Facing the Freefall: Should I Write?

I have a confession to make: I have no idea what I’m doing.

Sure, I’m geeking out and learning like crazy. Books on writing line up on my Kindle like an auntie’s Precious Moments collection. Some credit their author’s skill by being helpfully hilarious. Others give solid scholastic advice. I’m forging ahead, gleaning wisdom, and conquering chapters.

Stepping off my beaten path, I joined Instagram. It happens to be awesome. Who knew? Everyone else, right? Now tell me why I should start Twitter. I’ll listen.

I’ve wrestled and fought with words, held up my end of the dream the Lord put on my heart in April: one blog post a week. This will be #12.

I thought it would get easier as I went along.

But still it happens. Every time I put my words in this space.

It’s like the moment I walked onto the field at Family Camp and saw my firstborn being hoisted higher and higher, the intersection point of three ropes. Wow. That’s my girl up there so brave.

Then two ropes let go.

My heart leapt to my throat as she fell. I thought I was witnessing her death. But the last rope caught her in a beautiful, life-giving arc. She swang. I began to breathe again, realizing that was the plan all along.

This writing thing? This is my “Do Hard Things” thing. It takes major effort to lift and pull words off the ground. Editing bingo is a compulsive pastime; I lay ideas on the board and look for patterns, praying for connections to bridge the gap between what the Lord is doing in me and what might encourage others.

Then there’s the transparent moment of publication—when the only thing to hold onto is the Lord’s goodness. Freefall, where his truth alone turns the splat into an upward arc.

I want you to like my words because I want you to like me. But those ropes don’t hold.

And I realize this was the Lord’s plan all along. How better to know his heart than to learn to let go of everything else? Stats of my site views and visitors. Likes and comments on Facebook. The little red hearts on Instagram. I cherish each one.

But the only support that can hold the weight of who I am is Him. He’s the one who changes my falling into flying.

I love words like my boys love legos. I get lost for hours in their colors and shapes, trying to create something special. At times, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, spending so much of myself on what doesn’t come easy. Does it make a difference?

A friend messaged me a giddyup the other day, screenshots from Jen Hatmaker’s latest, Of Mess and Moxie.

“Doctors put in the work to be good doctors. Teachers do the work to be phenomenal teachers. Budding creators cannot imagine themselves beyond the need for development or unworthy of the investment, paycheck or no paycheck. Worry less about getting recognized and more about becoming good at what you do. Take yourself seriously. Take your art seriously. You are both worth this.”

Does it make a difference? Does beauty or struggle, obedience or surrender in any area of our lives matter to the one who sees and supports it all? I have to say yes. And if it pleases him, then all the rest is wonderful grace.

I may still not know what I’m doing, but I know the one who does.

Guess what just jumped to the top of my reading list?

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9 NIV

Is there a struggle you are pressing through to engage a dream? Please leave a comment and share your story.

Swing Photo by Artem Bali on Unsplash

Independence Across Cultures

It hit me yesterday afternoon. Today is the U.S. Independence Day. No matter that my daughter, born on July 2nd, blew out candles the day before yesterday. No matter that my Facebook feed has been lit up with pictures of, comments on, and complaints about fireworks. It still snuck up on me. I’m gifted with linear time obliviance that way.

With Costa Rica’s bid for the World Cup over, the streets around me are quiet. Fruit stands dot the roadsides, rather than firework tents. Our schedule is packed, hosting a mission team of 21 at the children’s home where we serve. I share my testimony tonight and have two more dinners to feed them.

Happy 4th of July. I’m trying to figure out how I feel about it.

I’ve never been great at “special days.” In the states, native rhythms did the heavy lifting for us: days off work, neighborhood displays, family gatherings. Colorful flyers shouted discounts for snaps and ground flowers. We stuffed ourselves at picnics and laughed at the smoke bombs that puffed a little less each year.

Here, Independence Day is September 15th and celebrates liberty from Spain, won without a fight. A nighttime parade of festive lanterns, carried by school children, ushers in the holiday as a reminder of the freedom cry spread by word of mouth through the country in 1821.

It may be a regular workday in Costa Rica, but everything about our home country affects the life our family lives here: all of our financial support, the spiritual covering of our sending church, the freedom granted by the eagle on our passports. Now, more than ever, we appreciate the privilege of our birthplace.

Just across the northern border, Nicaragua’s streets are choked with blockades. The citizens of that nation marched peacefully in mid-April to protest corruption and injustice. The presidential leadership unleashed months of harsh violence in response. What doesn’t rate high on the news feed has sent missionaries we know fleeing to safety, crippled business and services in Nicaragua, and flooded the borders with people seeking refuge.

We of the land of the free and the home of the brave, we don’t have utopia, but we can’t even fathom living that.

The red, white, and blue twirls my daughter hung up this morning speak something deeper to me than national identity and the faces I miss in my homeland. I did nothing to earn the benefits my country gives me; but everything about there, makes it possible for me to serve the Lord here.

Today is business as usual in Central America, yet I can feel the picnics and starbursts in the stateside air. They shine in memories of the ones we love, deep gratitude for the liberty geography gave us, and reverent honor for the long fight of many to keep us free.

May we all use it well.

I think it will be a Happy 4th of July.

I urge you, first of all, to pray for all people. Ask God to help them; intercede on their behalf, and give thanks for them. Pray this way for kings and all who are in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity. 1Timothy 2:1-2 NLT

What’s your culture for Independence Day?

Passport Photo by Blake Guidry on Unsplash

How to See a Miracle

My car sputtered dead on the way to my first day at a new job—the kind you wear a suit to. A few years out of college, I hadn’t yet graduated from all my bad habits. I had run out of gas. Again.

My faith-walk was still in the fruit snacks stage, somewhere between craving spiritual milk and meat; I prayed hard. Being late on the first day would make an awful impression. Dear Father, please help.

The car died as I turned onto the access road, but I was able to coast down the hill, directly into the pumping station. A credit card swipe, a fast pour into the tank, the three-click-twist of the gas cap, and I was back on my way. A desperate prayer had been answered. It was a miracle.

There at that workplace I first heard it, a coworker’s flippant, “God has more important things to do than help me find my keys.”

The sentiment surprised me. Since when was the Lord too big to care about small concerns? At what point did Holy hinder personal?

David was my biblical inspiration. From shepherd boy to mighty king, through exile, foolish rage, base sin, and rebellion, he poured out his everything to God in the Psalms. It was raw and messy. It worked.

David grew in faith and the Lord moved in miracles.

But sparing God our everyday troubles? When did we fill out the ballot to determine acceptable versus unacceptable prayers? When did the Lord ask us to? Why do we so desire to seem to have it all together? The man after God’s own heart danced undignified before the world.

I still hear it these days, even from people devoted to him, “The Lord doesn’t do miracles like that anymore.”

Perhaps the issue isn’t what God is doing, but rather the filters of our perspective: when we invite him in to move as he chooses, versus when we hedge him into the box of what we can understand. If Pharaoh hardened his heart against the miraculous hopping, flying, and crawling through his palace, I’m sure we can miss the boat, too. It’s a sobering thought.

The trouble comes when we decide anything is too small or too big for God.

Miracles are not the point, though. Refining me to become more like him is. How do we focus our vision to see the reality of God’s work in our lives, so that we can know him better? So that he can use us more?

“And [Jesus] said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” ‭‭Matthew‬ ‭18:3‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Spoiler alert: The kingdom of heaven is where all the good stuff happens.

As Mark Batterson* of The Circle Maker explains: Everyone wants to see a miracle, but no one wants to be in the childlike-faith place of needing one. Yet the latter has to precede the former. You can’t have one without the other.

The miraculous, then, is just the Lord moving supernaturally in the lives of the ones he loves. The ones who approach him like a child.

Jesus was not bothered by the children coming to him. He encouraged it. So here’s the way I see it: Don’t be ashamed to take your childishness, your prayers to find your keys, your neediness, your unschooled heart to Jesus. He takes you into his arms and blesses you. That is kingdom living. That’s where miracles begin.

My job has changed in the years since that fuel stop. I’ve grown in wisdom, if not stature; I never let my tank go empty anymore. But I am still my Abba-Father’s girl. I have seen the Lord move mountains–Real ones, big and small. The links below tell some of the stories. He did it because I admitted how very much I needed him, how out-of-gas-desperate I was for his help. I know I will always need his power working in my life.

This weekend I lost my wedding ring somewhere on the 8-acre campus of the children’s home, hauling branches and wheelbarrows full of overripe mangoes. Work gloves going on and off took more than sweat off my hands. I had zero hope of finding it. The loss was physically painful: we celebrate 20 years of marriage this fall. Even worse was the time we would spend searching when already exhausted. Praying, surrendering, and crying like a little girl, I put my hands in my pockets on the way out to the car.

It was there.

Right there in my pocket, then in my hand, and astonishingly back on my finger, as if nothing miraculous had happened.

But it had.

Having lost at least a hundred tubes of lip balm over the course of my life, I know nothing is safe in pockets, at least in my pockets. I use them with extreme caution. There are all of 3 places on this earth I trust to hold my wedding ring. Not one of them is a pocket.

This was not forgetfulness. This was a sweet fatherly kiss from a miraculous God.

I’m never going to have it all together. How much fun would that be anyway? I’d rather open my heart and my eyes, my need and my prayers, to see miracles.

—————————

Share your miracle stories below and check out some of mine:

On We Drive

The Backpack Story

Angel Knees

*You can read more about Mark Batterson’s thoughts on God’s miracles today <here>.

Larkspur Photo by Olga Filonenko, Beach Sunrise Photo by Quino Al, & Ring Photo by Sweet Ice Cream Photography on Unsplash

Eliana’s View: Laughter & Pink Rice

The grass crunched under the picnic blanket as the toddlers settled down to eat. Haley snuggled into my lap, ready for some lunch after a fun morning of playing. The tía passed out bowls of food, and the kids dug in.

The lunch was simple and traditional, but delicious. Rice and beans speckled the bowl, with some cheese off to the side. The usual salad was replaced with a new vegetable: tiny cubes of beets. The juice spread around the bowl, painting the rice a bright magenta.

Haley picked up a piece of cheese, and happily nibbled away. I paused her munching every once in awhile to spoon in a bite of beans and rice. Slowly but surely, the food began to disappear into the princess’s tummy.

Except for the beets.

Haley sampled one piece, then refused to eat any more. I tried to hide them in the rice on her spoon, or cover them with the beans, but she always caught me. She would hold up her hand, inspect the food on the spoon, and pluck off the pink veggies. I could not get a single one past her.

Photo by Markus Spiske freeforcommercialuse.net on Pexels.com

Marlene, the nurse, came up to the group with a warm greeting. She knelt and talked to the kids as they ate, putting smiles on their faces with her playful antics. Turning to Haley, she saw the inspection and rejection process.

“Haley, why aren’t you eating your vegetables?” My lunch buddy just grinned, pulling another one off the spoon. Marlene leaned in close and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You wanna know something cool about beets?”

Haley looked up expectantly.

“If you eat them, they turn your pee pink!”

Laughter welled up inside me. I could not hold it in. One look at Marlene, and we set each other off. Our giggles danced around the children.

We twinkled down at our Haley, and she smiled back—with a mouth full of beets.

Laughter (and the promise of pink pee) had helped the beets go down.

A cheerful heart is good medicine. Proverbs 17:22a NIV

Do you have any “pink pee” secrets for doing life?

Walking Through Fireworks: A Father’s Day Blessing

We pushed the garage door opener on our life as a family of three, just released from the hospital with our baby girl bundle. The house felt huge after our cubby in the postpartum ward. Ladybugs and clouds danced the walls in her nursery.

The sunshine and celebration outside beckoned us. A short stroll before nap time? Why not?

For a first time father, there was nothing newbie about you. A physical therapist, babies were the brightest spots on your clinic schedule. You cooed and chuckled through our miracle’s first-bath-fussing, then confidently laid her back in my arms. I searched your eyes for reassurance. You smiled that everything was alright.

Finally home, the whole neighborhood was in party mode. The 4th of July was sparkling out there. Fresh air and freedom called. Shunning the infant carrier, you scooped our girl up freehand, and through the door we went.

Slowly we climbed the hill, my momma-legs wobbly. Rounding the corner, we saw the street lined with open garages and lawn chair gatherings. We qualified, too, now, a full-fledged family.

Ambling closer, the landscape shifted. The smoke and sparks, crackles and pops hit a crescendo, considerably less festive at close range. Fireworks exploding everywhere, no one paused to welcome the newest neighbor. We decided to run for it—or at least waddle.

close up photography of fireworks on the street

Photo by Markus Spiske freeforcommercialuse.net on Pexels.com

Baby toes tucked in your elbow, we plodded through a gauntlet of ground flower whirls and fuming fountains. It felt like a battle zone. I fought panic that some spark or tipped-over rocket would sting our sweet girl. You spoke peace and curved like a shelter around her. Toddling along as quickly as possible, we made it back safely inside our walls. It had been the longest block of our lives.

First parenting fail on the books: testing out that verse on walking through the fire without being burned. Check. God must have a special ops unit for new parents.

All three of us exhausted now, you introduced her to the crib with a few pats for comfort. She fussed for a minute, then dozed off, trusting you. It was only when you came out of her quiet room that I saw you rub your shoulders. You had worried, too, along the sidewalk craziness. Afraid of dropping her, tense in the midst of sparks and noise, you had held her so close, your muscles cramped.

Somehow, that strain spoke your love more clearly than anything else. We weren’t business as usual,

We were yours.

We were heart-deep underneath your calm wisdom, and you would do anything to keep us safe.

We could trust you.

Almost sixteen years later, our controller opens a gate part way around the world for our family of five.

You are still the adventurous one, speaking peace over my mothering flutters. You are the forward thinker, encouraging me to open the kitchen to our daughter’s exploration, placing the lawn in the care of our son’s hands on the trimmer. You carry us through the shifting landscape of new culture, language, and how-to-do-everything.

Sometimes it puts you into knots, but you are wise and strong. With the Lord’s help, you keep us safe. We love you with everything we are, everything you help us to be.

Happy Father’s Day.

To all the ones we trust, to the pillars of our families, whether by blood or by spirit:

We would not be the same without you. Thank you for launching our babies into the sky and making moms everywhere catch their breath. You teach us all how to fly.

May the Lord be your strength as you walk us through the fireworks.

When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the Lord your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;

Isaiah 43:2-3a NIV