When God made the rain stop

My dear sweet friend R told me I should write this down so my girls have it later. So I thought I'd make it official and post it here because perhaps it might encourage someone else who's wondering if God is listening. He is.

I promise.

When I was 20, I had signed up to go on a missions trip to Brazil with my college. Granted, I am no longer 20 and this is not a current event. But, the story is, I believe, an important one about God.

I had been diagnosed with a nasty case of mono during the spring of that year. It was running rampant through the campus that spring, and since I catch every nasty virus, why not add this one to my collection. I was pretty sick and my trip was in jeopardy.

So my team leaders laid out some pretty strict standards for me. I had to ask for help. I had to take help when it was offered. And, I couldn't exert myself. These were hard for me.

We had an intense week of training and team building before we left. The last full day was Solo Day. This was a day devised to place each member in a specific place, by herself, for 8 hours. That 8 hours was to be spent in solitude and silence, hanging out with Jesus.

It just so happened that this particular spring was an El Nino spring. It rained for days and weeks and months. This particular week was no different. And Solo Day was a deluge of Noah proportions. The forecast was for inches of rain.

My health necessitated some accommodations. So my leaders put me in a school van in the gravel parking lot next to the pond. The pond was about a quarter mile from the campus proper (we had a small campus). This parking lot also played host to a gazebo. They left me in the van with some blankets, some water, and a sleeping bag. I also had my Bible, a journal, and a letter my leaders wrote for me.

It was pouring.

I noticed, though, that in the gazebo, my friend Paul, who was part of a team going to China (It should be noted that this particular spring, my college was sending 20 different teams out into the world so this was a busy week), was sentenced to spend Solo Day in the gazebo in the elements. He had nothing but a jacket.

Here I was in my quasi-cozy van with a jacket, a blanket, and a sleeping bag. He was in the cold and wet and while maybe he wasn't being rained directly on, he was sure victim to the sideways rain when the wind kicked in.

I had quandary Number One. I had been told, in no uncertain terms, that I was to, under no circumstance, leave the van. My health depended on it. My trip depended on it. My team was depending on it. The van was the extent of my physical existence and to leave the van would be risking the wrath of the powers that be.

I am a rule follower. I do not like getting in trouble. I do not like disappointing people.

But my friend was sitting in the rain which would make an 8 hour solo day feel like 88 hours. I had a sleeping bag I didn't need.

So I honked the horn to get his attention since I couldn't very well roll down the window and holler at him because we had taken a vow of silence.

He looked over. I opened the door and held up the sleeping bag. His eyes got really, really big as he realized what I was offering. He ran over and grabbed it, gave me a grateful look and ran back to the gazebo.

Problem solved.

We each had been left with some water but also exhorted to be careful how much we drank. Me, specifically, since there was no restroom even remotely close, I didn't have the keys to the van to drive back to the dorms, and I had been given strict direction to not leave the van because it was raining so hard.

I took three sips of water. That's it. Three. Remember? I'm a rule follower.

I took a little snooze. I spent some time in the Word and journaling.

And the rain came down.

And then, quandary Number Two. I had to pee. I would use more appropriate language, but it doesn't capture the tension, or the urgency, of my situation. At all.

One minute I was fine. The next minute, I had to pee. Like I-hadn't-peed-in-24 hours-and-drank-14-gallons-of-water-my-bladder's-gonna-burst-I-might-have-an-accident kind of pee. I would say I was making good use of hyperbole here, but I'm not. I'm telling the truth.

I asked God to make me not have to pee.
I tried sleeping, hoping that might take my mind off it.
I tried shifting positions.
I begged God to fix my bladder.
He did not answer that prayer exactly.
I only had to pee more. If that was even possible.

And the rain came down.

I was starting to lose my mind because all I could think about was having to pee. And not having anywhere to pee. And the rain continued to fall in sheets. And I was freaking out in my blue school van in the parking lot next to the pond.

I came to the realization that One: I was going to have to leave the van to pee. Or I would pee my pants. And Two: I needed to figure out a way to stay dry so I could stay warm so I could stay healthy given I had several more hours to spend in the van before I got picked up, and I really didn't want to disappoint anyone.

So I prayed for God to stop the rain. I admit, it was sort of a Hail Mary, last ditch effort, kind of prayer. I was really, really hoping He would hear but not really counting on it because, let's face it, He has a lot to deal with and I was just one little girl sitting in an old blue van in a gravel parking lot next to a pond during a really heavy rainstorm, who also had to pee. It's not like that was at the top of anyone's priority list except mine.

It was not the kind of rain that was going to stop. It had been raining for 36 hours non-stop. Sheets of rain, waves of rain, buckets of rain, rivers of rain. I had my doubts, but I was really hoping that God would have mercy so I could avoid an embarrassing situation should I pee my pants or an uncomfortable one should I get cold and wet and sick again. I was really hoping that in the busyness of His day, He might catch the desperate prayer of a desperate girl in a somewhat desperate situation and grant me five minutes of His all Sovereign time.

I prayed for God to stop the rain. For five minutes. I figured I could cross the street to a more secluded (there was a boy in the gazebo so I needed a little seclusion), hilly area and take care of business and get back to the van in five minutes. I was desperate. I was so desperate.

And I squatted next to the side door of the van with my nose pressed against the glass as I kept praying over and over for God to make the rain stop so I could pee. My eyes lifted towards the heavens.

And I sat in awestruck wonder as the rain started to lessen. The endless drumming drone of the rain on the roof of the van was suddenly quieter. They sky lightened a touch. The rain continued to lighten until it was just a rain shower, then a sprinkle, then a mist. Then. Nothing. At all.

The rain had stopped.

And I sat in the van with my jaw hanging down to my feet and my eyes as big as saucers and my heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears. Because I couldn't believe what I just witnessed. And I sat there dumbfounded.

Until I felt a little nudge on my shoulder and a little voice in my head, "Girl, get going. Your five minutes is ticking."

Oh, yeah. Five minutes to pee. He was giving me five minutes to pee because He knew I was trying to take care of myself. He knew I had few viable options that would satisfy my leaders who had made their expectations abundantly clear. He knew that He was my only option. And because He's a Good Father, of course He answered.

I shouldn't have been so surprised. But I was. Little old me sitting in a decrepit blue van and the King, the Lord, of Everything reached out His hand like an umbrella, used His thumb and His index finger to part the curtain directly over me and my blue van, to shield me from the rain so I could stay dry.

I slammed open the side door of the van and scampered across the street until I found a secluded, semi-private spot to take care of business. I did. I knew I had wasted a precious few seconds with my jaw hanging open so I had no time to waste. Just as I was scampering back across the street, the sky darkened and I felt a sprinkle of rain on my forehead. I jumped into the van and just as I slammed that door shut, sealing myself again in the safety and warmth of the van, the skies opened up.

And the rain came down.

And I sat there. In my van. And grinned.

Because He saw me. He heard me. And He made the rain stop. 

For me.

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

P.S. Sweet sister-friends, I am linked up today with Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart. Join me for some encouragement.

A letter to the real you on one of those days...

Dear sister,

You know, I get that you are thinking you don't have much to offer, much to give, much to say.

I know that you have lived with fear as a monkey on your back, drowning in all those what ifs and if onlys.

I know how you are tired and work-worn and sometimes you feel invisible, like you just kind of blend in with the finger paint on your walls and the dust bunnies collecting in corners and the chipped paint in the kitchen.

I know you just want to be understood and when he thinks like a waffle and you think in spaghetti, that's a tall order.

I know you feel like you spend more time reprimanding your kids than maybe the mom next door or all the moms in your zip code and how does one go about not doing that because you can't let them run amok. Or can you?

I know you want to stop living in your head and running over every comment and conversation you have or haven't had so they go according to plan or so you can fix them so they go according to plan.

I know you want to have community and deep friendships that make you laugh and won't look at you funny when all that laughing frees up all those tears that might be stockpiled.

I know how you second guess every thing you do or say because you are afraid of what someone might think or say and you don't want to make someone uncomfortable or say words you can't unsay because you know how words have power.

I know how you have this idea of what a perfect mom or a perfect wife or a perfect Christ follower is in your head and probably only half of it is actually correct and the other half is just your perception which is hardly ever accurate.

I know how you work zealously, faithfully, tirelessly to make sure all your ducks are in a row, maybe a crooked row, a very crooked row, but they're there and they're standing, so it's a row.

I know how sometimes there's just so much noise and so many little people talking all at once all over each other and then the dog poops all over the floor and someone spills a cup of milk and you feel like your head might just explode into a thousand pieces and you somehow hold it all together because if your head explodes, who will clean the spilled milk?

But do you know...

...that everything you do for the least of these matters. Means something. Imparts some piece of heaven into eternity. That every tear you dry and nose you help blow or shoe you tie or mess you clean up or laundry you fold or dinner you feed...every single mundane, seemingly meaningless humdrum task you do, day in and day out, matters. It so matters. It matters to HIM.

...that sometimes you just need to take a load off. Seriously. Unburden your shoulders of the to do list and just shift the burden to Jesus.  Busyness is not a fruit of the Spirit. On the seventh day of Creation, God invented the notion of rest. So perhaps we should follow His example. It's okay. Everything will still be there when you're done resting, but it won't feel so overwhelming. So just rest for a minute. Or five.

Or maybe ten.

...that all those things that maybe irk you about the husband are the very same things that you fell in love with all those years ago...find the space in your heart to remember why and choose to love those pesky, irksome things again.

...that breathing is good. Deep breathing is better. And if you are focused on deep breathing then it's really hard to yell at the same time. So let the kids run amok. You just keep deep breathing. They will still be there when you feel like you can be constructive instead of destructive.

...that your community is a phone call, a text, an email away. We can't all sit around waiting to be pursued by friends, sometimes you have to make the effort, the contact, and take the risk. Sweet sister, be bold. Be brave.

...that God has imparted His Spirit into you. So it serves to reason that He gives you wisdom to share at certain times to certain people. When you second guess yourself in that moment, you are believing a lie. Again, be brave. Where He has put you, who He has near you--it's all because He'd like to use you right there whether it's in the grocery store or the doctor's office or at the park. Trust and obey.

...that comparison and competition are not fruits of the Spirit.  They breed discontent because you suddenly like someone else's gifts or body or personality or lifestyle more than your own.  You forget how you are fearfully and wonderfully made, and He made you just exactly how you are. He loves all your little quirks and all your faults and foibles because He knows that if you'd just let all these imperfections go straight into the hands of Jesus, He'd draw you so close and you'd know that His power is made complete in our weakness.

...that comparison and competition also breed fear. You start looking other places for affirmation and direction instead of to the One who loves you just as you are. And that constant search takes your focus off Jesus and that's when you start to second guess yourself and talk yourself out of things that might change your life. Or someone else's life.

...that your what ifs and if onlys might never actually come to fruition. So spend your time, your days and ways living in the now, living in this moment. Choose faith over fear. Say it out loud. "I choose faith over fear." Don't borrow trouble because it's energy spent on the hypothetical that you could invest in the now.

...that Jesus always know where your ducks are, even if you don't. Just keep doing the thing He's asked you to do until He points you in a different direction. When you need your ducks, He'll make sure you have them. And along the way, you might find you don't need those ducks as much as you thought.
You just need Jesus.

...that all this noise and these little people tripping under your feet and tripping you out won't always be there. One day it'll be so so quiet and you'll wish for all this noise. So maybe just be in this moment, in every moment. Because these moments won't pass you by again. They are your ministry. All of this noise and chaos and laundry and dishes and teeth that need brushing and booboos that need band-aids. This is what matters because this is where you are. 

...that you are beautiful. You should remember that when you're having a fat day or a no shower day or a bad hair day. Because those are not the measure of your beauty. Your heart is. And sister, your heart is lovely.

...that His mercies are new every morning. And if you need to claim new mercies every hour, I'm sure He won't keep a tally.

...that His grace is abundant, extravagant, immense. And it's for you. Drink from the ocean of His grace and be at peace. Even when they're throwing cereal to the dog and the sink is overflowing and you can't find any pair of shoes that actually match for any of your children and there's a million Lego pieces all over the floor and the baby had a blowout as you were walking out the door. Sister, be at peace.

And then maybe laugh.

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

P.S. Sweet sister-friends, I am linked up today with Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart. Join me for some encouragement.

When the princess burps

When the princess burps...is she still a princess?

Does she suddenly lose her princess-ness because her behavior doesn't match her title?

Is she somehow less than a princess?

My friend was getting married. This, of course, necessitated a new sparkly dress which I found for a steal at one of my favorite stores.  When the big day arrived and it was time for me to get ready, I had three small visitors lounging on my bed as I carefully laid my dress out,
and they touched reverent fingers to all those shining sparkles.
And then as I stepped into my sparkly dress, those sweet girls oohed and aahed at the cascade of sparkles  that settled around my shoulders and down to my knees.  And they were so excited that mama was in a princess dress that I had to send them downstairs so I could have some peace and a little bit of quiet.  As  they begrudgingly scampered down the stairs, I heard their silly chatter waft back up and my heart smiled  because it's good for a girl to think her mama's a princess too sometimes.

I hightailed it out to the car, carefully positioning me and all my spangles in the seat. 

My three little people smiled wide grins beneath bright eyes at me and my dress and I smiled wide right back because sometimes when you see yourself through the eyes of your little people, you feel just a little bit invincible and a whole lot of loveliness.

My sweet K said, "Mama you sure look just like princess."

I glanced back and smiled, "Thank you sweet girl."
I love her.

I completed my maneuvering, carefully arranged the seat belt around all the sparkles, 

and then I burped. 

Out of the blue. No warning. No pause of breath to lead up to it. No pressure in my chest. Nothing.

It just came out of its own accord. And I have to admit I may have surprised myself a little.

 I heard a gasp from behind me. A very large, collective gasp that was a 

harmonic compilation of three distinct voices.

"Mama! Princesses do NOT burp!" K stated emphatically, disbelievingly, shocked. 

I turned to look in the back seat, a little sheepish over my accidental faux pas. 

And as my gaze swept over to R, I saw her already big brown eyes grow exponentially rounder as she, too, was aghast at my unprincess-like behavior. 

Even the Eldest was looking at me with incredulity in her face.

What's a mama-who-was-a-princess-and-now-is-banished-from-princessdom to do?

 I laughed.

But what if she was right--princesses probably do NOT burp. 

Especially in front of others. 

 In my mind I hold the same standard for princesses as my girls. 

Granted, our standards may be slightly biased by the 

profusion of Disney princesses that grace our DVD shelf, but still...

They have perfect, princess-like manners. 

They do not burp or break wind.

They do not interrupt or run through halls.

They do not shout in church or steal books from the library.

They always flush the toilet and they never leave their clothes on the floor.

Princesses are gracious and kind and genteel.

Until they burp in public and then all bets are off.

But does a princess's behavior change her princess status?

Does her proper princess behavior make her more of a princess?

Or is she a princess despite her behavior?

So I started thinking.

We are daughters of the Most High God. He calls us His Beloved. 

Our names our etched on the palm of His hand.

But do we live that way? Do we act that way? Do we believe it into the warp and weft of our very beings and let it saturate every cell until we don't just know it, we know it?

I confess...I don't very often.

I don't live every day like I'm the daughter of a King, a princess of a King.

But it doesn't make me any less His daughter, any less a princess.

I don't live every day like I'm His Beloved.

But it doesn't make me any less His Beloved.

I don't live every day confident that the God of all Creation sees me. Knows me. Loves me.

But my doubt and disbelief don't make it any less true.

I don't live every day knowing that I'm secure because my name is etched on the palm of His hand.

But it doesn't make my name any less inscribed. It doesn't make me any less known to my Creator.

I don't live every day exemplifying proper-Kingdom-princess behavior 

which is vastly different from proper Disney princess behavior

(that would be living each moment the way Jesus would want me to--I make mistakes. A LOT of them.)

But He doesn't kick me out of His Kingdom or disown me or find a replacement for me.

He loves me in spite of my faults and scoots me closer to His throne and gently reminds me of who He is and thus who I am so next time maybe I'll remember.

I'm so thankful we serve an immutable, unchangeable God. I'm so thankful He's not governed by emotions or behaviors, but that He's governed by His truths which are rooted in His Word which was breathed from His spirit into the hands of His servants who faithfully wrote it down. I'm so thankful that my transient ways and my frenetic emotions and my unsavory behaviors don't change the truth of who I am in Him, or who He has made me to be, or how He sees me.

I'm so grateful.

And while I'd like nothing better than to live every day living in the truth, I know that takes more of Jesus, more of His truth, more of His love, more of loving like Him.

And if on occasion, this princess burps, well, maybe it makes Him laugh too.

Grace Always Rises,

Jamie

P.S. I'm linked up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and #TellHisStory and Holley Gerth at Coffee for Your Heart today. Stop by to be encouraged. 

When you'd rather run and hide

It's always a bit awkward when you overhear or accidentally see something unkind about you that was never said to you. That you somehow know was not going to be mentioned to you either.

It hurts even though you know that it shouldn't.  You work hard and you love hard and you serve hard and a callous statement can send all that spinning into a vortex of insecurity and strife.

I had that happen.

I saw something that I didn't mean to see, that wasn't meant for me to see, that probably wasn't meant to hurt, though it did that job all the same. And when I saw it, we both played it off like I didn't.

I left and I could feel my heart beat straight out of my chest and my hands shook like an aspen leaf in a hurricane and I knew I couldn't just leave it because I would send myself into a place I didn't really want to go. You know that place. That place filled with self-condemnation and fear and insecurity and low self-esteem and a host of other unsavory untruths. That place where all of our previously won battles over insecurity and what people think about us are pulled straight up from the depths of whatever sea they were previously buried in and then held up for the whole world, or just you, to see and smirk at.

I had to be an adult and put on my big girl pants and face my fear and have a critical conversation.

For the record, critical conversations are not my favorite thing. I'm not sure I've ever met anyone who loves critical conversations because they happen when life gets critical. And who really wants to converse about what's critical when we're just trying to deep-breathe our way to the next moment without internally combusting?   Critical is by its very nature a very perilous path to traverse, but I'm learning it doesn't have to always be traumatic.

A word about critical conversations: They are hard and uncomfortable and they fill my heart with trepidation and fear. Until I have them. And then I find they can bring a great measure of what I call the beginning of peace. There's always that moment when we can run and lick our wounds and perpetuate the wounding by inflicting more wounds because instead of dealing with the mess by wading into it, we often leave the mess and later add to it.

We hinder healing by expecting others to come to us. The sad fact is that we are a part of a dysfunctional world and seeking confrontation in order to solve problems is not where most people go first. Most people talk to others about an issue and all the people involved in the issue--I call this gossip--and then never actually resolve the issue because they refuse to talk to the ones who are the issue--I call this avoidance. And all of it is unhealthy.

The Apostle Paul avoided talking about the issues in one church to another church. He wrote that church a letter and directly dealt with the issues. He didn't spread rumors or slander or judge. He spoke truth in love, didn't avoid the really hard stuff, and encouraged followers of Jesus to solve their problems in like manner.

I'm pretty sure Paul was a master of critical conversations.

Words can hurt. They have the power to create or to annihilate, to build up or to tear down, to offer grace or judgement, to speak truths or to promote lies. Words are no small thing. And the careless words we might speak or write or text or tweet or post can bring low, can blind side, a soul who had no idea that was coming. Who. had. no. idea. Who doesn't deserve the harshness those words convey. Period.

I've been here before.
I'll probably be here again.

It's not fun. But it is a good reminder. Of so many truths. Of so many graces.

What flows out of our mouths is often a refection of our hearts. So when we find ourselves in this predicament, the measure of our character is what we do with that predicament. The measure of our integrity is how we choose to behave and what we choose to say in that predicament. If we claim to be a Christ follower, then our actions, our words, our choices should resemble those of Christ...even when we've been wronged. Even when we've been hurt. Even when our flesh wants a pound of someone else's. Especially then.

I won't say my critical conversation was easy because it wasn't. My palms were sweaty, my stomach was roiling with nervousness, my heart hurt and I just kept telling myself that there's more to the story. There's more that I don't know. And I knew, I just knew, that if I faced my fears and had the conversation I would be able to sleep that night. I would be able to take a deep, gasping, purifying breath and exhale all this unease

And so that's what I did.
And sure I had to own my part.
And sure there was more to the story that I didn't know, that she didn't know.
But in the end, it was a conversation that ended far better than it began.
And I slept like a baby.

Grace always Rises,
Jamie

P.S. Sweet sister-friends, I'm linked up today with Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Holley Gerth Coffee for your Heart. Join me over there for some encouragement!

The Power of our Stories

A new year. A new group of students. A new batch of stories.

It never fails to amaze me when they start to share some of their stories. These kids have tragic stories and triumphant stories and lots of stories in between.

I'm sure a lot of us have what I like to call a 'normal' story. There's a bit of hardship, there's a tad of rebellion, there's no major upheaval, we learn from our mistakes, grow into wiser versions of ourselves, and carry on.

But there's a lot of stories that don't go like this. They go dark and twisty and lonely. And those stories get me every time.

I always thought I wanted a grand, life altering, 180 story. Because mine is so ordinarily ordinary. I wanted a powerful conversion story, like Paul, so when I testified about God's transforming grace it would be a big story (like God's grace has a measuring stick or something--I know--silly) and move people down to their souls. And in my small thinking, I thought that these big stories would inspire more souls, would catapult more people straight to Jesus.

I always thought I wanted a story that had a lot of ups and downs and hardships because those inspirational people who conquer mountains wield power with their words and their lives seem so much more substantial than my chaotic schoolteacher-wife-mom-of-three life.

But after teaching for a lot of years, I've realized I don't need the hard story. And in fact, it's okay to have a different story. The hard story is hard for a reason. It's filled with tragedy and loneliness and struggle and consequences. And that story isn't the one I have. Instead, I have a lot of young people who are walking out that hard story as they walk lonely down the hallways. And I've figured my job is to walk that lonely hallway with them to be sure that grace and love has a role a story that might be devoid of good gifts.

So there's girls like me: Girls who've gone to church since we could talk and who've loved Jesus and asked for salvation over and over just to make sure. Girls who followed rules because we were afraid not to. Girls who stayed out of trouble because we watched others get into trouble and decided trouble's price tag was too steep. Girls who labor over saying the right thing or the wrong thing, who struggle over motives and image and perception because we don't want to convey the contrary or we're afraid to convey the contrary. Girls who didn't party like the other kids because we didn't see the point and having fun was actually about laughing purely. Girls who were called 'goody two shoes' and were left out of a lot because we wouldn't have done it anyway.  But we have stories too. Ordinary, normal, simple stories.

But there's a steadfast beauty in those stories. Sure, they might not move people to faith or elicit great emotion or change the whole world. They might not inspire others to greatness. But there's a quiet, enduring power in the story of faithfulness, of obedience. And the quiet stories wield their own kind of greatness, their own kind of beauty, their own kind of power. And in the kaleidoscope of all our stories, the tapestry needs the quiet, steadfast ones, too.

Our words, our stories have all sorts of power. Hold all sorts of meaning. And God can perform all kinds of miracles out of our stories. I love that. That regardless of how our story came to be, they all hold the same measure of grace and mercy, because God's love cannot be measured and His grace is not doled out in proportion to the circumstance. It's just poured out in endless and abundant waves. We have access to all His love and all His grace all the time in whatever circumstance we find ourselves in.  

In God's eyes, all stories are grace stories. All stories are love stories. And all stories hold equal weight in the hand of God because we are held in the hand of God. And since God is the author of our stories, He must love all of them because He loves all of us. Or maybe it's because He loves us so much that He loves our stories.

Over these years I've been working with young people and listening to their stories and walking with some of them through their stories I've come to realize that our stories hold the power of redemption, of love, of grace, of healing, of grace, of transformation, of humanity. No story is too small in the hand of God. No story is too ordinary. No story is too quiet.

It's not how deep in the mire our story takes us or how broken our story makes us that determines the worth of our story. It's not the magnitude of tragedy or the mountaintop of redemption that dictates the power of our story.

It's Who our story take us to. It's Who brings us from the depths and Who heals our brokenness and Who offers us grace and Who redeems us with love that determines the worth of our stories.

For from Him and through Him and for Him are all things made to praise Him (Rom 11:36).
Our stories, who we are and who we become, come from Him because we belong to Him.
Our stories are written through Him and because of Him.
And our stories bring us back to Him.
So that we can praise Him.

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

Dear Friends, 

I'm linked up today with some lovely ladies: Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart, and Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory. Drop by and be encouraged. 

The Truth About Being Extraordinary

Sometimes I think I want to be extraordinary.

You know what I mean. I want to be something perhaps more glamorous, more noteworthy, more everything than what I find myself: A 39 year old mom of three, wife, teacher, Jesus follower. Like that right there somehow doesn't encapsulate every marvelous, wonderful, extraordinary nuance about my life?And yet on those days, it just seems somehow uninspiring and lackluster and oh-so-ordinary. I hate to admit it, but there are moments when the endless days of dirty dishes and dirty floors and dirty children just seem to span farther than I can fathom with no clean in sight and I sigh from all this ordinary.

But on these days I am gracefully prodded to recognize that I just might be in a place where my thinking needs to be challenged. Where my paradigm needs to be slightly shifted closer to the cross because what's extraordinary has nothing to do with me. Or what I do. Or who I am. And it has everything to do with Jesus and the cross.

And that's liberating. That makes my heart beat like a hummingbird's wings because there's no pressure to be more, there's no requirement to be better, there's no more worth to be earned. And when I sigh from all this freedom, it's a sigh of something more than ordinary.

The cross is extraordinary. 
The work Jesus did on the cross is extraordinary. 
The message of the Gospel is extraordinary. 
The grace He died to give us is extraordinary. 
The unfathomable, unconditional love He holds for us is extraordinary. 

This kind of extraordinary has no match, no rival, no comparison.

The message of the Gospel is the main thing and we just have to remember to keep the main thing the main thing. When there's soccer practice and dinner and mountains of laundry and the toilets are becoming a science experiment and it's hard to simply keep our heads above water, we just need to shift our paradigm back to the Cross. And this is perhaps a great grace, that we can, that we have the opportunity to, shift back to the main thing over and over. And over again.

So a frazzled, clumsy mama becomes something more than ordinary because of the cross, because of Jesus. And what's more, God chooses to use us ordinary, broken, frail creations as the vehicle with which to spread His extraordinary message of hope. He chooses the ordinary, the lowly, the humble to reveal the extraordinary. All the time. And extraordinary in the eyes of Jesus bears no resemblance to extraordinary in the eyes of the world. 

And in a world that fails to embrace an extraordinary Gospel, it perhaps no surprise that the Gospel flips everything upside down: the last shall be first, the weak shall be made strong, the broken shall be mended, the meek shall inherit, the sorrowful shall be comforted, the homeless baby born in a manger shall be King and then die to save us.

But this is perhaps also a great grace: that we are lowly and humble and broken and ordinary and yet He chooses us. He uses us. He wants us. He. Loves. Us. 
How extraordinary.

Isn't it the little things, like the first bud in spring, the first sweltering day in summer, the first blazing leaf in autumn, the first frost, that usher extraordinary straight in? Isn't it the way the ants swarm in unity or the ladybugs appear in hordes or the clouds build into thunderheads on a hot summer afternoon that reveal extraordinary?

Isn't it the little things that often mean the most? The ordinary, mundane acts that speak the loudest? That create extraordinary moments?

The crooked grin that's missing teeth, the grubby hand that grabs yours, the indecipherable picture that comes home from school that depicts your family and you're even included, the warm little body that curls up next to yours out of the blue. It's then the sum of all the mundane, ordinary acts we do every day for the love of our family, for the love of our Savior, that create an extraordinary life.

And it's an extraordinary life because the Gospel is extraordinary.

When I long for a different view when I get out of bed in the morning or walk downstairs into pandemonium or come home late to homework and half-starving children, I have to remember what is extraordinary in the eyes of the Father is far, far different than what's extraordinary in the eyes of the world. And my audience of One says that cleaning toilets is extraordinary when it's done for the glory of God. Just like feeding the kids or folding the laundry or being a glorified taxi driver for soccer practice four nights a week. It's all extraordinary. Because when The Father sees us, He's seeing us through the extraordinary work Jesus did on the cross.

We're looking for extraordinary, but perhaps we've been looking in all the wrong places. I think we'd all be better off if we looked at the same place, the right place, the only place. Together. I think we'd be able to hold each other up, to grab on tight and tilt our eyes towards the Cross and together we'd have courage and together we'd be sisters and together we'd be humbled by what we see in His gaze, in His eyes, when He looks upon His daughters. Because we'd see in His eyes how extraordinary He thinks we are and maybe we'd shine a little brighter and speak a little kinder and breathe a little deeper and love a little harder when we stop striving and start living in the extraordinary moment of right now. 

And when the Gospel, the extraordinary message of Jesus, begins to live within us, to take root and sprout from us, we become living messengers of His grace and His love. And then our every moment is a living testament of His goodness and His grace and how can we possibly go wrong when our every breath is a living reminder of His extraordinary love?

Sometimes, most times, I just need to take a deep breath, and remember that Jesus already did the hardest part, the most extraordinary part. I can stop striving and lunging and exerting myself after an empty pursuit and just follow Him.

Just. Follow. Jesus.
Just. Love. Jesus.

And that's extraordinary.
Because He's extraordinary.

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

Dear Friends, 

I'm linked up today with some lovely ladies: Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart, and Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory. Drop by and be encouraged. 

What Happens When I Think Small...

I confess I think small.
Because I feel small.
And though God has not given me a spirit of fear but rather one of power and love, I don't feel that so I don't live that.
So I live small.

So there are days when I accidentally-on-purpose-maybe put God in a box.

And where God is Greater I somehow make Him smaller in my head and fix Him in this somewhat ridiculous box that I made for myself, by myself, because in my small-mindedness I can't fathom something more than the nice, safe, comfortable limits of my box. The walls and the corners of what I see must be all there is.

This must make the enemy overjoyed.
Which makes me sad.

Here's how it happens because there's a method to this madness: Something happens--traumatic in my small little world, but because it's my small world, it's traumatic nonetheless--and because I respond to it according to "Jamie's" way I think that Jesus responds to that the same way. That my hang ups are His hang ups. That my limits are His limits. That my abilities and capabilities are His abilities and capabilities.

I know. I know.

What am I thinking?! But perhaps you're thinking that maybe you do this too. (Or at least I'm hoping one other sweet sister is thinking this so I'm not all alone out on this crazy limb.) I fall into this crazy habit of forgetting how BIG He is when I am living in the nitty-gritty smallness, the humdrum routine of everyday that sometimes makes me start thinking small, believing small.

I think we've grown complacent, accustomed to the tangible nature of our culture. Where things of the spirit are deemed taboo or we're deemed a little bit nuts because we believe in the Holy Spirit and if we believe in the Holy Spirit then there are other less holy spirits. And this spirit realm is a little eerie so people stick with what they know, what they can see, what they can touch, what they can prove. And maybe herein lies the problem.

Faith cannot be proven. Its very nature is based on that which is unseen. God asks us to step off a ledge believing in His perfect love and that His perfect love will not only catch us, but keep us and cast out every fear.

Faith cannot be touched. Sure, perhaps the result of faith can be. But the act of faith is an intrinsically personal one. I can't make you believe. I can't make me believe. I just have to shut my eyes tight and take that really scary step off that really tall cliff and believe that He is right there.

Faith cannot really be understood. It wasn't hugely popular when Noah started building a giant boat in the middle of a field where there wasn't a lick of water. There was no logic in Abraham's obedience when God asked him to sacrifice his only and long-awaited son, Isaac. It didn't really make sense when David, just a boy, obeyed the prompting of the Lord and slayed a giant with a sling shot and a small pebble. Or when Joshua marched around the city of Jericho for seven days. Or when Moses led his people through the Red Sea and into the Promised Land. Or when Esther was given the task of finding favor with her king to save her people. There was little explanation when Mary conceived a child by the Holy Spirit who would be the Savior of the world, the Savior of me.

What God asks of His people rarely makes sense in the moment. In fact, often, it might seem like what He's asking is just a bubble off plumb. But the marvelous awaits just on the other side of that chasm He asks us to jump over.

But there's a flip side.

I think because I sometimes, maybe, put God in a box I get in His way. Not that God couldn't push me out His way, because He's God. But if I'm not praying big, believing big, loving big, why would He go big?

When did we become afraid or forgetful of a Big God? And His really Big stuff?

When did I forget that I love a God who raised people from the dead? Who healed illness and brokenness and cast demons out of the suffering? And this same God loves me.

When did I forget that I believe in a God who has already won the war and is just dying to help us have victory in the battles and skirmishes between here and eternity?

When did I stop looking for the miraculous? Asking if He might do the miraculous? Believing that He wants to do the unbelievable? When did I stop believing that He might answer my really crazy prayer in a way that I can see? That maybe my faith the size of a mustard seed would be just what He was waiting for to move mountains.

When did I forget that faith has to be more than a word that I say, a platitude that I utter, an idea that I agree to, but it must be the concrete that I build my actions on, the impetus to steer my investments of time and energy, the runway that all the other Kingdom stuff can take off from. And the only cure for unbelief, for small complacent faith, is more of Jesus.

My God does not fit in a box. In fact, I'm pretty sure He loves to break them right open.

Chip Brogden wrote "If God will do whatever He wishes, regardless of whether we pray or not, then we do not need to pray at all, and the Lord's instructions on praying for the Kingdom and the Will are superfluous. But the truth is that God waits for a Remnant to rise up and pray in agreement with His Purpose before He does anything--He will do nothing apart from the Church. Apart from HIM, we CAN do nothing; apart from US, He WILL do nothing."

The God of the Bible is the same God we serve today. I believe He wants revival. I believe He wants all to come to know Him and none to perish. I believe He wants to make Himself known and use His people to perform miracles for His glory. I believe that He wants to break out of the box that perhaps we have made for Him because it's more comfortable for us because we can see it and touch it and know it. I think He's grieved by our unbelief--by our inability to ask with confidence and belief and agreement for sickness to be healed, for husbands to come to Jesus, for children to turn back to God, for cities to be moved, and for all the other hard stuff that lies between here and forever.

In the face of an enemy who will stop at nothing to break, annihilate, and destroy, we must believe in a God who is bigger or we'll flounder under all this weight. When 9 year old girls are being sold and raped, when 8 year olds are hooked on drugs, when high schoolers are shooting each other, when women are selling their bodies and thus their souls, when men sit in complacency when they should stand for truth, when folks half a world away don't have food to eat or beds to sleep in, when folks are doing unspeakable things to the innocent, and the list of ugly and broken things can go on for days.

And I tell you, my heart is grieved. Broken. Shattered. By the havoc and the hurt that is being wrought. But I have to cling tightly to the Truth and the One who knows every face, every heart, every violation. And He is greater than all of that. He is bigger than all of that. And when I pray, when we pray, the prayers of His people shift the earth a bit, leave ripples with all those prayers we are heaving, by all those prayers that are breaking us right open...you throw one stone in a pond and it makes a ripple, but what if you threw a handful? A bucketful? A truck load? How big is that ripple now? And that ripple goes on rippling through eternity and eternity is changed. And what if those prayers, the hard ones where there are no words just our tears and the loud ones and the quiet one and the grateful ones, were a tsunami, not of destruction, but of God's redemptive love, of His majestic power, of His transforming grace? Rippling the fabric, the very threads of eternity, moving them, changing them, grabbing them, weaving them again, weaving them differently.

When all seems so dark, so hopeless, our prayers light a thousand beacons shouting hope, our prayers set off a wave of ripples that shift the clouds and rend the veil so His light can break through.

I believe we can do all things through Him. I believe that He chooses us to be His hands and feet in a dangerous, lonely, broken world. To be the stuff that others can see and touch and hear and know so taking that leap to the other side of belief is less scary.

But I'm not sure I'm living my life like this. With boldness and reckless abandon to the love and transforming power of Jesus Christ. I'm not sure that I'm being transformed by the message of God's grace and then doing something about it, not because I have to, but because I'm compelled to.

So here's to letting the God of everything transform how I think, how I believe, how I pray, how I live.
Here's to asking God to lovingly and gracefully casting aside my small-mindedness and giving me His eyes to see the limitless and endless possibilities of His Kingdom.

Here's to latching the safety bar tightly across my lap, riding that car to the top of that mountain, and just as it tips over that precipice, throwing my hands straight up and riding it through to the end.

Believing that my Great God will use my small faith to help His Kingdom come.

Grace always Rises,
Jamie

Hey there, I'm linked up today with some lovely ladies: Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart, and Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory.

What to take from pain

The last 5 weeks have been rough.
Painful. At times debilitating. Frustrating. Expensive.
It's often hard to see the forest for the trees.
It's often hard to see the beauty in the ashes.
It's often hard to remember that brokenness is a season, an opportunity, a blessing.

But until that holy shift in perspective comes, it just feels like a gloomy day; a day where the sun is hiding and the light has gone away.

I am a sort-of runner. I say sort of because if there was a different "thing" I could do that would reap the same benefits for the same cost (ie. free), then I would probably do that instead. I don't love running per say. I'm more of a team sport kind of person. But I have discovered running is good for my mental health as well as my physical health...mostly.

I am a sort-of soccer player. I say sort of because I really love soccer, but I'm not terribly talented at it. I can hold my own on the turf, and I'm smart so I make up for my lack of skill with an overabundance of firing synapses. I play on a team where the average age is probably 40 so none of us are gonna be world class players--ever. But we have fun and it's good exercise and I like the folks I play with.

Combine the two, plus a 38 year old body, and sometimes that body doesn't cooperate like it did a decade ago. Thus my last 5 weeks.

It was my own fault. I knew my lower back wasn't right. There was pain for quite a few weeks and that pain wasn't really going away and every time I played, I aggravated an already aggravated issue. I let the issue compound itself and build into and upon itself until one game, my back told me, in no uncertain manner, that I was done. DONE.

I had crazy pain. Pain that I might just equate to labor pain. It was horrible. And awful. And excruciating. And constant.

I was sad. To put it mildly.

And as I sought treatment for that issue, I realized that while I was relatively fit, parts of my body had been sorely neglected and were now sending that message in quite an unfriendly manner. The realigning of my lower back sent my hip flexors into a revolt against the rest of my lower body. For those anatomy buffs, the hip flexor (aka the psoas) I've learned connects to the interior of some of those lower back vertebrae so when you start moving those, then the hip flexors resist, which pulls on the hips which irritates the IT band which then irritates some other muscles. It's super awesome. So these last weeks have played out like some crazy dramedy (you know-- drama plus comedy) which should've been cancelled before it began. I say dramedy because pain is drama. There's no getting around that. But to an outsider who's watching me slowly get in and out of my car, it's probably pretty funny.

I have come to have a great appreciation for how God has designed us. And I have also come to realize that fixing one issue often peels back the veil on several other issues. Or deeper issues.

So it goes with our souls. We might find ourselves dealing with fear and then we find ourselves dealing with anxiety and avoidance and denial and faith because of the fear. It's never just about the one thing. God sees us holistically so He also deals with us holistically. He peels back the layers of our hidden selves to see what we deem unseemly.

He plucks those unseemly bits like so many weeds and He doesn't mess around. When we surrender, He goes for the gusto and yanks the whole root out so that that weed is good and gone. But what's left is a raw and gaping hole where all that weed used to be. In His goodness, He doesn't leave us to our own devices because we'd go right back and fill that hole up with the first thing we could find that might sort-of fit. Instead, God offers us the very essence of Himself, His goodness, His grace, His love and as His grace flows down, those holes are filled with the stuff of holiness and grace. God straight up sanctifies those holes and what grows from the beauty He plants are vines laden with abundant fruit.

When I ignore my brokenness, my pain, my fear and try to bury it, the issue only gets worse and again, it becomes a mess derived of my own creation. Pretending something isn't there is a sort of perverted creating because it doesn't go away and the act of ignoring gives permission for that "thing" to then become.

Procrastination in doing, in surrendering, in addressing an injury does not speed healing. It negates healing. Denial of an injury does not promote healing. It prevents healing.
It doesn't really matter what the injury is or where the injury is.
And if 'injury' is too literal for you, replace it with 'brokenness.' That works, too.

I've learned some important lessons these last 5 weeks:

Embracing the pain and breathing through the pain help immensely with perspective. It's a season. If I'd addressed it earlier, the season might have been much shorter, but there are consequences for procrastination and denial. Thus the importance of breathing.

Rest is good. Rest promotes healing. Inside and out. Body and soul. While forced rest isn't always what we might order, I have found it's often what He orders when we've ignored the signs and symptoms for too long.

Jesus is faithful. Even when I don't understand all the ways my body freaks out, I can hold fast to the knowledge that He knows exactly what's not right since He knit me together. The Creator knows which offers me some peace when I don't know.

Broken things take time to un-break. I can't say that I'm back to fighting form yet. I'm better than I was a week ago and for that I'm grateful. But since I didn't break in a day but over a span of months, it's unrealistic to think that I can be put back together in a week or two. Healing takes time. (I know, you're probably saying "Duh, I know that" but this mama apparently forgets these simple truths sometimes!).

Little victories lead to big victories. I have to celebrate the small triumphs so I can keep my head, keep my peace, keep my wits. And the accumulation of small victories leads to those bigger victories that become stones of remembrance in a season where it's not just about the pain, which I'd like to forget, but about how Jesus met me right there in the middle of it.

Grace always Rises,
Jamie

Hey there, I'm linked up today with some lovely ladies: Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart, and Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory.

When Grace Flows Down

 It was a hard Saturday.

There was an issue with the Eldest.

More specifically, with her room. 

Or rather all the stuff in her room that manages, in a very short time period, to unearth itself from where her parents have shown her to put it and to migrate to some other location that's not GPS accessible.
Her room is rough.

She couldn't find her soccer jersey.

Or her shorts.

And all the places where those items should be kept did not contain those items.

And all the other possible and impossible locations did not contain those items either.

I am a master at finding lost things.  (ALL mamas are master lost-thing finders. Amen?!)
And I was worried. And that worry quickly translated to frustration because in the process of looking for her uniform, I found a plethora of other things in unapproved locations.
(Read: Her room was a hot mess.)

So I let her know I was frustrated in a very loud and frustrated way. 

Perhaps not one of my finer mama moments, but there was no doubt as to my message and we have had versions 1.0, 2.0, and 3.0 of this conversation in the last several weeks so I felt my message needed to be communicated in a way she really couldn't misunderstand.

She was to stay in her room and clean it. Every inch, every drawer, every surface.

I removed my frustrated self from her room and up to my room so I could breathe.

She cried. 

And while I was practicing my breathing, I had a grace epiphany.
And I'm finding these grace epiphanies happen not because my children need grace, 
though they do, but because I desperately need grace, and when I need it most is when I'm having a not-so-fine-need-to-practice-my-breathing mama moment.
And this was definitely one of those moments.

I needed to have a moment with the Eldest and make this a different kind of lesson where perhaps there could be a different, more graceful, message that maybe would settle in her deep.
And one which would settle deep in my heart.

The Eldest came upstairs, cheeks splotchy, eyes puffy.

"Mama, I'm sorry for my room."
Her voice hitched on the last word and her eyes welled up again.

I held her and breathed Holy Spirit words that weren't my words because when they left my mouth,
I realized they were meant for me, too.

"Sweet girl, I love you. I am frustrated with what you did. With how you've been keeping your room. I am not frustrated with who you are. I love who you are and I know sometimes my frustration is not always nice and it might seem like I'm frustrated with who you are."
I laid my hand on her heart, really maybe it was my own heart, too.

"I love who you are. I'm frustrated with what you do. I always love you. Does that make sense?"

She nodded her head, sighed, and spent a great majority of the day purging her room.
And doing it with a joyful heart.

And I even helped.

And those words settled in, are still settling in, somewhere deep in me, too. 

I admit that I sometimes show great impatience with the Eldest.
And I start to see her through the lens of my frustration and my impatience.
I lose sight of who she is and 

that who she is cannot be the sum of what she does.

 I lose sight of what she needs because of who she is.

We are not what we do.

Oh sure, sometimes who we are dictates our choices and our words.

Sometimes what we do can determine what we become. 

But who we are, our identity, our core, our value, our worth, 
is not determined by the things we do.

God's love for me is not based on what I've done, what I'll do.
It's because of what He did.

It's because He calls me His Beloved.

He calls the Eldest His Beloved.

He calls you His Beloved.

As in He's in love with us.
And He wants us to BE LOVED.

That doesn't change.

Ever.

If His love for me was based on my behavior, I'd be sunk. I'd be lost and sad and hopeless.

I'm a child of the King and sadly, I don't always act like one.
The Eldest is a child of the King and I don't always parent her like one.

Many days I parent her according to what she does. Or doesn't do.

And instead of consistently parenting her in a way that reflects who she is and what she needs,
I'm reactive and not responsive. 

And it doesn't' mean I'm not disciplining her actions, but it means that my discipline must also nurture her soul because what's discipline without care, without thought, without nurture?
It's just rules and regulations. Legalism without grace.

She is so much more than what she does.
We all are.

When that Holy Spirit breath moved out of me, I saw my own actions, my own doings, my own rebellions, and how far off the mark I so often am. And how grateful I am God grants me grace after grace and doesn't give me what I deserve.

How often my actions or my words are the very opposite of who I am, of who He says I am.

And God still doesn't treat me according to what I might deserve.

He disciplines. Which means I might have consequences.

But He keeps covering me with grace.

He keeps loving me.

He keeps me.

Parenting children is all about grace.
How often I seem to forget that. Forget grace.

How different my Saturday might have been if I'd not been moved by a moment. 

Our day was transformed because it was moved by grace and not anger, grace instead of frustration.
My heart was moved because I gave up my parenting agenda in lieu of a much greater one.

 Because He offers me grace, I could offer her grace

And all that Holy Spirit grace carried me right up in rolling rivers of it.

Grace Always Rises,
Jamie

Hey there, I'm linked up today with some lovely ladies: Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart, and Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory.

How to Love Big

So I went to pick up the girls from preschool and their teacher, Miss C, pulled me aside. Again. I always panic a little when this happens. These girls of mine are prone to doing crazy stuff that gets them in trouble that results in me being pulled aside and which creates an "issue" that I then have to address after I've worked all day with teenagers who seem to have lots of "issues." So I'm sure you agree when I say it's not my favorite when I pick up my kids and find I have to deal with more "issues."

I have to remind myself to breathe so my head doesn't straight up spin off my body.

But this time was different.

Miss C told me that Rye shared that she "loves Miss C so so much." And she knows that Miss C loves her "so so much" and Miss C gives her hugs and kisses to show how she loves Rye "so so much." And Rye, in turn, gives Miss C hugs and kisses to show she loves Miss C "so so much." And so they really love each other "so so much."

In addition, Miss C has a new baby grandson who visits often. He's adorable. And Rye is in love with Baby Zachary. And shares this every day: "Mama, I love my Baby Zachary. I got to give him his bottle today and I gave him sweet kisses on his head." And because Rye loves Baby Zachary so abundantly, yesterday, to the astonishment of both his mother and Miss C, apparently Baby Zachary, who's 4 months old, recognized Rye, smiled so big his eyes disappeared, and tried to reciprocate and give back some of those kisses to Rye in his sweet bouncy, baby way.

And Rye just keeps giving away all this love. Freely. Extravagantly. Abundantly.
And as extravagantly as she gives it away, it runs in great rivers right back to her sweet, gentle heart and then gushes over, and if you're standing close, you can't help but be soaked straight to your core in all this loveliness.

Her love is so much bigger than her little 4 1/2 year old body. She doesn't have any baggage to get in the way of big loving. There's no fear and there's no distress. There's only freedom and joy and gladness in her loving.

I wonder when we stop giving away extravagant love?
Is it that first time it returns void...not because something was incomplete about our love,
but because the one we wanted to receive it couldn't? or wouldn't?
Is it that first time it's ignored or rejected or thrown and trampled on?
Is it the second time, the third time?
Is there a statute of limitations on giving away our love?
Is it when that relationship hits a little too close to home or gets just a bit too messy or requires just a bit too much, then we pull back, or we get burned, and you know that saying, once bitten, twice shy....
Is it when it becomes somehow unseemly or awkward to grab a sweet sister and hug her tight, or hold her hand, or wipe her tears away?
Is it because in our heads we're making excuses about time and commitments and margin and again, time?
Is it because we are afraid to show our affection? To offer our care?
Is it because we are afraid of what people might think if we shower love like a spring rainstorm?

Have we stopped to wonder what Jesus might think?

Jesus loves us extravagantly. marvelously. wonderfully. beautifully. abundantly.
I could go on, but I would have to bust out the thesaurus to find the exact-perfect words.
I don't always live like I'm loved like this.
I don't always love others like I'm loved like this.

Rye does. Almost every day.
She's the first one to notice if you're sad.
She's the first one to comfort you if you have a boo-boo,
She's the first one to ask about your bruise or band-aid or scab.
She's the first one to snuggle.
She's the first one to cry big, sad, alligator tears.
She's the first one to give a big kiss and a bigger, tighter hug.
She wakes up and finds someone to snuggle with...me, the husband, K, the dog...someone.
She knows she's loved and she's not afraid to share it, show it, live it.
And sure, sometimes that affection turns ugly, messy, unfortunately so.
But it doesn't stop her from keeping on. Forging on. Hugging on. Loving on.
Rye loves big.

The Bible is filled with people who loved big. Who loved beyond themselves.
Despite the risks. Despite the costs. Despite the mess. 

Anything worth fighting for is going to cost us something. It's always going to cost us when people are in the mix. And people are what He's all about. So loving extravagantly, loving abundantly, loving beyond ourselves is also going to cost us something. Because loving people gets a little bit messy sometimes. I get a little bit messy sometimes. 

Yeah, it's easy to avoid entanglement--To avoid relationships so we can avoid the distress, yes, even the trouble, that relationships will ultimately bring us at one point or another. It's easy to live life numb. Boring, but easy. But that avoidance denies us the opportunity for gladness later on, denies us the opportunity to be used by Jesus, to see Jesus move, so we can come alive. So He can be made alive in us.

Here's a grace: The last time I checked, Jesus specializes in messy--David was a mess, Job was a mess, Saul was a mess, Abraham was a mess, Joseph was a mess. And that list marches on through the ticking of time. Straight down to me. And probably to you.
Jesus redeems messy people.
Jesus loves messy people.
Jesus uses messy people because they know they're a mess.

If I had to have all my ducks in a row before Jesus could love me, use me, save me...well, that would be ugly given my ducks are scattered to the far corners of several galaxies on an hourly basis. I would have no hope.

And yet, my mess is exactly what Jesus loves. Because there's lots of opportunity for Him to do what only He does: Be made perfect in all my weakness for all His glory. 

Jesus commands us to love others. Period. There's no disclaimers or stipulations on that love. He loves us. We love others. All in. All the time. And we know love is mostly a verb so yeah, we're gonna have to carve out time and space in all our busy and crazy and loud to do this Jesus-love thing.

We are called to community, to relationship, to a deep fellowship with others. You can only go deep if you, well, go deep. And I don't know about you, but the deeper I go into my own soul, the messier and stickier and more convoluted I seem to get. It's hard to invite some other poor sister-soul to take that journey with me believing that she would want to travel that crazy road, or more, that she would be safe on that crazy road with me. And yet, that's exactly what we're called to. And deep down, it's what we all crave: to know and to be known.

We're exhorted to accept this abiding invitation to live a deeper life alongside others so we're not traveling separate roads in isolation, but we're traveling them alongside others, intermingling and criss-crossing and weaving tapestries in stories and tears and laughter. We're building bridges between our crazy, criss-crossed roads so when I'm bumped or bruised or weary-worn, you just jaunt on over for a cup of coffee and walk for a bit on my road, sharing the journey with me, and I'll do the same for you. This is gladness and life is so much better this way.

But this is also hard. And scary. Very. Scary.
Because what if you don't like me?
What if how I feel about you isn't how you feel about me?
What if I pour into you all this love and you walk away? Or vice versa?
What if I share my hard with you and you shrug your shoulders and roll your eyes?
What if I risk it all, throw all my chips in, and they're the wrong color?

That's the risk with loving people with an extravagant kind of Jesus-love.
It's a fact that when we love much, it will hurt much. 
And we do it anyway.
Because there's gonna be that day, that person, that heart that feels exactly the same way about you as you do about her. There's gonna be that fullness made complete when all that loving sticks and grows and bears fruit. There's gonna be that celebration for a hard battle won, for a hard road traveled, for a hard heart broken. There's gonna be that moment when all that love floods back, rolling right through us, filling our cups right up to overflowing.

Aren't we all just waiting for someone to take that first step towards us?
We're all just kind of in a holding pattern..waiting for someone else to make the first move, to take the initiative in cultivating a relationship. Someone to indicate that she, maybe, wants to know me. Someone to make that first call. That first text. That first overture. That first invitation. So we're all just waiting. Looking around, looking up to the sky, looking down, avoiding eye contact, waiting.

And you know, next week we'll all still probably be waiting.

So what if we moved first?
What if we asked first, shared first, called first?

What if we loved first?
And we loved big.
And we didn't weigh the risks or calculate the odds. 
And we didn't love to get it back.
And we just went all in. 
And loved big because He loved us big first.

I woke up my sweet Rye this morning.
When I sat on the edge of her bed, she leaned up, grabbed me tight around my neck and pulled me into her so she could bury her nose in my neck.
When she let me go, she walked to her sister and wrapped her arms tight around K and kissed her right on her forehead. Then she went to brush her teeth.

All without a single word. Sometimes, loving big is speechless.

Maybe we should all wake up loving.
Extravagantly.
And big.

Grace always Rises,
Jamie

Hey there, I'm linked up today with some lovely ladies: Holley Gerth at Coffee for your Heart, Meredith Bernard, and Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory.