cost her life, you rejoice. When your coworkers rally around you on an especially hard day, there's nothing like it. It's a ministry like few others in being so hands-on and practical. Each day I throw the stethoscope around my neck and walk off the elevator, I have no idea the challenges and the joys ahead. What I do know is that Christ goes behind me, before me, and is with me even in the darkest places.

Broken for us.

As I walked into our house after work last Saturday, I heard Liam whimpering upstairs in his room and Shawn came to tell me that he had just hurt his leg. Being a super active four-year-old, this isn't out of the norm. But when I got to him, I knew this was more than his typical boo-boo. Hot tears streaked down his snow-pale face as he trembled and pulled his knee to his chest. I asked him what hurt and he pointed to just below his left knee. I asked him to stretch his leg out or put weight on it, and he screeched, "No, Momma! It hurts!" and burst into another round of sobs. I'd never seen him in such agony and knew we needed to see a doctor.

Within the hour, we landed at an orthopedic urgent care clinic nearby. I carried Liam inside like a baby, wrapped in a blanket, as he shivered and cried. He had multiple x-rays done and then we waited for the doctor. At the very worst, I thought he might have sprained his knee.

As the doctor walked into the room with x-rays in hand, he asked, "Liam, can you point to where it's hurting?"

"Right here," he winced.

"I bet it's hurting right there, because you broke your leg," the doctor said calmly.

My heart must have skipped three beats. He broke his leg?

"Yes, so you can see here, he has a closed fracture of the proximal end of his left tibia" the doctor said as he turned to me. "We see these kinds of fractures in kids his age all the time. Weekly, even. Most of the time they're caused by jumping on a trampoline and not bending the knees. This isn't uncommon at all."

Within 10 minutes after that, still feeling the weight of the news, we were in the casting room and Liam was choosing a color for his toe-to-thigh cast that would stay on for 4 weeks. It's hard to explain what it feels like to watch your four-year-old's entire leg be wrapped up in a cast. I stroked his tiny leg one more time, knowing it would be covered in fiberglass for weeks. My mind wandered to the many activities he wouldn't be able to participate in for 4 to 8 weeks or more. I thought of the tiny baby growing inside me and the possible strain of carrying Liam around the house with this heavy cast.

Then I looked at Liam, who was perfectly calm. "Look at my Spiderman sticker, Momma. Isn't it awesome?"

After his cast dried, I brought Liam home to his waiting Daddy and Suzu (his grandma). Besides being in pain in the first couple days, he hasn't complained once about his new limitations. On the morning after the break, I lifted him into the dining room chair and gave him some markers as he exclaimed, "Since I can't walk now, I can draw lots and lots of pictures!" He now drives a tiny yellow wheelchair and he's become quite the expert at rounding corners.

Since last Saturday, our once chaotic Christmas season slowed to a screeching halt. We cancelled plans because of Liam's pain and limitations. We spent more time reading books together, lighting candles, admiring the Christmas tree. I get to hold him like my little baby again, his arms dangling around my neck, each time he has to use the bathroom or change locations in the house. I think this is going to be one of our very sweetest Christmases yet, even with our little guy looking like Tiny Tim.

Something special always hits me each Christmas, and it's exactly what I pray for. "Lord, give me eyes to see your glory in a fresh way. Dazzle me with the truth of your coming."

This year, as I saw that jagged grey line through Liam's tibia on the x-ray, it nearly broke my heart. A four-year-old with a broken leg just feels so unnatural, and my mama heart just breaks at the thought of him feeling pain. Then I thought about our God on the very first Christmas. The Father sent His perfect, holy Son into our dirtiest, darkest world and He knew that His Son would be broken. He'd be beaten and spit on and mocked and tortured and ultimately killed in the most humiliating way. And even knowing all of that, He sent Jesus and celebrated His arrival on the earth. He had joyfully foretold His birth for centuries before the time would come. And then the moment His Son was birthed into the world to walk among us, there was so much joy in God's heart that all of Heaven exploded in celebration. The Light had come to shatter the darkness, both now and forever. But how? And why? Because He loves us that much. You and me - sinners who deserve nothing but death. God came for us, and He didn't drag His feet about it. He lit up all of Heaven and the skies over Bethlehem that night like a proud Daddy just wanting to tell the world about His boy.

I see Liam's broken leg this Christmas and am reminded that Christ was broken for us, and willingly so. Whether you have a boy with a broken leg in your house as a reminder or not, I pray this Christmas is full of hope, knowing just how loved you are. Jesus came for you and God celebrated His coming because He knew that Jesus would bridge the gap to Himself. Let us never forget that.

Thank you, King Jesus, for gifts in such unexpected places.

He who watches over you will not slumber.

Yesterday, on a gorgeous, autumn-lit afternoon, Liam and Lanie and I took a walk to the park at the end of our street. Liam has become adept at stopping at cross streets on his tricycle and waiting for me, so I let him ride a few dozen feet ahead. I can still see him and talk to him, but he isn't within reach.

Just before we turned into the park, Lanie slipped on a crack in the sidewalk and scraped her knees. I saw Liam zip into the park on his bike, then I scooped Lanie up and rounded the corner into the park, expecting to see Liam.

About 50 feet ahead of me, in the middle of the sidewalk, I saw a tricycle. An empty tricycle. I picked up my pace and looked around. No sign of Liam anywhere.

"Liam?" I called, hoping I'd hear an immediate, "Yes, Mommy?" Instead, I was met with silence.

"LIIIIAAAAMMMM!" I screamed, a primal cry from a mom who had to find her boy. A man with his headphones on was walking past, but no one else was in sight. No one who could help me find my son. My heart beat behind my eyes as the world grew silent. I could barely take a breath.

I yelled one more time - a sound he would have to hear if he was anywhere close - and suddenly I heard giggles from the bushes. "Come get me, Mommy!" More giggles. I pulled down one branch and saw his smiling eyes. "I was jus' hiding from you!" Not funny, buddy. Not funny at all. 

The episode stuck with me for the rest of the day (and hopefully with him, after some discipline). To have my heart walking outside my body, as someone has said of children, is one thing. To have my heart lost outside my body is another. The day could have turned out so differently. I took my eyes off of him for all of 10 seconds and suddenly he'd gone missing. Our neighborhood isn't exactly Pleasantville, so anything was possible.

Before bed last night, I opened my Bible to the Psalms. Liam and I have been memorizing Scripture together, and yesterday's verse was this one:

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. - Psalm 121: 2

I wanted to read that verse in context, so I kept going.

v. 3 - He will not let your foot slip -
he who watches over you will not slumber;
v. 4 - indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

I don't know about you, but sometimes when I read truths about God, they simply feel too good to be true. Too extravagant to actually believe. He never sleeps? Never turns his back from me, or from any of the goings-on of our broken world? My mind can't wrap itself around that one, but I take such solace in the piece of it I do grasp. I can try to hide in the bushes - and I have certainly tried - but I am never hidden from his ever-vigilant watch. My life - your life - is never forgotten, never turned away from.

I remember sitting in a summer class in college on the Psalms, and we were dissecting Psalm 37. Psalm 37:4 struck me because it was one of my favorite verses during my high school years:

Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.

I'd heard a pastor once explain that if we delight ourselves in the Lord, he will create desires in our hearts that align with his will, and then he will fulfill those desires that he's placed in us. Makes sense, doesn't it? I spouted off that information to the class.

I'll never forget my professor's response. He said, "What if God, by his grace, gave us what we desired because he loves us? Sure, he always gives us desires that align with his will, but I don't believe that's the point of this verse. I think that view of God is too limited, too safe."

What I had believed of God had been true, but my view of him was too small. Too stingy. Too much like a business transaction: I delight myself in him, he places desires in me and then fulfills them. My view didn't account for the lavishness with which he loves me, as his child. The word "desires" can also be translated "petitions." Petitions have a deeper meaning than just a petty request. They are the deepest, prayerful yearnings of the heart.

As John Calvin wrote about this verse, "We must therefore constantly recall to our minds this truth, that it can never be well with us except in so far as God is gracious to us, so that the joy we derive from his paternal favor towards us may surpass all the pleasures of the world. To this injunction a promise is added, that, if we are satisfied in the enjoyment of God alone, he will liberally bestow upon us all that we shall desire: He will give thee the desires of thy heart. This does not imply that the godly immediately obtain whatever their fancy may suggest to them; nor would it be for their profit that God should grant them all their vain desires. The meaning simply is, that if we stay our minds wholly upon God, instead of allowing our imaginations like others to roam after idle and frivolous fancies, all other things will be bestowed upon us in due season." (John Calvin's Commentary on the Psalms)

In two days, I would have been due with the baby we lost in March. September 30th has been looming large in my mind for months, and I've hoped that I would be pregnant again by now to lessen the sting of this day. It's never taken long for us to get pregnant with any of our four pregnancies, but for whatever reason, this time it's taking longer. Perhaps another pregnancy isn't what he has for us. Maybe it's adoption. Maybe it's just waiting a while longer. But I have to tell you, I believe more than ever in a vigilant God who never slumbers nor sleeps. An omniscient God who is intimately aware of the comings and goings of my life. A gracious Father God who knows the desires of his daughter's heart and loves to lavishly bestow them. He knows we desire another baby, and we trust that in time, he may fulfill that desire. In the meantime, we pray for grace to trust him more.

True comfort

During the long evening hours at work, this image often comes to mind: my littlest in the comforts of our home, helping prepare for a family birthday dinner. It's the culmination of some of my favorite bits of motherhood and of life: my tiny shadow trailing my every step, watching as I carefully place each plate and napkin and hopefully letting the memory seep into her heart like it does mine. It's in our home that we enjoy the good gifts of the Father, like beeswax candles and grilled corn and clean cotton sheets and laughter. The most mundane and most important moments of our lives happen inside these walls.

There are nights at the hospital when I wish this - my home - could be the backdrop of all my hours, a place I never had to drive away from. Many days, I justify working by remembering that I'm earning much needed money for our family and I'm serving the weakest of the weak, and thereby serving Jesus. 

The other day, I had a young patient who was severely autistic, but you could tell that his mind processed much more than he could communicate. I'm sure he felt trapped inside his own body. He passed away a few nights ago and my very first thought was, "Freedom! What freedom!" He's walking and talking and moving his limbs on command and glorifying God with every step. It made me wonder if Heaven is even sweeter for those who have endured the confines of a body riddled with disease on earth. 

In a much smaller way, you know how a hot shower feels even more luxurious if your toes are bone cold? How you just melt under the comfort? In a similar way, when I walk into the doors of my home after peeling off layers of hospital grime and into the embraces of my family, into the lavish gift of a full fridge, a cup of hot tea, the sound of worship music... it's even richer than if I'd been here all along. The contrast makes me even more grateful. 

Comfort is my drug of choice. I'm always seeking it, and I'm always left wanting. Aren't we all? But the truth is, we will never find lasting comfort apart from Jesus. We will always be searching for it in our stuff, our people, our paychecks. And we will always come up short. The stuff breaks. The people fail us. The paycheck is spent on car repairs and water bills. 

But in Christ, he promises to give us living water so we will never thirst again. There is nothing outside him that we need. He is our perfect righteousness, our perfect peace, our only hope for true rest. The Savior endured the most unimaginable discomfort - separation from his Father - in order to spare us from eternal separation from God and to bring us into his perfect comfort. He surely didn't have to do this. But in his mercy and his grace, he chose us to share with him the eternal inheritance we never deserved. This is what I hope my children can someday grasp in the temporary comforts surrounding them in our home: I pray they see Jesus. 

Heaven, in Liam's words.

Yesterday while Lanie napped, Liam and I played tea party in the living room. He served strawberry tea and we talked of Heaven. I admitted that Mommy's heart has been heavy lately because of how broken and sad our world is, but that we have great joy ahead if we trust in Jesus because he has promised to make all things new! All the sad things will become untrue. All the broken things will be mended. 

When I talk about Heaven with Liam, I want him to know it's a real place. Though it's better than the grandest fairytale, it isn't fiction. And for the first time, it seemed to finally click. Liam began to picture our future and wrap words around it. Poetic words. He imagined all the sad and scary and wrong being made right and whole again by Jesus himself. I sat behind my camera and cried because his words brought such peace to my fearful heart. Here's what he said: 

"So in Heaven... hippos won't growl at you? And owls will not swoop at you? And when you touch a light bulb, you won't be burned? And pirates won't be mean? And water will be soft like a blanket? And trains will stay on their track? And snapping turtles will obey? And dinosaurs will know God? And mosquitos won't bite you? And I can bring my helicopters and my Lightning McQueen? And I won't have to take a rest time? And the best part is that Jesus will be there and we can talk to him? I want to go to that country and live there." - Liam, age 3.5

 Oh Liam, I want to go there too! Your faith bolsters mine in deeper ways than you know.

My parenting prayer.

These photos were taken on our happy family vacation last month on the eastern coast of North Carolina. "Vacation," of course, is a loose term with a preschooler and a toddler in tow, but we savored the family time away from our normal commitments and work.

Our babies are growing like weeds. Liam is quite intelligent at 3 and a half, using words like "exasperated" and pulling things apart just to put them back together again. His energy is endless and consumes most of our energy as parents. I must answer 100 questions a day. His enthusiasm for life  is contagious. This fall he'll start soccer, and I think it'll be a great fit. 

Lanie (18 months) is sweet as pie, sings "Holy, Holy" on repeat, and toddles around with her belly about 5 inches ahead of the rest of her body and some sass in her step. Just her presence brings our family so much delight.

Even at this stage, it's so easy to play the comparison game in parenting. What preschools should I consider? Are we reading to them enough? Am I planning enough brain-stimulating activities? Do we spend enough time outside? It's exhausting. 

This morning, I read through Colossians 1 and was convicted and encouraged by the Holy Spirit to hone in on what truly matters as Liam and Lanie's parent. I plan to memorize this so that in those moments where I question if what I'm doing is enough, I can remember these words that bring truth and life. 

From Colossians 1:9-12:

Liam and Lanie,

"We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives, so that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience, and giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light." 

What a prayer! What hope! When I bring myself back to Scripture and find such a clear picture for what we truly desire for our kids, it's easy to cast the other things aside. Just this morning, I watched Liam gently brush Lanie's hair, and I heard him ask if we could help the homeless person on the side of the street. I watched Lanie pick up her toys just as I'd asked. I'm beginning to see tiny seeds sprouting - gentleness, kindness, self-control, love, joy - that show me that Jesus is bearing fruit in their lives. 

Life as mommy and nurse.

If you have a toddler and a preschooler at home like I do, I don't have to tell you that our days are packed. From the moment Liam and Lanie are awake, we're juggling the day like spinning plates, shuffling between play dates and storytimes at the library and Costco runs and trips to the park. When we're home, we manage nap times and snacks and attempt to keep our living room (and really, every room) from looking like a war zone. Let's be honest: life with two little ones often feels like a war zone. There's pushing and crying and spills and tantrums and stinky diapers... all at once. There have been times I've run into my bathroom and closed the door to just have a couple minutes alone, only to hear two little pairs of feet tracking right behind, begging for Mommy on the other side of the door.

On the days that I work as a nurse, our babysitter arrives 30 minutes before I have to leave so I have a rare, uninterrupted few moments to put on my scrubs and mascara and gather myself before the next 9 hours begin. On my 12-minute drive from my house to the hospital parking garage, I often sit in silence. I take deep breaths and even think a few complete thoughts during the quietest part of my entire day.

A few minutes later, the elevator doors open onto the fifth floor. There's always a flurry of activity on the floor, whether it's a family member standing at the desk with a grimace on her face or a psychiatric patient screaming out from his room. I work on a busy medical floor where all of my patients carry a different diagnosis and diverse needs.

Just the other night, I had a particularly heavy patient load, with patients whose rooms were spread out on every corner of our unit. I dashed between rooms, delivering medications, repositioning patients in bed, wiping sweat from my forehead. One of my patients was nearing the end of her life, her bed surrounded by teary-eyed loved ones, as I monitored her oxygen levels and did my best to kept her comfortable. Another patient was vomiting violently. Another had just been transferred from the ICU and had multiple wounds that had soaked right through the dressings. My fourth and final patient - a mostly independent woman who was there to receive IV antibiotics - called out to the desk and told the secretary she needed to see her nurse right now. So I finished emptying a bucket of vomit, made sure my dying patient was still breathing, and hustled down to the end of the hall.

I could feel the heat of her anger from the door.

"You're exactly who I wanted to see," she fumed.
"How can I help you, ma'am?"
"How am I supposed to eat this sandwich? It's dry as cardboard."
"I'm sorry about that, ma'am."
"Well, can't you at least get me some mayo?"
Take deep breaths, Whitney. Deep breaths.
"No, I'm sorry but we don't carry mayo on the floor and the kitchen is closed."
"Well then HOW am I supposed to stay here with this kind of care?"

Her face was burning bright red, ready to shoot smoke out of her ears like a cartoon. And I, standing next to her bed, was either about to laugh or about to cry.

After I sent the nursing assistant to try and remedy the issue, I ran into the supply closet for a fleeting moment to bury my head in a pile of split gauze and keep from crying. I knew she was just complaining about mayo, but with serious issues going on with my other patients and an exhausting day with my kids, I was done. I couldn't handle one more question, one more demand, one more putrid smell or sticky spill. I sighed heavy. I. Can't. Do. This.

And that still, small voice (or, the Holy Spirit) whispered back: "You're right."

Whoa.

My head snapped back as I was hit with truth that, nope, of course I can't do this. I can't do it alone. This load is far too heavy and the needs too great for any one person to handle it all without Jesus. And as trite as that may sound, it's what my soul needed to hear in that moment. It's what my soul needs to hear more often than I'd like to admit. I need him. Every. Hour.

Practically speaking, what does that look like? For me, it looks like seeking Jesus. Seek him in the morning, even if it's 5 minutes in his Word before you hear your little ones calling out, or a few minutes on your knees, asking him to bless your perspective on the day ahead. Recognizing you need his power, his wisdom, his strength is just the first step. Resting in his finished work on the cross is the next. There's a peace that can only come from being in constant communication from him, and it's something I miss out on all the time. One of the very best practical things I've done recently is to be more intentional about memorizing Scripture. I'm working on Romans 8 right now because it's so foundational to our faith, and also so comforting.

In those moments when it all feels like too much, the Lord draws this out of my memory bank and slips it into my heart:
"I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us." - Romans 8:18

As a nurse, I bear witness to so much suffering. The 22-year-old newly diagnosed with HIV, a life that will be presumably infection-ridden and cut short. The 45-year-old mother of two whose breast cancer has metastasized to her brain. Hard, gut-wrenching stuff that begs the question, "Why, God?"

But I also catch glimpses of his glory that will be revealed. My children's lives bear witness to God's glorious creativity and joy. Some of my patients wait patiently and cling to hope in God even in the most dire circumstances. I'm a witness to some of the most beautiful, resilient souls housed in bodies that languish in hospital beds. I see miracles every single day.

Hug a mommy today. And if you know one, hug a nurse. If you're reading this and you fit both categories, I wish I could reach through the screen and hug you right now. Your callings are downright demanding in every way, but I believe the Lord has given you these holy tasks and has prepared you in every way for them. If he wasn't with you and for you, you wouldn't still be standing.

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens. - Psalm 68:19