There was that quick interruption when I had to change sheets (twice) on account of a two year old having a rough day and wetting them.  Also on the subject of potty troubles, I plunged the toilet twice on account of a four year old who believes one roll of toilet paper per sitting should do the job.  It would have been quick clean up if he had thought to get me instead of flushing again…and again… and again until the floor and rugs were sopping wet with dirty water.  Oops.  That load of laundry included five towels and two rugs.

Then “I just need to switch laundry real quick” turned into “How did the mudroom get this muddy?” which turned into a quick vacuum, dumping muddy pants into the washer, and of course returning to the paint project.

About that time I heard a bus and two more heads appeared with, “Where’s our snack?”  ”Here’s my homework.”  ”Don’t forget to sign this.”  ”I’m still hungry.”  ”When’s dinner?”

Dinner it was and well after that before I found the paint smudge on my nose.

After all was quiet and four little eyes were closed in sleep I went to switch the laundry again.  Hanging over my old, breaking dryer I recalled my first sobering “I can only do so much!” moment as a parent and how it was ironically spurred by a laundry commercial.

It was the middle of the night and I was nursing a baby in the dark living room with the TV on in miserable attempt to keep my eyes open.  I’m certain there was yet more laundry piled on the floor, dried spit up on the couch armrest, and a pile of toys I couldn’t summon energy to clean before bed.  I do remember it had been a day similar to the painting day- full of interruptions and good intentions derailed.  One of those days you can’t recall what you did, but wow- was it ever hectic.

On came an Electrolux commercial with Kelly Ripa.

Nothing like a tan, perky, put together woman grinning her way through a demonstration of an amazing washer and dryer while I’m curled up on the couch with a nursing baby, bed head, retainers in, to make me feel… un-perky.  I’m sorry Kelly, I’m trying to hear what you’re saying but your amazing biceps are distracting me.  Will the washer and dryer make my hair silky and flippable like that?  I think I may be drooling.  (Oh, nope- that was the baby.)  Good NIGHT woman how do you get those teeth so white?!  Did you pick that outfit?  The color is fabulous… how old are these pajama pants I’m wearing?

For a past midnight, delirious moment I believed.  I believed when Kelly flicks her wrist full of bouncy, clean laundry, it folds itself.  I believed she can pull a tablecloth out from a full table setting without rocking the vase of fresh flowers.  She convinced me that every closet is organized, every baby book up to date, and there probably aren’t even crumbs in her car.  Does she even know what rotten milk in a lost sippy cup smells like?  She probably wakes up and has a good workout before making a hearty breakfast for her family, arrives at the studio for makeup and is professionally stunning by 8am.  When was the last time I was stunning by 8am?  Thus was born The Kelly Ripa Illusion.

“Okay that’s extreme.”  I laughed at myself but as I was burping the baby I stopped, mid-burp.  ”Wait.  Kelly Ripa has three kids like I have three kids.  Sure, she probably has an unorganized closet somewhere but she looks incredible.  Wait.  How does she work, manage three kids, have calves like that, and do commercials like this?  A grocery store trip takes my whole day!”  My eyes narrowed.  ”Ripa- what’s your secret?”  I fought the wave of overwhelmed desperation and grasped for a rational thought.  It came.

Kelly Ripa has 24 hours in her day just like I do.

The struggle is universal and though I’ve never discussed it with Kelly I’m convinced she experiences the same battle of expectations; of others expecting her to be larger than life when she sometimes wants to dissolve into a puddle and let someone else mop her up.  She may have even suffered a moment of Mom guilt from not enough stories read, not a long enough tuck in, or a snack not homemade enough (but it probably was still organic.  Come on, she’s Kelly freaking Ripa.)

I felt myself being pulled by what I hope of myself, what my husband wants, what my kids need, what my church expects, and should I be bringing in some income?  Why didn’t I get my master’s when I had the chance?  Wasn’t there someone I should have brought dinner to?  Oh no, I’ve never even exposed my kids to classical music!

That is how an Elextrolux commercial caused me to cry out to God.  “Lord- I will never be put together enough, will never do enough, never have energy enough, never will have a clean car, clean bathrooms, and clean kids on the same day…”

I was reassured.  I was reassured that there are enough hours in my day to do what God has placed in front of me.  It might not mean Kelly Ripa biceps (but some days and some seasons, it might).  It doesn’t mean leisurely quiet time all morning but it does mean I wake before my family to use some moments for prayer and study.  It means saying no to perfectly good things when they don’t line up with the very important things.  It means being intentional with the time I do have, and constantly asking the Lord what it should look like.

My wise grandmother once told me that I don’t need to chase every passion, every desire, every gift from God in one swoop.  She told me to let God dictate which ones get used in which seasons and let go of the rest.  (Clearly I’m in a raising kids season so I’m foregoing Today Show appearances and learning that laundry folding/wrist flicking trick… you know… for the kids.)

For the first time in eight years I have a two year old without a baby close behind.  I regularly sleep decent stretches and can do more than a grocery store trip in a day.  It’s easy to give in to The Kelly Ripa Illusion and overshoot.  ”I’ll run a marathon!  I’ll write a book!  I’ll get a job!  I’ll take in another foster child!  I’ll travel!  I’ll eliminate poverty!”

Then I remember a glowing Kelly, Electrolux, and that I need to ask the Lord “what for this season?”

Apparently this season was a bunk bed.  Anything else was overshooting.  In fact, my idea to write this “quick fluffy little blog” may have been an overshot.  In the previous paragraph alone I was interrupted no less than four times for help on the toilet (what is with these kids!?),  for a bike crash, for mud in the eyes, and to reheat my coffee because this is taking altogether too long.

She also isn’t generally sentimental or overly expressive like I am.  She carries her intensity and passion in discipline, perfectionism, and challenges… none of which I relate to naturally.  When we were young I used to look at her incredulously, “Are we really sisters?”

My mom always told me, “She will be your irreplaceable friend.  Others will come and go.  You always have siblings.”
It’s true.
No matter how much you don’t identify with someone, how much you roll your eyes, borrow their clothes without asking, and insist your way is better… something happens when you’re constantly pushed together.  Be it bunk beds, rallying against little brothers, commiserating about mandatory piano lessons, or going through your awkward phase simultaneously,

one day you’ll wake up next to that same little sister you can’t keep a secret from to save your life and realize that… huh… maybe you are kinda, sorta, in a weird way, irreplaceable friends.

For us it was more extreme than most because we moved a lot.  I attended five elementary schools and three high schools.  I was blessed to make some amazing friends along the way, a handful remain close today.  But the bouncing around can be lonely… unless you come home to the same little sister.  She knew the same friends at every school and each new neighborhood along with me.  Out of necessity we had each other, even on the days we might not have chosen each other.

When we fought over differences (okay, let’s be honest- when we fought over my lack of responsibility) we had plenty to fall back on.  We had code words for everything and a secret sign language we used so Dad and Mom wouldn’t know we were still up past lights out.  We both took way too long to outgrow barbies.  We could go from dirt bikes to sunbathing to talking over a carton of ice cream within an afternoon.

Somewhere along the line some of our goofy pastimes started evolving.  My willingness to let Jasmine pluck my eyebrows and play with my hair

turned into a real profession.  I would have paid her to not do the things to me that she now gets paid for.

We were known to make up dances.  Thank you Paula Abdul and Amy Grant (but…ahem… if you’re looking for a certain music video of us circa 1994- I know nothing about it).  Years later we laughed about our knobby kneed dances as we coached high school cheer and started a dance team/small group for middle and high school students at our church.

We had a Baby Sitter’s Club in middle school.  We now have the grown up, full time version…

Our first long stint apart was when I moved to Whitworth University for college.  Later she had a lonely year at George Fox and we ran up a long distance bill.

We got used to splitting our wardrobe up each fall and mastered a system.  ”If you get that hoodie then I get that jacket.”  ”Fine but then I get the favorite black boots and you get the sub-par pair.”

After our first year of marriage, Sean and I ran out of money and job options in Spokane.  Jasmine, who had just moved back to Lynden, called.  ”You guys should come work here for the summer.  It’d be like old times.  We can work berries, rollerblade, and share clothes.”  (Okay, maybe the sharing clothes part was my idea.)

A summer of berries turned into a year of ministry… and over a decade of living within an hour of each other.

That decade brought a depth that life brings when you walk through fire, flood, and garden together.  From marriages, miscarriages, careers, adoptions, heartbreaks, moves, to me pushing her to think hard and act gently, her pushing me to challenge myself and think rationally, and yes- lots of coffee.

Last fall Lance & Jasmine moved to southern California.  To which I numbly replied, “Really?  Of all the years?”
But really… would there have been a good year?

Kind people ask me all the time how it’s been without my sister.  I’m not quite sure what I say.  I think my mouth moves and sound comes out, but I’m not quite sure what I say.

We went to California for Spring Break last week and fit in all the sun, coffee, talks, runs, ice cream and t-ball-with-the-kids moments possible.

Ultimately I’ve decided we might as well get this season of distance over with because my rollerblades from 1997 still have a little tread on them.  I’m also holding a few choice pieces of jewelry and one pair of jeans hostage.

You may laugh and have in mind that I’m exaggerating.  Stop imagining 32yr old Shilo.  Picture with me 12yr old Shilo with braces, perm, and a decently round face that caused my eyes to disappear when I smiled… oh wait.  That may happen regardless of cheek size.

I was last in the mile.  Maybe you’re rolling your eyes thinking, “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad” but let me tell you- my fear over failing would turn into a side ache by lap one.  By lap two I was dreaming up excuses I could use.  By lap three every cute guy in the class was lapping me and I was praying they didn’t notice it was my frizzy hair and neatly folded socks falling behind.  By lap four the rest of the class was waiting… and waiting… and dear God, am I STILL doing this?!  My run turned into a walk and I resigned myself to acting like I don’t care.

“Your time was 12 min and 45 sec.”
I shrugged.  ”I had a side ache.  My knees are bothering me.  I’ve had this headache.  I stayed behind with that slow kid so he wouldn’t feel bad.  I ate too much for breakfast.”
Inwardly, “12:45?  Sweet!  My best time ever!”

The same year I discovered that I’m amazing at the high jump.  Best girl in the class.  Who knew?!  The P.E. teacher said, “We’d love to have you join track.”
“I’m sorry… I feel hives coming on.  I can’t breathe.  Don’t you have to run in track?”  No way.  I had resigned myself to not being a runner.

Three months before my wedding my sister assumed the role of personal trainer and got me into the best shape of my life.  Still- I made her promise no long distances.  I got up to 2 miles of interval running but even in great shape dismissed the running option.  ”I suck at running.”  I refused to set goals in this area and when I hoped to break through a plateau, I certainly wouldn’t dare say it out loud.

I always told myself, “I’m comfortable not being a runner.  So what?  I do what I can do.  What is safe to do… what I won’t fail to do.  Two miles on the treadmill in the quiet of the morning.  Done.”

I’ve been realizing running isn’t the only area of my life that this thinking of being safe and sticking to what I know has permeated.  Apparently “good enough” sneaks in when anything more risks failure or uncomfortable vulnerability.

I am not a writer.
Since I could form letters I loved writing stories.  They were in private notebooks because I knew they probably weren’t great.  I threw them away when the notebook was full but it was therapeutic for me.

When I was ten years old I discovered the youngest published author was nine years old.  I was crushed even though I had never told a soul my dream to be the youngest published author.  I had convinced the “rational” part of myself that I wasn’t a writer but that rational part failed to convince a passionate (yet fearful) kid.

In 8th grade my best friend presented me with a journal.  I filled it in a matter of months.  I got another one.  And another.  In 19 years this “non-writer” managed to fill 42 journals.

(Excessive?  Yeah… maybe a bit.)

I rolled my eyes when my husband suggested I start a blog.  My string of excuses were ready; “My writing is between me and God.  Who wants to hear about a day in the life of a mom?”  Then resigning to, “Alright.  At least my mom will read it.”

A couple weeks ago I had two messages on facebook.  One was from my highly competitive family members starting a 200 Mile Challenge.  We have until August 1st.  Ten miles a week.  Immediately my non-runner excuses started.  When I stopped to realize it wouldn’t be impossible and would get me into gear after an inconsistent year, I realized I was hesitant because it is a public commitment in an area I lack confidence.
I was going to pass on the challenge until I remembered a few days prior I had asked God to show me fears and areas I was lacking confidence instead of believing God’s strength in me.  It seemed a little silly but I knew the opportunity to break through mental block was more providence than irony.  I committed.

The second facebook message was from a friend who is a professional writer, urging me to push myself in writing.  As in making goals, getting disciplined, and… gulp… turning it into a book.  ”Aw, that was nice of her to say.”

Her persistence continued and I mentioned it to Sean as we folded laundry a couple nights later.
He asked, “Would you want to do more writing?  Do you think you should pursue it and see if there’s a book there?”
Nonchalant shrug, “If I have time for new commitments I should be earning money, finishing projects, teaching Everett to read-”
“We’ve always said we’d rather be penniless and pursue the dreams and passions God gives us.”
Oh.  I guess we did say that.  Oh.  I guess I thought that applied to my fearless, big dreaming husband.  Oh.  I guess I never considered there might be room in that for me.  Oh.  That was a nice ideal but did we add that might be scary?

He proceeded to give me a Sean Taylor speech that encouraged me to respond to God when He nudges (even if it’s outside of the box in a way I wasn’t expecting), recognize God’s provision in providing a writing mentor, to accept that God might want to use me through giving me a book to write, and other inspirational things that caused me to feel like I should raise my hand at the altar call when he ended.  I agreed to meet with our writer friend, which I suppose was the altar call equivalent.

When I met with her my rehearsed excuses bubbled out yet again.  ”Blog snippets are different than writing a book.  My grammar is bad.  I’m not sure I even like my writing.  Does anyone really want to hear about laundry and ministry and skinned knees?  Because it’s the only thing I know.”

She asked, “Shilo, are you a runner?”
I laughed.
She then talked about setting incremental goals to reach a larger goal and other parallels between writing and running that were beginning to seem comical.
Two hours later I was encouraged, challenged, somehow managed to fit in some tears, and starting to set goals out of my comfort zone.

I don’t know where the stirring will lead.  It could lead to manuscripts that gather dust on a shelf or a pulled hamstring.  But I’ve had worse failures.  It could also lead to a real book (someday I’ll say that without a disbelieving smile) or a real marathon (someday I’ll say that without feeling twelve and awkward).

I am coming to a quiet realization that whether I fail or succeed- in anything- my life points to God’s character, not my own awesomeness (or lack thereof).  If He is capable of using failures and successes to glorify Himself then I can let go of some of my tight fisted comfort and ask God with a deep breath, “What are our dreams?”

I’ve committed to write an hour a day and this week I find myself giddy as the hour approaches.
I ran three and a half miles this morning and each mile was under ten minutes.  Middle school Shilo would have an eye disappearing, wide mouthed metal grin at that.

There’s a fascinating little story tucked into the book of Genesis that I keep coming back to.  It follows the incredible story of the flood and grand verses of God’s promises to Noah, who must have been feeling pretty good about his life, his standing with God, and the re-building to come.
There’s farming going on in chapter 9, a successful vineyard, and… wine.  Our faith giant Noah has a few too many.  Noah doesn’t need tequila to make his clothes fall off… evidently wine will do it.  There he is fallen from grace; naked in his tent.

Noah’s son Ham discovers his hammered father sprawled out in the buff and his immediate response is, “Wait ’til I tell the guys!”  We’re all familiar with the Hams of the world, gleefully grabbing the phone (or ram’s horn) to pass on today’s humiliation and sin.  (It’s okay, Ham- I’m sure you added the Christian, “we should be praying for him” disclaimer at the end.  Smooth.)

Shem and Japheth don’t respond as Ham anticipated.  They “took a garment, laid it on both their shoulders, and went backward and covered the nakedness of their father.  Their faces were turned away and they did not see their father’s nakedness.”  Genesis 9:23.  It brings tears every time I read they went backwards, indicating how far above and beyond they went to cover their father in love.

In our Bible study we were asked to examine which sons we identify with.  In non-conformist fashion I made up my own character.  I saw myself as a hypothetical bystander that very well may have been on the scene of Drunken Debacle 4000 (B.C.).

I have been the one who heard about Noah and crossed her arms, raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips and said, “That’s too bad.  He’s gonna to have consequences for that one.”  I wish I stopped there but I go on; “I should probably act a little distant so he really understands the impact of his sin.  It probably isn’t enough to remind him of God’s commands.  In fact, maybe I can help God by giving my own consequences or at least helping Noah feel God’s consequences a little more.”  While I might not spread the news like Ham, I’m unconcerned if it’s spread because he clearly should have considered that before getting himself in that position.

Now before you go thinking I’m hard nosed, I do end with softer phrases.  ”If he shows real repentance” (don’t you love how I assume I’ll be able to measure Noah’s heart accurately?) “I’ll welcome him back.  Absolutely I believe he’s forgiven… but I wouldn’t want gentleness to be misinterpreted as condoning.  He’s probably embarrassed anyway so it’s better if I look the other way.”

I’m not at all unkind the next morning when Noah stumbles out, his stomach too weak for breakfast quail.  I don’t mock.  I don’t even shake my head with condemnation.  I’m understanding as I mumble to the person next to me, “It must’ve been a lot of pressure… living with all those animals on the ark.  There’s a lot of expectation on poor old Noah.”  I’m sincere.  I pray for him.  I hope he really does come around and I add the, “it could’ve been any of us, you know” remark at the end.

Noah (all the Noahs in my life) – I’m sorry.  I wish I could take back my response.  I wish breakfast went differently.  I wish I immediately went to you to assure you that you still have a place around the table.  I wish I pulled up a rock next to yours and got awkwardness out of the way.  I wish I didn’t assume I should wait for time, for evidence that you won’t pull a stunt like that again, for gossip to die down.  I wish I said to you, “This sucks.  I know you screwed up.  But I’m with you.  I know God’s still going to do something with this.”

Hear me- I’m not telling Noah what he did was no big deal.  (I mean- come on, man!  Anyone over 600yrs old should not sprawl out au naturel for the world!)  I’m not joining in or challenging him to a drink off.  I’m not minimizing the severity of sin.  I just know that love covers all wrongs (Proverbs 10:12) and I see an opportunity to put that to practice by having Noah’s back.

When my younger brothers rebelled as teenagers, I was bystander “Eat-your-consequences-and-get-compassion-elsewhere”.  I did not understand why my parents gave so many chances.  I was glad they chose to not tolerate rebellion in their home and allowed natural consequences, but I didn’t understand why they still were so compassionate, still sought my brothers and worked (in my opinion) way too hard to maintain relationship.  Then when my brothers did change, why were my parents so quick to receive their prodigal sons?  Shouldn’t they build credibility awhile first?  Make them sweat it out for heaven’s sake!

Yes, Jesus gives many chances.  Yes, He seeks us.  Yes, when we turn our hearts to Him He is immediate in His response, in His restoration, in His redemption of the mess we’ve made of our lives.  Yes, even after we turn to Him we have consequences but how did I miss the way He walks with us through consequences and even shows us His gentleness in them?  Almost as though He backs into our tent and covers us with Himself?

This is what compels me to Christ and breaks down every wall to make me a puddle of repentant humility and willingness.
He doesn’t respond as Ham, which would certainly cause me to be defensive, humiliated, and either run or curse him (oh, which Noah did!  Gen. 9:25 had to feel kinda good).  Sorry Ham- nothing about you brings repentance in me.
Jesus doesn’t respond as bystander Shilo, who causes me to feel like I’m out to earn good favor or walk on eggshells to avoid the “I’m screwed up” topic.  Sorry Shi- your response makes me evaluate my checklist, not my heart.
Jesus takes the beautiful response of Shem and Japheth and then completes it.  He takes on my naked humiliation, covers me with His own blood, and has the power to not only get rid of my sin but completely transform me.  My response is complete relief, clarity in what once felt muddled, and unhindered submission.  Let me cling to you, Jesus!

What authority have I been acting under in how I treat those returning to Him… or even those who may soon turn to Him?
My brothers were brought back to Christ, in part, because my parents mirrored Christ.  It was messy.  It aged them.  It was hard.  But they refused to be bystanders and determined to model Jesus by covering the boys in His love.

Now?  If you ever screw up royally or wake up naked in a tent, I recommend you call my youngest brother.  He will never tell you what you did was ok.  He will never let you off the hook.  He will also never make you feel like an idiot and he will never walk away while you’re bleeding.

He will tell you matter of factly, “You’re sh*t faced but God can do awesome things with sh*t faced!  I’ve seen it first hand!”  He’ll tell you he’s been there.  He will speak Scripture over you and encourage you to press on, reminding you how valuable working out your salvation is.  He won’t let you go until he’s prayed over you.  Not just, “I’ll pray for you” and certainly not, “I’ll tell a bunch of other people so we can pray for you” but Stop.  Drop.  Pray.  You’ll walk away encouraged, covered, closer to Christ, somehow in touch with your depravity yet completely confident in God’s perfection.  You can expect that’s not the end of it.  My little brother will be writing down Scriptures for you when they come to mind, dreaming up challenging questions to push you, and he’ll be bringing you before the throne.

Thank you- Shems, Japheths and little brothers of my life who cover me and journey alongside of me when I’m the wrinkly old chap passed out in my tent.  You lift me up (sometimes literally)and I understand Christ better because of your reflection of Him.

As for bystander Shilo- Ugh.  Get that I-have-it-figured-out look off your face.  I just wish you’d be more like your brothers when you grow up.

I have not mentioned enough how fantastic it is raising boys, especially two of them less than two years apart and completely different from each other… yet completely brothers.

Tractors, legos, inappropriate jokes about anything having to do with bodily functions, strong wills, weapons… and still snuggling with Mom.

My oldest rolls her eyes at the younger hooligans but she likes transformers.  She went against the second grade trend by inviting all her classmates to her birthday, not just girls because “boys play better outdoor games anyway”.  She informed me her favorite color is green- pink and purple are “just too… girly or something”.  Suddenly she’s over princesses and fascinated by Nellie Bly, Elizabeth Blackwell, and Harriet Tubman.

I was painting her nails last week and in her impatience she smudged them.  Sighing she said, “I just don’t know if I’m that kind of girl, Mom.”
“What kind of girl?”
“The kind that does nail painting.  I just don’t know if I care about it and I definitely don’t care about looking fancy and nice when I leave the house like you do.”
With another dramatic sigh she concluded, “I’m not with the boys all the time but I’m also not girly like the girls.  Sometimes it’s like no one understands me.  I don’t think there’s anyone like me.”

Hiding my giggles was ridiculously hard.  It took all my willpower to not say, “Really, mini-Shilo?  Nobody gets your tree climbing, non-conformist, deep sighing, nose in a book, writing, theatrical self?  Have you even seen my second grade picture?”
Instead I just nodded… understandingly.  ”You are definitely one of a kind, Darla J.  But… um… have you seen me ride a dirt bike?”

These verses keep worming into my mind.  I’ve always skimmed them because it’s quite obvious to me that a good God doesn’t give His children stones to eat.  Plus, I’m a parent.  I understand wanting to give my kids good gifts.  Darla recently had her 8th birthday and I was nearly as giddy as she was.  Watching her be blessed and humbly thankful was a bright spot in my January.

But there was more to the verses hanging over my head.  The first time I brushed by it.  The second I came across in a book and allowed myself to ask, “Do I thank God for everything, everything, understanding it as daily bread and not stones?”  Mm… actually, I often think what God gives me for daily bread tastes similar to stones.

I’m pretty sure I pushed those uncomfortable thoughts to the back of my mind.  They resurfaced last month when my cousin was praying over me.  He asked God to bless me with gifts (I had in my head what I’d prefer those to look like).  Then he talked to the Lord about gifts that we don’t understand, gifts we have a hard time receiving as gifts… and he thanked God for those gifts in my life, on behalf of me.  Wait- those scorpions were actually eggs?  Oh.

It reminded me of a conversation I had nearly three years ago with the same cousin.  I was sharing heartache and exhaustion with him.  With incredible compassion he said, “Shilo, have you thanked God for this?”
“For heartache?  For disillusionment and pain?”  My answer was to grit my teeth and stare with “how-dare-you” eyes.
He explained that although heartache is the result of a sinful world, God did allow it.  He did preserve me.  He also promises that He will use it for eternal purposes and not waste pain.  Perhaps God can turn what resembles rocks in my churning stomach into something that nourishes me?  Something like bread?  Oh.
I nodded my understanding and may have said something along the lines of, “I’ll thank God as soon as I can do it without throwing up.”
I didn’t thank Him that day.  But the Holy Spirit didn’t leave my heart where it was… and one day I found I could… without throwing up.

I’ve managed to do this with some big things- believe that God can use them for daily bread.  Even when I’m bent on making serpents of my life, as soon as I turn back to Him open handed, I find fish instead.

He’s been urging me to thank and acknowledge His gifts in some daily things.  It’s changing me.

Some things are easy to see as God’s gifts and nourishment.  Praise for them flows easily.  Each morning as my kids bound to the bus heading to the tiny school they attend, I stand with my coffee thanking God for the miracles that occurred to bring them to that school this year.

Some feel depleting instead of nourishing and saying “thanks” feels awkward.  Like the day I found myself saying, “Thank you, Lord for that argument with my husband”, and in the next breath, “And sorry Lord, for sounding sarcastic and bitter when I just thanked you.”
It wasn’t until days later that I realized our argument had surfaced things that needed to be dealt with instead of glossed over, and in some miraculous moment I found myself being thankful for real.  Remarkable!

A couple weeks ago I woke after being up with sick kids most of the night.  The flu made dominoes out of us, knocking us down one by one and leaving a mess of saltines, 7up, and laundry.  I stumbled to my coffee pot and realized with great disappointment that I couldn’t stomach coffee.  I reluctantly opted for tea and took it to the living room where Everett curled up on me, shaky with fever and coughing.  I had already spent four days with a husband down and a two year old puking.  Now Everett and Darla were crying for tylenol and no end was in sight.

I have four small children and puke still terrifies me.  Compassion is not my strong trait.  Feeling unproductive, inactive, and having a whiny household makes me cringe. I was trying not to count how many days it had been since I had left the house.

Through bleary eyes I began praying over Everett’s hot little body on mine, “Lord, this is not what I thought today would be.  Help me accept whatever it is as what you’re doing and what I need.”

It was quiet and dark in the living room.  I was watching the steam rise off my tea as the sun was rising behind snow covered mountains through my picture windows.
Everything was covered in a hauntingly thick frost (I call these mornings Narnia Winters) but the sky was lighting up bright pink.  It grew- the beauty and complete stillness of the moment as light swept over Everett and me and with it, deep peace.
My expectations and plans for the day lifted and with new eyes I saw the gift that it was to hold my kids, read stories, and lower expectations for the day.  By some mystery of the Holy Spirit I realized it wasn’t just words- this thanking for what felt like stones moments before- it had somehow seeped into my soul.  It changed my day, it changed my attitude, it changed how clearly I could hear God’s voice (but no, it didn’t change how I feel about puke).

Naturally, I was also incredibly thankful after six days of lockdown when my daily bread involved a trip to the grocery store for tangible bread… and more 7up just in case… and coffee because it goes really good with daily bread.

Sean and I decided it would be good for me to have time with Darla so I invited her to come with me.  Then because of his work schedule, Sean suggested I take Haley so that he’d be flexible with just the boys.

It was a little crazy getting out early morning as Haley had been a flower girl the night before at a wedding Sean officiated and we were all a little wiped out.  Regardless, we packed up, cranked up the music, and were on our way.  I was slightly apprehensive because I’ve wondered if Haley might sometimes be getting carsick.  Darla voiced the same concern and I assured her everything was fine.

Forty five minutes into our drive Darla said, “Haley’s coughing… Haley doesn’t look good… Haley’s throwing up!  AHHH!  MOM!  Do something!”
The next exit miles away, I pulled over on the freeway.  Haley was crying but it was Darla that was inconsolable.  ”I knew this was going to happen!  This is the worst day ever!  Oh, gross.  She lost her breakfast.  That’s how they say it in my book instead of saying “throw up” and I think it sounds better.  MOTHER!  It smells!”
As I was hanging over the driver’s seat with baby wipes and garbage bags, listening to my daughter’s play by play, I remembered the words of Jean-Pierre de Caussade (from A Guide to Prayer for All God’s People).

“You would be very ashamed if you knew what the experiences you call setbacks, upheavals, pointless disturbances, and tedious annoyances really are.  You would realize that your complaints about them are nothing more nor less than blasphemies- though that never occurs to you.  Nothing happens to you except by the will of God, and yet (God’s) beloved children curse it because they do not know it for what it is.”  

I had read the quote to my sister over the phone a few weeks prior, feeling quite convicted that parenting often feels like a series of interruptions and I typically see them as that instead of the holy moments they are.  I should’ve known that would be tested.  I should’ve known my prayers over this would come back and bite me…

The three of us ended up roaming Wal-Mart for dramamine, more wipes, and anything else our situation might call for.  In an instant, Darla was consumed with worry and anxiety.  For a few months now I’ve been praying and working with Darla as she is vulnerable to anxiety and a little hypochondria.  I’ve been praying equally as much for myself because I’m not especially compassionate toward these struggles (ask my husband).

There in Wal-Mart with one stinky girl and one worried girl I began praying; “Lord, I know I have my own agenda for this trip.  I have in my head how I think you’re going to work and what you might accomplish in me.  Your ideas might be different so please help me take what you’re giving me.”

Sadly, I turned the playlist I was excited about down in the car while Darla and I talked about enjoying the moment God graces us with instead of worrying about what ifs.  ”Now relax, Darla- Haley will probably sleep a while.”

Nope.  Haley didn’t sleep.  At all.  By the time we were in downtown Portland she was wound up, still stinking, and stir crazy.  Perfect combination for a not baby proofed apartment.  Needless to say, the evening with cousins was not the deep and meaningful conversations I was anticipating as much as it was damage control and attempting to convince Darla, “You can eat that and you won’t get sick.  You aren’t sick.  You will survive if you go to bed a little late.”

The next day went much the same.  In a strange place Haley refused to nap and when she was up I was cringing over what might be knocked over or destroyed in her tired state.  Darla was distracted from worry for moments of play and then it was back to praying and talking together to conquer whatever situation was next.  Insight into her almost eight year old brain was constant and I kept asking God to keep it coming and with it wisdom to know how to equip her.

Our second morning we woke up in my cousin’s new house and I was confident it would be a good day.  Opportunity for naps, boxes to unpack, a childproof room for play… we couldn’t miss.  Darla was busy with her cousins so I sat down with mine and a hot cup of coffee to plan the day.
Minutes later Darla called, “Mom- Haley got into your purse.”
I walked around the corner and my two year old sheepishly looked up holding the bottle of dramamine; the now empty bottle of dramamine.

I began searching the floor, her mouth, the vent, my purse… and concluded she probably ingested 4 dramamine.  Coffee time turned into a call to poison control which evolved into coffee to go as I packed her up and drove to the ER.

“We’re pretty sure she’ll be okay but she’s going to be loopy.  There are some dangers we want to monitor.  We won’t treat her unless we have to but we want to keep you here for observation until the medicine peaks- about three hours.”
I’d like to say my response as a ‘good mom’ was, “Whatever it takes, Doctor.  Thank you for your careful watch.”
In actuality I wanted to respond with, “But this was supposed to be a fun day!  Now my cousin is watching one daughter while I’m cooped up in this tiny florescent lighted room with the other- and did you know it’s a sunny day out there?  Did you know it’s New Year’s Day and this year was supposed to start out fresh and somehow stronger?  Now you expect me to restrain my two year old who is high as a kite while in a small room containing computers, wires, and other things she is not allowed to TOUCH?!  Pretty sure I should be the one medicated here.”
I think I just nodded.

Then I prayed.  ”Okay Lord… so this is what today is.  Help me accept it and trust that this time with Haley can be a gift.  Help me let go of my expectations.”

Later my cousin brought us lunch and we talked over the screams of the woman in the next room, cuddled a lethargic Haley, and tried to laugh at what our day turned into.  Happy New Year.

By that night I was sincere in my thanks to the Lord that He provided a few days of intense parenting of my girls.  It wasn’t what I expected and it certainly wasn’t what I wanted, but somehow I had realized it was what we needed.

The last morning my cousin kept my girls so I could have a refreshing drive to my aunt’s with the sun rising pink over Portland and a quiet morning of prayer and restoration.
After we all had lunch together, Haley had one of the most dramatic tantrums I can recall… my signal it was time to go home.

Our 5 hours home provided much opportunity for Darla to share what’s going on in her head, to pray together, to teach her Philippians 4:6,7.  When I finally had some quiet to turn on my music and reflect, I realized that although it hadn’t looked like I had hoped, the Lord had mightily used the week.  He used prayer times with my aunt and with cousins to give me a deep peace I haven’t experienced in a long time.  I laughed hard, cried hard, and went home with new revelations and a softer heart.  He didn’t do that in spite of “interruptions”, He worked within “interruptions”.  It was unexpected for me but not to Him.

I recalled another quote that has impacted my view of parenting from Ann Voskamp in One Thousand Gifts,

“These… kids lean hard into me all day to teach and raise and lead and I fail hard and there are real souls that are at stake and how long do I really have to figure out how to live full of grace, full of joy- before these… beautiful children fly the coop and my mothering days fold up quiet?  How do you open the eyes to see how to take the daily, domestic, workday vortex and invert it into the dome of an everyday cathedral?”  

Ultimately feeling refreshed and believing that God had accomplished the everyday cathedral even in the ER, inconveniences, and vomit, I came home ready for a new year.
I think that was three days ago… or two… or maybe it was yesterday… but I’ve lost track of the days, my sanity, and I’m sleep deprived because less than 24 hours after returning home Haley got the stomach flu.
Bad.
Really, really bad.

Happy 2013 everyone.

]]> http://mycuprunnethallover.com/?feed=rss2&p=878 0 http://mycuprunnethallover.com/?p=839 http://mycuprunnethallover.com/?p=839#comments Tue, 11 Dec 2012 03:34:47 +0000 Shilo Taylor http://mycuprunnethallover.com/?p=839 Last month I had a whirlwind trip to southern California to help my sister and her family move.  Almost as fantastic as being in CA with my sister and her family was travel itself.  Between driving, multiple flights, and layovers, I spent over 8 hours each way traveling.  Traveling by myself.  Getting coffee when I wanted coffee.  Listening to playlists, journaling, reading, talking only when I wanted to talk and being allowed to ignore everyone around me.  Even more amazingly, I had window seats on each of my four flights.

After landing in San Francisco, Bakersfield, and Phoenix, coming into Seattle was a breathtaking explosion of color (gray skies aside).  It was the first week of November and the ground was covered in shades of orange, red, and browns.  Music cranked up and fingers cramped from the frantic writing of the previous hour, I paused in awe.

Then the thought, they’re dying.  All those trees, those vibrant leaves falling off to be raked and trampled.  All of it is death and it’s stunning.  A little irritation crept in and I wondered to the Lord, “Why do you give these trees such grace and beauty in dying?”  Dying is so ugly.  I’m admiring trees about to be stripped and naked, but I can say from firsthand experience that when I’m stripped down there’s nothing lovely to speak of, no shiny glory reflecting.

I began taking inventory of losses.  Not only my own, but around me.  There have been deaths within our church that have been very hard losses this year.  Close friends of ours who have been obedient to the Lord in pursuing adoption for years have had the door close and will not be adding those specific children to their families.  Whether it’s been literal death, death to dreams, to plans that we even thought were the Lord’s, to relationships, to having a lifeline of a sister move states away… I ticked them off thinking none could be compared to the glory of dying trees.

Well Lord, I suppose it’s not the same anyway.  The trees are dying this year but next year they’ll have new life.  They die to give way to new life, which really isn’t the same as the losses and forms of death I’m complaining about.

The conviction came quickly… before landing, in fact.  Why did Jesus come, Shilo?  What makes you think death and loss ends at the point of death and loss?  Isn’t this Christianity 101 here?
Oops.  But then again, sometimes new circumstances bring new light to basic Truth.
When we’ve trusted Jesus, surrendered to Him, we can trust that death will give way to life.  Always.

I know, I know.  But when God is stripping me and I’m dying figuratively, it’s ugly.  It involves struggling to get out of bed, puffy eyes, either weight gain or weight loss, and major wrestling.  Typically also resisting the urge to punch holes in walls.
Sitting there, coming into Seattle, I smirked (sorry, person next to me on the plane watching the thoughts flit across my face) as I imagined somehow my floundering could look like the pretty floating leaves on the Japanese Maple in my yard.  Maybe more like the windstorm that took the remaining leaves and threw them angrily on the neighbor’s yard.

I realized (kind of against my will) that the ugly part is me getting in the way.  I recalled times in my life where I’ve been dying; miserable, kicking, and resisting.  Then by the grace of God He wins the round of wrestling and a measure of peace comes… along with new life and beauty.

It happened that first time when I was fourteen, in my room, curled up under a sunflower blanket.  Torn between wanting my own desires, asking God if somehow I could party a little, eat lunch with my old friends, turn my head, give enough compromise to not give up what I wanted to cling to.  Then the ugly- the wrestling match where God taught me what He means about losing your own life to save it.  Essentially, letting the leaves fall off and in the nakedness of losing myself and my desires, He assured it would give way to life. He was faithful and it did give way to life; hearing His voice, confidence that my identity was secure in Him, peace where there had been restlessness, my Savior as closest confidant.

It translates.  In watching our friends stare at the closed door of adoption, I’ve witnessed death to a dream, wrestling, leaves and tears falling.  Yet as that dies there is something else: I’ve heard vulnerable hearts break open in prayer.  I’ve watched those hearts soften in a way that broken hearts can in the hands of Christ, the desire for God’s will not only in adoption but in their very souls- grow.  Even in dying there are moments of beauty.  I’ve seen these little buds of green, sweet sprigs of hope and awe inspiring transformations.  Death of one thing giving way to life of another kind.

I’ve watched it unfold in friends when the husband passed away this year after fighting leukemia for over a decade.  Oh, Lord- speaking of excruciating death… and yet sitting in an overflowing worship center listening to testimony after testimony about how God can use a life, singing of God’s faithfulness and watching our friend’s daughter stand in front of hundreds to share that God used her Dad’s illness to bring her back to Christ, how can I say death is only ugly?  No one needed to say the obvious: Christ can redeem it all.  Every form of death.  Bright, vibrant colors even in the process.  God used the wilting, falling leaves for redemption, healing, and work that will stand in eternity.

As friends tuck away belongings for kids that aren’t coming, as a new widow worships through tears, I am reminded that the way Christ ushers in new life is often not the way we’d pick.
Then again, His biggest redemption I wouldn’t have picked… as a baby?  Then on a cross?  How many others have rejected His offer to turn death into life?  How often on a smaller scale do I allow forms of death and loss to turn me bitter, to pout as a victim, to withdraw and wallow?  That is ugly.  It’s only in the hands of Christ that my losses and deaths give way to life.

Who am I to say there isn’t beauty in dying trees?  In an offering with puffy, bloodshot eyes?  In a memorial service where ashes turn to beauty before me?

I returned home from my trip to find piles of drenched leaves in every shade covering the grass.  The trees greeted me in new nakedness.  I sighed at the cold and the needed raking.  It’s death now and it’s a mess.  I see no green, no buds of hope.  Thankfully I don’t stake it all in what I see.  My stake is in my experience, my belief, my faith that the Lord continues to be faithful to turn death in my hands… into life.

There are hundreds of small things to celebrate under the umbrella of official adoption and in this moment it’s that I no longer have to refer to our youngest as “Little Girly” publicly but can use her full new name, Haley Kate Taylor.

Celebrations have been in full swing this week.  Yesterday afternoon as I was preparing for Haley’s adoption party, I heard a knock on our front door.  I swung it open and had a “pause… wait for it…” moment as I realized my dear friend Jill and her daughter from southwest WA were grinning at me with an armful of flowers.  After my “what-the-heck-is-going-on” pause followed by many tears, they were swept up in the celebration whirlwind with the rest of us.

Last night was full of sugar, bouncy houses, families that have supported our adoption journey and loved Haley, and then I’m pretty sure there was a lot more sugar.  

This morning we woke up early and headed to the courthouse to make it official.  My emotional moment of “this is really happening” was walking up the courtroom steps to be greeted by “Team Haley”; social workers, our lawyer, supervisors, and liaisons who have advocated for this little one since she was an infant at our doorstep.  This has been a big part of our lives for the past 20 months and it was a surreal moment to put those meetings, court dates, and unknowns behind us in a quick signature by a friendly judge who clearly preferred this to his other appointments today.

Our post party included some gifts and snack time at McDonalds to debrief, let kids play, and let the events simmer for a few moments.

Then just like that the kids were back to school and Sean was off running errands with Everett.  By some little miracle it was me and Haley in a gray drizzly morning changing into comfy clothes and looking at each other with hazy, overstimulated, exhausted eyes.  We grabbed her favorite quilt, wrapped ourselves up in it, and settled into her rocking chair.
My sweetest moment was then, as I told Haley all my memories of the first night she came to us- how God answered a deep desire of my heart, how enamored I was by this mystery of a brunette, and how kissed on and loved she was immediately.  I told her about her birth mom and how loved and wanted she’s been since day one.

We talked about the verse I picked for her, “By you I have been upheld since birth; you are He who took me out of my mother’s womb.  My praise shall be continually of you.”  Psalm 71:6.
Haley- no one can mess up God’s purposes for you.  He knows everything that has and will happen and He’ll use it all to bring Himself glory and to draw you closer to Him.

Her understanding of her story will grow as she does.  For today she definitely understood, “I love you” because she returned it with an emphatic, “I wuv YOU!”
She doesn’t yet understand why we gave her the middle name “Kate” after my mom, who has a indescribable connection with her namesake.  Something about Haley Kate’s approachable cheerful nature, her adaptability, and the way our family is completely changed by her, reminds us of my mom.  Haley doesn’t know the reasons behind the name but she knows her Beppe.  She answers to “Haley Kate” (except when she runs the other way… I have mentioned she’s almost two?)

We ended our rocking and “story” time with hugs, kisses, and an enthusiastic, “Now you’re Haley Kate Taylor!”  To which she popped her head up from my chest and added, “Yay!”  Giggles from us both.  Then a nap.  A really good nap for us both.

Oh, Peter I knowingly smile when I picture you on a boat proclaiming, “Lord, if it is You, command me to come to you on the water” because I am no stranger to dramatic intensity.  I know the exhilarating moment of faith required to throw yourself overboard and the following panic of “Is the One I know able to sustain this… to sustain me!?”

Oh, Peter you had your doubts but your sincerity leaps off Scripture’s pages.  Perhaps lacking in follow through but your desire- Oh, Peter I understand the desire.  While others questioned and gossiped you stood tall declaring, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God”.  You heard the Father’s voice!

Jesus prophesied you as the rock He would build his church on… then rebuked you after He foretold His death and you responded with, “This shall not happen to you!”  Oh, Peter it’s easy to draw our own conclusions from the sliver of understanding Jesus gives.  It wouldn’t play out the way you had it pictured.  It had to be hard to get your head around His story instead of the story you’d write.  I get that.

“Even if all are made to stumble because of You, I will never be made to stumble… even if I have to die with You, I will not deny You!”  Oh, Peter- I know. You saw others dropping like flies, things were escalating, and you believed what you had was enough.  You experienced Christ!  You knew what you believed!  You had an idea that it might get tough… but you were strong!  You had faith!  If you were like me you might’ve had the idea that you had to be stronger than most.  You were a leader, Peter.  People were looking to you and stakes were high.

Oh Peter, you had your guard up temporarily- wielding swords and cutting off ears.  Defender!

Then… oh, Peter…  confusion was high.  Everything you knew was unraveling.  Your guard came down in a moment and temptation seized you.  It’s understandable, really… aren’t circumstances for sin always “understandable”?  Otherwise we wouldn’t find ourselves there, right?  Everything in me wants to help you justify, Peter.  Yet ultimately, no justification was found. Jesus said you would, you said you wouldn’t, and when it came down to it- the Enemy had his day with you.  Sifted like wheat, found weak and lacking, you denied Him.  And oh, Peter- you didn’t stop yourself after the first time!  You deliberately ran with it… three times and each worse than the last.

Oh, Peter.  All the sincerity and passion you could muster couldn’t compete with the self preservation that reared its’ ugly head.  When it came down to it, protecting yourself became more important than Truth, more important than hating sin, more important than trusting Jesus with the result.  In the fear and swirling rationalizations that captured you in the moment, you forgot.  You forgot that the wages of sin is death.  By trying to hold tight to your life (something that wasn’t yours to grasp for) you were destined to lose it.

Then the moment of realization… the rooster crowing and the feeling every sinner knows, “(Insert expletive here), What am I doing!?  What have I done!?  Who have I hurt?  Was that really me?”  Eyes wide open, waves of guilt, remorse, and a resounding, “I told you so”.

Did you understand in that very moment a plan was unfolding?  The sacrifice was being prepared that would give grace to cover that denial.  The consequences were steep and the broken relationship unbearable but remember- the wages of sin is death.  Anything less than death is His grace to you, even if the consequences look out of proportion for a seemingly innocent (and understandable) moment of weakness.

Oh Peter, your response humbles me.  You don’t minimize your sin.  You don’t explain it away defensively.  You wept bitterly.  You grieved.  You stopped and acknowledged through tears the severity and saw it for what it was.

Did you question if your faith had ever been real, Peter?  Were you sober in realizing how frail you were to turn so quickly?  Was your identity shaken when you couldn’t recognize the cowering, weak man by the fire?  Did you wonder if your intimacy with Christ had been imagined the whole time (how could you screw up if you were a “real” believer)?  Did you ache to avoid the eyes of the others who imagined they would never do such a thing?  Did you vow to never open your big mouth again and wish the earth would swallow you whole?  Did you kick yourself because instead of suffering for Christ, even martyrdom, you essentially self-crucified?  Oh, to suffer nobly instead of suffering due to your own stupidity!

Then when it was finished… He came to you.  Oh, Peter with your failures written visibly across you!  There He was on the shore, you on the boat.  I can’t read the account without tears because instead of hiding your face in shame, instead of shouting your defense, instead of waiting to be consoled- you plunged into the sea.  You didn’t wonder about the others, “Do they question my sincerity?  Will this build or break my credibility?  Will they think, ‘there goes impulsive Peter again’?”  You didn’t worry that Jesus might reject you.  You didn’t hold back for fear of future failures.  It seems your singular thought was, “There is my Jesus and I need to be with Him.”

How this proves you knew your Lord!  Perhaps this desperation only comes from being faced with your own depravity.  What was left but to cling to Jesus and abandon insecurity, unknowns, and… your boat?

Oh, Jesus.  He feeds you.  He comforts you.  He gives you an opportunity to rebuild- to affirm your love for Him.  He reminds you that yes, you did have intimacy with Him (it was real).  Yes, you broke that.  Yes, by His sacrifice He forgave, restored, and ultimately redeemed the failure, establishing you in Himself.  Yes, there are consequences.  Yes, you’ll always be “that guy who denied Jesus”.  Yet, you weren’t disqualified.  You weren’t useless and it wasn’t over.   Alas, His plan was superior to yours the whole time and His love story sweeter.

Then at the end of the day Jesus offers you the same as He did that very first day: “Follow Me”.

And oh Peter…you did.