To Create a Home {and a giveaway}

I sat in a college town coffee shop early in January, waiting out the time while Patrick was in surgery, and spent some fortifying hours reading the reviewer's copy of a gem of a book. In the past few years, I've given a lot of thought to the role of women, particularly the role of women in a family. My own motherhood has been influenced more by one woman than any other. That woman is strong believer in home and a great encourager of women to invest their hearts and their time and their talent into the creation of a lifegiving home. She has mentored me and cheered me on since I was a very young mother. Her words, her voice, and her company are treasures of my heart.

That heart is battered these days--weary, worried, wondering. Did I invest too much here at home? Is the pervasive culture the one which will prevail? Will it mock me with the lofty dreams and the careful intentions standing stark against the brokenness of our realities as children grow into young adults? All families have cracked and broken places. I think, perhaps, I thought I could craft a home that would not. 

I believe in home.

Some days, I need to be affirmed in that belief.

My lovely mentor, wise and gentle, has done that so beautifully in her new book. With this book, in carefully crafted prose, Sally Clarkson has taken all the teachings of all these years and said, Yes, I know, this is going to be rough in spots and you will even stumble and fall, but keep going. Keep keeping on. This is worth doing. This matters for eternity.  And when she tells me to keep on, I find myself fortified to tell my children to keep on.

What makes this book really special is the voices of two generations. Sally shares her mothering experiences and all the love she invested in her home, and her daughter Sarah, now grown, offers her perspective. There, in the exquisite language of Sarah's heart, we hear the fruits of Sally's labors. We hear the richness of a young woman raised in an extraordinary home of love and grace. Want to know why this all matters so much? Ask Sarah. She'll tell you. 

During my time in the coffee shop with The Lifegiving Home: Creating a Place of Belonging and Becoming, I put ink to paper and copied quotes worth keeping so that I can read them again and again. Today, I'm sharing them with you. I think these quotes will give you a glimpse of the true treasure that is this book. Brew yourself a cup of something warm and read slowly. When you're finished, leave a comment and let me know what you're thinking. You'll be entered to win a free copy of the book. I have THREE to give away. Isn't that very kind?

SALLY SAYS:

I reach hearts by cooking meals, by washing sheets and fluffing pillows, by reading a favorite book one more time even though I have it memorized.

It is not the indoctrination of theology forced down daily that crafts a soul who believes; it is the serving and loving and giving that surround the messages where souls are reached.

Food is the universal language that eases hearts to open, tying secure knots of intimacy while satisfying bodily hunger, weaving tiny threads of kindred needs into friendship, camaraderie, and truth.  

When we choose to feast together—take the trouble to make each meal, however humble, an occasion for mindfulness and gratitude—we acknowledge God’s artistry and provision and draw closer to Him as well.

“This is why I came home. I knew you all would fill me back up…” –Sally quoting Joel

 Love can heal so many wounds, and that healing often happens best in a protected environment.

 We never allowed our less-than-perfect house to keep us from inviting people in.

 It’s never quite the way we imagine it will be.

 The lives of most people I know have become increasingly fast paced, and our habits are increasingly drawn into the trivial. We read less and use Facebook more. We spend more time inside than out. We have access to more information than we’ve ever had, and yet we understand less and less. We allow the habit of busyness to replace our habits of prayer and Scripture reading. It is only natural that in the hustle and bustle of family life, craziness easily overwhelms the calm we need so badly. In our modern, consumerist culture, sometimes it seems nearly impossible to find that center.

 Wilderness experiences leave us parched, and through them God teaches us patience, trust, and compassion for others

 The more we practice remembering the story of God’s goodness, the better we can remember that, in Him, all will eventually be well.

 Our home culture has become richer because of the people we have folded into it.

 When I focus not on performance or perfection but on joy, gratitude, and service, everything seems to fall into place.

SARAH SAYS:

The goodwill of mothers is like the goodwill of God.

Home is the shelter where the lonely find rest and the sorrowing come to be comforted.

…home isn’t a place where loneliness never happens, but a place where loneliness is transformed.

Gratitude, in its very essence, yearns to give.

Through technology we have the ever-present hurry of the unsleeping modern world, and if we do not forge strong rhythms of rest and spaces of sacred quiet, that...frenzy will invade our homes and steal the life within.

The point of home is to be a refuge for the soul, a place where beauty can be encountered, truth told, goodness touched and known.

…home is the place where love makes us welcome, a shelter from which we will not be expelled.

…the cultivation of quiet spaces allows the souls within a home to take refuge in silence.

If you want to hear God speak, you need to have quiet time with Scripture. If you want to write a song, a novel, or a poem, you need to draw away and listen to all that echoes in your soul.

… it is only in the hushed spaces that we can clearly hear all that echoes in quiet skies, in the eyes of children, in our own inner voices.

…the sharing of a story accelerates the comradeship of souls.

When people inhabit a realm of imagination together, it’s inevitable that a bit of each person’s imagination and spirit is revealed to the others who sojourn in that marvelous placeA well-stocked kitchen is life for the body, but a library stocked with stories to share is eternal nourishment for the soul.

How joyous a thing it is to then arrive on the doorstep of a home whose windows are golden with waiting light, where soup is on the stove and the cupboard is stocked against any number of unexpected storms.

God grant that my home be such a shelter, a refuge whose windows are alight in welcome, drawing the lonely and wandering in from the cold.

Imagination is the first step to creation, the instigating spark that drives the actions of a hero. 

{{And if you want some more encouragement to restore your heart and home this Lent, please join us here.}}

He Sees You

There are days (and nights, lots of nights) when mothers feel as if they are toiling in obscurity. Who sees the things that require all our time and attention? Who hears us begging a baby to go to sleep because the clock is ticking into the wee hours of the morning and our sleep time before the other child awakes is becoming increasingly shorter? Who understands the inner-workings of our minds as we drive toward the school clinic in the middle of the day, all the while trying to figure out how we are going to complete the work left behind on the desk before its deadline? Who knows the thought process that went into planning, budgeting, shopping and cooking every meal on a family’s table, all while trying to pay tuition bills? More importantly, does anyone know or care who cleans the kitchen?

Motherhood is, by its very nature, isolating. Life twists and turns and challenges, and mothers meet the new day knowing one thing with certainty: There will be trials. Sometimes the trials are small and easily navigated. Sometimes they are brimming with disappointment and lonely anguish. Quiet and hidden, most mothers will endure at least a season of invisible suffering. 

That’s when we need to lean in and listen hard. That’s when God says, “I see you.” Just as He saw Hagar in the desert, sitting apart, too bereft to watch her son die of dehydration, He is watching, looking, noticing. And you can cast your eyes heavenward and say with confidence, as she did, “You are the God who sees me.” You can reach out in shy but powerful faith and touch His garment as did the woman in Luke 8, and He will know you are there. He will heal you. You might have thought you were all alone, but Jesus stops and notices.

He has heard every plea you’ve ever uttered. He has counted every hair on your head. But even more than that, He has seen every tear you’ve ever shed. He has heard every hurtful word ever said to you. And He’s heard every prayer you’ve ever prayed. He knows them and He treasures them and He will spend your lifetime and then eternity answering every one of them.

God sees you. He hears you. He knows you.

The biblical examples are ones of tormented women. Hagar was a mother who was suffering desperately. The woman in Luke had been bleeding profusely for years. Chances are, the challenges of our daily lives are not nearly so dire. Still, we want to be seen. We want to receive, from the Lover of our souls, the blessed gift of attention. 

And He wants to give it. The beautiful thing about knowing that God sees us? It makes it so that we are more inclined to seek Him. 

When we awaken in the morning, whether after a sleepless night with a fussy baby or a vigil beside a deathbed or even (miracle of miracles) a good night’s sleep, He sees us. And He is waiting. He wants to hold captive the first thoughts of our day. He wants us to find Him, to see Him, to know that His mercies are new every morning. 

Give God the first moments of your day. Awaken to the truth that He sees you and then open your eyes to the splendor that is Him. Before social media and that quick check of email, before morning news, even before a shower, check in with God. He’s waiting and watching. He sees you and He wants your attention. You’ve already got His.

Don't Blink

As I try to overcome some of the archive obstacles that happened with my blog move, I'm using Thursday to post favorites that might otherwise have gotten lost in the move. Below is a double throwback that three people asked me to help them find last week. But, this time, there's an afterword (so we're working in three time zones here). It was serendipitous that Katie took some pictures that made me think of the last time I re-posted this one. God had a plan back then, didn't he? All is well. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I was hanging the lining of Sarah's carseat to dry after the barfing episode and Katie wandered into the laundry room. 

"So, I guess now that it's all clean and beautiful, you'll put it away until we have another baby? Sarah hates that carseat."

And the tears spring way too easily. I lean into the dryer even though there is nothing in there. I don't want her to see.

"No, we'll put it away until we find someone who needs it. My guess is that Mommy's too old to have another baby."

"That's ridiculous. We should adopt."

She skips away to discuss Haitian adoptions with Nicky, who would really rather adopt a boy his age than a baby.

I finish hanging the rest of the items from that offensive load; the Ergo is last to find a hanger. It smells so sweet now. We have at least one more season with my little one nestled against me in this carrier. I remember one of my favorite hugs ever, right around this time last year, when Sarah was asleep in the Ergo just after Paddy won the State Cup. She was sandwiched between us. Life was perfect that day: funny, interesting teenagers; utterly engaging middle kids; twirling, dancing toddlers; and a baby asleep on my chest. My dear husband utterly delirious to be in their company. One more season of the Ergo. I know that it is unlikely that I will give it away. It will end up in my hope chest with Michael's Peter Pan costume and Stephen's and Nicky's matching gecko shirts and Katie's crocheted bunny hat. All little pieces of fabric in the quilt of our lives.

Sarah's nearly 17 months old. She gets sick riding backwards. It's time to move on to a bigger carseat. What the heck? It's a carseat. Why do I care so much?

Because I know.

I've been here before. If I blink--if I dare to blink--the tears that fill my eyes will surely run down my face.

Remember this? 

Don't Blink

For the first time in a very long time, I am neither pregnant nor mothering a baby. My "baby" is now two years old. And with a certainty that takes my breath away, I suddenly understand why wise women always told me that the time would go so quickly. To be sure, I’ve had more "baby time" than most women. My first baby will be 16 in a few days. I still think it’s over much too soon.

This column is for mothers of infants and toddlers. I am going to attempt to do something I never thought I’d do: I’m going to empathize while not in your situation. My hope is that it is all so fresh in my memory that I can have both perspective and relevance.

What you are doing, what you are living, is very difficult. It is physically exhausting. It is emotionally and spiritually challenging. An infant is dependent on you for everything. It doesn’t get much more daunting: there is another human being who needs you for his very life. Your life is not your own at all. You must answer the call (the cry) of that baby, regardless of what you have planned. This is dying to self in a very pure sense of the phrase. And you want to be with him. You ache for him. When he is not with you, a certain sense of restlessness edges its way into your consciousness, and you are not at complete peace.

If you are so blessed that you have a toddler at the same time, you wrestle with your emotions. Your former baby seems so big and, as you settle to nurse your baby and enjoy some quiet gazing time, you try desperately to push away the feeling that the great, lumbering toddler barreling her way toward you is an intruder. Your gaze shifts to her eyes, and there you see the baby she was and still is, and you know that you are being stretched in ways you never could have imagined.

This all might be challenge enough if you could just hunker down in your own home and take care of your children for the next three years; but society requires that you go out — at least into the marketplace. So you juggle nap schedules and feeding schedules and snowsuits and carseats. Just an aside about carseats: I have literally had nightmares about installing carseats. These were not dreams that I had done it wrong or that there had been some tragedy. In my dreams I am simply exhausted, struggling with getting the thing latched into the seat of the car and then getting my baby latched into the carseat. I’m fairly certain anyone else who has ever had four of these mechanical challenges lined up in her van has had similar dreams. It’s the details that overwhelm you, drain you, distract you from the nobility of it all. The devil is in the details.

You will survive. And here is the promise: if you pray your way through this time, if you implore the Lord at every turn, if you ask Him to take this day and this time and help you to give Him something beautiful, you will grow in ways unimagined. And the day will come when no one is under two years old. You will — with no one on your lap — look at your children playing contentedly together without you. And you will sigh. Maybe, like me, you will feel your arms are uncomfortably empty, and you will pray that you can hold a baby just once more. Or maybe, you will sense that you are ready to pass with your children to the next stage. 

This is the place where nearly two decades of mothering babies grants me the indulgence of sharing what I would have done differently. I would have had far fewer obligations outside my home. Now, I see that there is plenty of time for those, and that it is much simpler to pursue outside interests without a baby at my breast. I wish I’d spent a little more time just sitting with that baby instead of trying to "do it all." 

I wish I’d quieted the voices telling me that my house had to look a certain way. I look around now and I recognize that those houses that have "that look" don’t have these children. Rarely are there a perfectly-kept house and a baby and a toddler under one roof. Don’t listen to the voices that tell you that it can be done. It should not be done. I wish I hadn’t spent 16 years apologizing for the mess. Just shoot for "good enough." Cling to lower standards and higher goals. 

I wish I’d taken more pictures, shot more video and kept better journals. I console myself with the knowledge that my children have these columns to read. They’ll know at least as much about their childhoods as you do. 

I wish I could have recognized that I would not be so tired forever, that I would not be standing in the shallow end of the pool every summer for the rest of my life, that I would not always have a baby in my bed (or my bath or my lap). If I could have seen how short this season is (even if mine was relatively long), I would have savored it all the more.

And I wish I had thanked Him more. I prayed so hard. I asked for help. But I didn’t thank Him nearly enough. I didn’t thank Him often enough for the sweet smell of a newborn, for the dimples around pudgy elbows and wrists, for the softening of my heart, for the stretching of my patience, for the paradoxical simplicity of it all. A baby is a pure, innocent, beautiful embodiment of love. And his mother has the distinct privilege, the unparalleled joy, of watching love grow. Don’t blink. You’ll miss it.

*~*~*~*~*

It is 2015. Yesterday, Katie captured these moments of another baby and a beautiful young woman whom I didn't yet know when I wrote the words above. She's wearing my granddaughter in my beloved Ergo.

I do remember how hard those young mothering days can be and I can empathize. These days, we've fallen into a rhythm of multi-generational friendship and support that I could never have even imagined. Grace upon grace. And this time, I'm thanking Him all the time.

Top of the grateful list: every once in awhile I still get a turn to wear the Ergo.

There Will be Thorns

Two throwbacks this week. One today, and one Thursday. Long time readers know the way this one turned out. Still, every time I go into the garden, the thoughts below  crowd my head. Every single time.  Bless you!

I went out to the garden early this morning, mostly so my kids wouldn't see me cry. Over the last day, our family has been trying to absorb the very bad news conveyed to a good friend. Without talking too much about details--because truly they are too tender for words here--I bring to you an earnest request for prayers. For our friend, for his family, for his doctors, for all the people who love him: please pray. 

And I offer to you some perspective that hit me as I was pulling weeds amongst the lavender. 

Yesterday, before the news went from bad to very bad, I was talking to an old friend about the idealistic homeschooler I used to be. I was lamenting (more than a little) the loss of such optimism and confidence. And I was wondering aloud if perhaps I don't always choose the hard way of doing things, only to end up with the same result as people who do things the seemingly easier way.

She spoke sense to me and I put the conversation away. Mostly, my thoughts were interrupted by much more urgent matters. My thoughts were interrupted by a real life crisis, not a philosophical demon of my own making. 

Today, in the garden, while wrestling with tall grass grown up around the lavender, I thought of a remark my sister-in-law made within my earshot long ago. She told someone that we chose to homeschool because I had had cancer. At the time, I remember thinking that wasn't really true. We came at home education from a different place, a place rooted in educational theory. I very much wanted to embrace homeschooling from a pedagogical perspective. Then, not long into our journey, we learned about the spiritual benefits. But I never really thought it was about cancer. 

It sort of was, though. I truly didn't know how many days I had (none of us do) and I wanted to invest huge quantities of quality time into my marriage, and children, and family. Home education seemed the best way to do that. It was what we heard God calling us to do.

It was what was right for our family.

The reality is that my cancer experience shaped the idealistic, hopeful young mother I was. Today, my eldest child texted me from the bedside of his dearest friend and I relived those days that shaped me--shaped us. My heart broke for him. These present days are dark days, indeed. 

But his friend has grown in wisdom and stature and understanding of the Lord in a home very much like ours. And the missives this boy sends me are insistent that he serves an awesome, merciful God. Somewhere in his youth and childhood, someone got something very right. Whatever comes, he goes into this fight wearing the full armor of God. 

Sometimes, it's not readily apparent what the benefits of home education are. Particularly as children get older, it's easy to become discouraged or to second guess this grand (and often messy) experiment. It's easy to despair and to wonder at the [broken?] promises that if we just did things this way, the teenaged and college years would be a breeze. 

There in the garden, taking deep breaths of lavender to keep from sobbing, I took up the previous day's conversation with my friend. It was too easy to imagine a mother's pain as her child suffers. This young man's mother is in my constant thoughts and prayers.

Where to find the peace in what seems like like such senseless, tragic news? What to tell my children as they each offer their own version of "why?" 

In the early morning garden, my friend offered that the idealistic young girl could find peace in the reality of the here and now, only if she has grown into a wise woman who "laughs at the days to come." She said that meant that in the midst of the mess and the ugly and the sick and the pain, we know there will be joy, there will be grace. There will be eternal things to hold on to and give it all meaning and purpose.

Somehow, the idealistic young girl knew those things years ago, when in the wake of cancer, she determined to keep her young son at home a while longer and teach him how good life is. The weathered older mother prays fervently that those lessons were well learned and that now he can intimately know God's grace in the midst of tremendous sorrow.

Tomorrow will bring more news, no doubt. Tomorrow, instead of tall grass I can pull with my hands, I will have to conquer the ridiculous, prickly weeds and the blighted leaves of my beloved roses. There will be thorns, no doubt. There will be thorns. I will need the full armor of heavy gloves and pruning shears. But there will be blooms, too, and I am determined to see them, to appreciate them, and to share them with my children.

This Summer, Maybe Make it About You?

Humidity hangs heavy today and the temperature has crept toward 90; it’s undeniably feeling like summer in Virginia. As I sit with a calendar that has palpably shifted from the frenetic end-of-school-year busyness to a more sanguine, relaxed busyness, I’m making a promise to myself. Summer will be for self-care. 

Summer will be for strengthening the habit of entering into God’s rest.

It is said that it takes 21 days to form a habit. My experience has been that the best habits take considerably longer. Some studies have confirmed it takes 66 days for behaviors to become as much of a habit as they were going to become. And those are habits like exercising every day or giving up a daily muffin with one’s coffee. Resting in God isn’t like giving up smoking. Resting in God is a re-alignment of a life. 

In the pursuit of caring for our families — whether by earning an income or running a carpool — often we fail to care for ourselves. We martyr ourselves on the altars of professional advancement or pleasing others or both. We sacrifice sleep, eat on the run, write way too many things into a calendar square, or neglect the true needs for margin in our lives. In bowing to the urgent, we fail to breathe deeply of God’s grace and see clearly His intention for our lives. Often, self-neglect is slow-creeping and insidious; it begins as dying to self in order to serve others in a vocation. It becomes burnout because we have failed to understand how much we are valued by God and how we actually are called to live in His gentle care and accept His rest — not to power up again and again under our strength and derive the meaning in our lives from the productivity of our lives.

Our work doesn’t define us. Our output doesn’t define us. Our bottom line doesn’t define us. Our homemaking or childrearing capability don’t define us. Instead, God calls us to work and asks us to let Him energize it for His glory. Are you feeling crushed as the school year wraps up and you’ve jumped through a million and one hoops? Jesus is calling. He’s saying, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Mt 11:28-30). If you are bowed down and burned out by the demands of your life, you’re not in His will. Summer is the perfect time to attend to self-care in order to learn a new habit of rest in Christ.

Sometimes, I have to be reminded that not every need must be filled by me. The bone-tired feeling? That soul-crushing fatigue? Usually they are the symptoms of self-reliance. They mean I’ve tried to save the world instead of trusting that God can accomplish His will in my life and the lives of the people I love. I take on every need as my personal mission, and I neglect to seek God’s wisdom and direction in filling the needs around me. I am certain His plan is more prudent than the full-throttle assault that is my default.

So summer is a perfect time to reconfigure the default. It’s a perfect time to stop worshipping at the altar of self-reliance. With a little more breathing room and the opportunity to spend more time outdoors, I’m more likely to successfully re-calibrate. 

Self-care means saying “no” to some people who are very much in the habit of hearing my “yes,” learning that God can step in and say “yes” instead, and we are all better off for allowing Him to do so. Self-care means taking the time to tend the temple of the Holy Spirit. No matter how willing my own spirit, my body can only be pushed so hard for so long. It’s self-abuse and it’s sinful. So, summer is the perfect opportunity to sleep a little more, to exercise outdoors, to curl up with a good book, to journal in longhand for a long time. My brain and my body need time and space to unfurl in the presence of my Maker. 

What things are life-giving for you? Where does God meet you? Can you put your hand in His this summer and let Him take you to a place where He fills your depleted soul and nourishes your tired body?