building

I build on the pleasant days, but I don’t build for the pleasant days.

The best days to build are mild. Slightly breezy. They also happen to be the best days to sit and lounge, to go on a hike, to kayak along a lake.

They are days that don’t convey a need for shelter. They don’t communicate urgency.

They are not sun scorched days where the heat is beating down the moment the sun rises, strength being exhausted almost immediately from baking and lack of cover.

They are not wind-driven rain days where the skies seem to be dumping buckets and nothing is left remotely dry or un-tussled.

They are not bitter cold days where the wind whips and freezes any exposed flesh raw.

And, regardless of what type of day, the building best happens in the light. In the morning. When strength is recently renewed and mind is recently rested.

It takes discipline to build well when scorching sun, dumping rain, whipping cold and darkness seem far away and of not immediate concern.

It would be easy to rush along, short step, leave out others all together, in the interest of being done.

But I build on the pleasant days because unpleasant days will come. And I’d much rather sit snug and warm, or cool and relaxed, confident of a firm foundation under my feet and a well built shelter overhead then be scrambling to erect makeshift provision in the midst of it all – caught off guard and surprised when the wind shifts, the season changes and the light fades. Or, as my sister in law said, “This is what we’ve been preparing for…when the rubber hits the road.”

It’s been a long while of pleasant days in my life. There has definitely been the occasional cloud and rain storm. Some wind and warmer-than-desired days. But all in all, it’s been temperate. Great building weather.

And I’m thankful for the time I have had to build, and those who have been building well alongside of me. Thankful for gifted pastors and teachers who have talked about things like having a theology of suffering before encountering suffering, so that when that storm rains down and buffets the house, there is some extra structure and flashing there for just that purpose.

After a pleasant spring, the storms are rolling in these days. And not just the little rain showers, but the big, dumping, torrential, crazy windy storms that pull up trees and take out the power.

I’m not saying it’s easy to be weathering these storms, but I am encouraged and surprised by a few things. It is cozy inside. It’s warm and we feel safe. The foundation we’ve been building on – Jesus Christ – He’s proving to be the solid anchor and hope that we need. The strength of this foundation is being tested beyond what it ever has gone through before in my life, and He’s proving true.

“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock.” Matthew 7:24-25

missing it

I don’t think I’ve had clear time to just be still since before we moved.

I keep plowing forward because there are legitimate things to do. There are the daily life things that must be done to keep everything going. And there are the house/moving things that get added in like sanding cabinets and laying sod before we move. And sometimes, when it rains, it pours. Like when work deadlines, roseola and power outages all hit in the same week and things are still not hung on the wall and the house is not yet fully baby proof. And I spend significant portions of Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday with a fevered baby sleeping on my chest.

But I also plow forward out of fear. I’m the recipient of well-intended but burdening advice. Sometimes it seems to just come as a general wind blowing my way, and other times, in the real words of the truly delightful mama who sat next to us on the plane. They hopefully whisper encouragement, but instead it’s more like handing me another rock to add to my backpack. They go something like this – “I wish I had spent more time with my kids; I wish I had held them longer; I wish I had taken in each stage more; I was so busy; They grow up so fast!” And my mind pounds with the words over and over again: Don’t miss it. Don’t miss it. Don’t miss it.

Long before motherhood, one of my greatest fears was missing it, and bearing a child has only compounded that fear more. I fear that I will miss some great milestone in my son’s life, or that I will miss the overall joy of the daily ins and outs. I’m afraid we’ll miss our calling as a family and that we’ll not invest ourselves rightly. I’m afraid I’ll miss stewarding our finances. Miss handling things well with prayer. Miss the important conversations with my husband. Miss the shaping and the intention and the discipling these little souls require. Stand with empty hands at the end of my life and look back over a million misses.

So in order to not miss it, I try really hard and hold on as tight as I can. If I’m holding on, it can’t slip away. But perhaps I hold on so tight that I’ll end up strangling it in the end.

I struggle with guilt over the tiniest daily activities like running errands, making dinner and sweeping the house. I work part-time and so I already miss a day or two a week and that just adds pressure on the other moments. Don’t miss it! Which just pushes more things into the periphery. Work, errands, cleaning, marriage, life ends up happening during nap time and after bed and leaves no time for rest, reflection, taking care of this soul so I can take care of him. If I listen to the whispers, and give into the fear, I push aside my mind and heart because taking the time to be still and consider takes away precious time from my child that I dare not waste away. Meanwhile my heart thins and bitterness sneaks in. Less compassion and grace to pour out on the teething days. Less patience with fevers in the middle of the night. More guilt. More grip. Don’t miss it. Don’t miss it.

But a weekend like this pulls me out of the norm and places me on a mountain top with perspective and a little more clarity than I had in the valley below. Being with sister and nephew helps. Seeing a different family refreshes. I allow myself to peel back just a bit of what is under the surface and I get scared at what I find. My son is asleep on me for a nap but I’m not enjoying the cuddles. I’m frustrated, teary, annoyed. But I hear the whispers: “Oh you should love it, savor it, it doesn’t last forever, it’s so sweet…”. But right now, my body is tired and my mind is exhausted and all I want is a little bit of space so that I can come back and engage. I know it doesn’t last forever but I’m also not super human.

But this fear tends to push those feelings down and I can’t have a rough day and I can’t be struggling and I can’t be anything because I can’t miss it. There is no space for crazy moving summers and hard seasons of work. There is no room. I’ve got to be here because it’s going to go fast and I don’t want to miss it, but I’ll only be in it half tired and half present because my soul is beating, pounding and wanting to explode for lack of attention.

I want to be in the place where I can savor. I want to be in the place that I can delight. I want to have the extra energy to enjoy the naps on my shoulder and the late night cuddles. I truly don’t want to miss it.

Instead of fearing missing it (whatever that might be), I should fear missing Jesus in all of this. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. If we raise our children in the most incredible home, and I am fully present, fully rested, fully engaged and have no pain, suffering, upset days, sickness, hard season, but I’ve missed Jesus, than all is lost. If I fear Him, all the pieces start to align and the fears begin to subside. It’s not easy. It’s not quick to undo this mindset and silence the whispers, but I need to be here. I need to be back in this place again and again. Singing and shouting the gospel over all the other voices.

The world is broken and I will miss things. I’m limping and wounded from sin. I’m always missing the mark that is set before me. I will miss opportunities to speak truth in love. I will miss moments with my son. I will experience hard seasons that will cloud my vision, but I need not miss Jesus.

Soul – don’t miss Him! Don’t miss your salvation! Don’t miss your hope! Lean into Him. There are things that are hard right now but turn first to Him! Fear Him and what He says and find that He has words of encouragement and instruction that require everything but lead to flourishing and life.

P.S. Son, my greatest prayer is that you don’t miss Him, and I pray my life would exhibit Him to you more than anything else.

daily sleep/eternal rest

I’m ten and a half months tired.

The first few weeks of every two hour night changes/feedings were expected. I knew I would be tired, and I wondered how I would survive – this girl that dragged for days if she ever stayed out past one.

Six weeks will be better, just wait. Everyone said. End of fourth trimester (twelve weeks) – everything changes. No. Four month sleep regression only lasts from a few days to weeks. For us, months. Once he’s moving, he’ll sleep so much better. Wait until he can roll over onto his tummy. Nope! You can’t really expect a nap schedule until nine months. At ten and a half, we’re just settling into one.

And so the promises of better sleep continue to elude us.

I started this week waking up for the first time with him at 5am. Surprised, body fresh, amazed.

I ended this week waking up with him every two and a half hours, upset, maybe teething, hungry, dirty diaper, awake. Rocking, singing, rocking, setting down, picking up, rocking for an hour each time.

God has blessed us with a full pantry so I don’t pray for daily bread; I’m not concerned about where my next meal is coming from. I am, however, concerned where my next hour of sleep is coming from. My daily bread is sleep.

We come every night as a family and pray for sleep, rest, quiet hearts and minds as we set him down. On my worst nights, I’m up pacing back and forth, feeling alone, unseen, forgotten. Tired of coming into the throne room to ask again for sleep. On my best nights, I’m overwhelmed at my wretchedness of the previous nights filled with faithless and accusatory prayers. Scared to come into the throne room because He did answer and now I feel foolish. Both nights can only be described by one word: Humbling.

It makes me think of Deuteronomy 8:3 – “And he humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with manna, which you did not know, nor did your fathers know, that he might make you know that man does not live by bread alone, but man lives by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.”

He has taken rest away and allowed me to be sleep deprived and provided me with just enough (sometimes in half hour segments), so that I may know that I do not go about every day out of my own strength but only by the strength that comes from the Lord. As I approach a year of motherhood, I can honestly say, that I understand His provision to a greater extent than I ever did before. Every morning, He provides. He sustains.

But it’s humbling to be constantly thinking and praying about sleep. If I’m honest, I don’t want to pray about it anymore. But, like bread, it is a daily need. I cannot store it up. I need it fresh every night, and every morning there is the chance to trust and lean into the provision and sustaining power of the Lord, regardless of how the night has been before. Even with the best nights, I’m back, knocking on the door, asking for sleep, again, because the gift of the night before does not necessarily carry over to this current night. And it’s hard not to just have short sighted, cone vision that only counts hours of sleep, laments the ones lost, and hopes for more to come.

But this hyper awareness of our physical need has reminded me all the more of our spiritual need. So as I pray for physical rest, I’ve tried my best to not just be concerned about the temporal need of sleep, but of the greater, eternal rest. Soul rest in Jesus.

My prayers at 4 am are fervent in asking for two more hours of sleep when I’ve only got two under my belt. I plead. I ask. I knock again and again and again. And I want my prayers for the eternal state of his soul to be with the same kind of passion and earnestness. One is in regards to the next few hours. The other – eternity.

Just like I cannot make my son sleep, I cannot make his soul soft to Jesus. No matter how much I rock and sing, sleep comes by God’s hand and His alone. And not matter how much I talk to him about Jesus and read him Bible stories and share the gospel with him, a new heart comes by God’s gracious hand and His alone. Both are elusive to me, out of my control and my will. I may be the arms that God uses to rock, the voice to speak truth, but it is ultimately not me.

And so, I come. For daily sleep. Eternal rest. Lord, have mercy. Give us grace. It’s only by your hand we sleep. It’s only by your hand we ultimately rest.

And tomorrow, I’ll be back again.

hello

Hello grace. Hello rain falling from the sky. Green hills. New calves. Fat sheep. Hello food, mushy sweet potato and crisp apple. Juicy cucumber and crunchy Cheerios. Hello snuggles and hugs, splashing water and wind blown hair.

Hello pain. Hello cough and snotty nose. Fever, chills. Hello salty tears and restless, sleepless minds. Hello frustration, feeling unknown, plans gone wrong, feeling confined in a carseat and new teeth cutting gums.

How I wish I could just introduce you the the graces of this life. The beauty. I wish that all I showed you was perfect. I long that all your experience is joy and ease with no bump in the road.

But this world does not only hold beauty, but brokenness as well. Our longing is good, but we’re not fully home yet, and so with the beauty and grace comes the pain and hurt.

Hello grace. Hello brokenness. Regardless, hello Hope and hello Jesus. Our Savior. The grace reminds us of his goodness. The brokenness reminds us that he’s coming back again.

hands

I throw my hands up in the air, jumping up and down to try to gain a little more height.

Do you see me? My hands! There is more of me down here! Can you see me! I’m here! It’s me! Pick me! Chose me! See me!

I wake with my little one, and head straight into morning routine with him, start on waffles for a fun Saturday breakfast and by the time they are done and we have eaten, it’s nap time routine, down for a nap, twenty minutes of space and quiet before he’s up again and play time starts, followed by feeding, and play and nap time routine. All I wanted for today was to be able to get a few things done. Namely, some time alone to write and process some life things happening around us that a hard and do not involve infant sleep, introducing solids, or baby proofing. I also wanted to clean the bathroom that hasn’t been touched in three weeks, and my now mobile child makes me want to up the number of times I sweep and mop the kitchen.

But it’s 8 now and a teething/runny nosed child doesn’t want to go to sleep so here I rock. I squeezed in a page of a journal entry that was left hanging and the bathroom is now finally clean but it’s less then I was hoping for. Wonderful day with my baby? Yes. Tiring day with lists that don’t get accomplished? Also, yes.

I’ve been told that you identify your idols by filling in the blank: if only _______________. If that’s the case, than I’m idolizing chunks of sleep lasting longer than 4 hours (2 on average), some time alone in the Word apart from reading on my phone while nursing, a clean bathroom, and a clean kitchen floor. I don’t want to minimize them, because they can be idols. I feel like I want to be Mary but I’m being handed a world that can only be tackled with a Martha spirit. I know that chosing quiet time with God should be my first priority, but at the same time, I don’t believe that putting off the bathroom for 6 months is God honoring either.

So I feel like I’m five and everyone is picking teams for the game, and I’m too small and too short to stand out and I so badly want to be seen and picked. I so badly want to be recognized for what I’m doing as a mama. This life that is wonderful and exhausting all at the same time. I want to be patted on the back and praised. Do you see me? Will you pick me?

The better way, the much much harder way is to lift my hands in praise. To lift my hands that He might be noticed, not I. To lift my hands that He might get the glory rather than I get a pat on the back. To lift my hands to direct attention to Him, and not to myself.

Jesus emptied himself of all His rights and humbled himself. Emptying means there was something there in the first place, and if I follow his example, it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t want to have time along in the Word or a clean bathroom or a clean kitchen floor, but it means I get to pour those out and empty myself of them and lay those longings and desires before Him and let Him do with them what He will.

Yes, You see me. Yes, You chose me. I can lift my hands to praise you because I can trust that You hold me and that I don’t have to make a racket in order to be noticed. You walk these late night, early morning, no shower, no alone time days with me and I can lift my hands to praise You.

foundation

I’m (still) nursing late at night these days. And up every two hours like I have a newborn rather than a 6 month old. I wish I could say I use all this time to pray. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I read through old blogs of where I was two, three, four years ago.

There was a time that I read books and wrote much more. A time where I would spend an hour in the Word instead of read the verse of the day.

Those days are long gone. This is the uber present season of life where it feels like I can only see as far as an inch beyond my face which makes everything blurry and obscure.

I’m thankful for the years of time to sit and be still and read. If you are there – savor it. Thankful for years of building a foundation, which, by the way, is the most intensive part of a building project. It feels like I’m on top of a high ladder right now, a little tipsy, far from the stable ground below. But I’ve been down there and put in the time to know it and know Him and I’m thankful for the steadiness below me however topsy my current position feels. My emotions waiver, rise and fall depending on the day’s naps and sleep. I’m thankful to have seen enough bright mornings after hard seasons to know His faithfulness is true and good and that His promises never fail.

I’m thankful for the sweet seasons of blessing that have memory of goodness and fullness and remind me of the joy of life.

I’m thankful for the seasons of darkness and wrestling and how they showed me God’s faithfulness and presence in an entirely new way. I’m thankful to know He’s not leaving, not going a different way, that He is constant and strong.

One of these days, I’ll be thankful for this season of scattered prayers, singing songs to remind of gospel truth, and verses of the day.

It is totally different than any other period of my life and sometimes I miss what has been and worry that what was has been lost and won’t be known again.

But then I look below me, down the rungs, and see the solid foundation below and I know that all things and all seasons and all days and nights are known and seen and ordered and allowed by Him and I praise Him for what has been and what is and what will be.

dear son

Dear Son,

You are barely five months old.

I have barely started this journey of parenting you with your dad and yet already I want so much for you. Already I feel so lost. Already I feel so proud of what you’ve learned. Already I feel overwhelmed.

I have never wanted so much good for a person in my life. The love I have for you is fierce and different than any other love I’ve ever known. It brings so much intense joy and delight. And when I feel overwhelmed, tired, at the end of my rope, exhausted, and lost, it’s so easy for the love I have for you to turn into anxiety.

I have never wanted to give someone all that I want to give you. I want to give you the best of everything. I want to help guide your mind to be smart and thoughtful. I want to guide your heart to be large and compassionate. I want to guide your passion towards justice and goodness and beauty. I want to guide your hands towards creating and being helpful. I want to guide your eyes towards what is worthy and lovely.

And as much as I love you and desire good things for you, I often find myself unable to give you the things I most want for you.

I watch you squirm and toss in your sleep. Up again for the seeming hundredth time and I so long to give you a quiet mind and body and the ability to give into sleep and rest for long hours. Yet, no matter how much I try, I cannot give you the very thing I know is so good for you and so needed.

And so I run to my Heavenly Father. As I parent you, I find myself so much more in need of the Perfect Parent. The one who loves you and cares for you even more fiercely than I do. He knows the number of hairs on your head and does not just guide your heart towards good things, He can give you a new heart itself, one that is bent towards Him and soft.

Dear Son, I give you to Him, trusting that He not only desires the same things I desire for you, but that He desires them perfectly for you and is also able to make them come about. Right now, that means I give your sleep over to Him because He gives His beloved sleep. But one day I will have to give you over as you go to school, as you make friends, as you venture more out on your own.

For now, I will hold you close as we both are held by our Father.

weight

I felt his weight constantly. He was there during every meeting, often getting squirmy in the quietest moments. I’d hide a smile and push back as he flipped and punched while I tried to focus on the tasks at hand: project approval deadlines and trenching for utilities. I loved the weight. I loved the constant presence – the reminder that life was forming inside of me. We did so many things together – studied for, took and passed my licensing exam, served on a jury, adventured along the California coast and worked on a major project in the office.

Towards the end, he started to weigh me down more, but I still didn’t want to let go. Even as things got more uncomfortable, there was joy in this weight. Joy in the miracle, the punches and rolls. Joy in his already-here presence, in wondering exactly what he would look like, who he would take after, what temperament he would have, and the joy of sharing him with others.

I felt his weight and pressure as we labored together. He came early, and I wasn’t yet ready to give up the carrying-weight. But we found ourselves with broken water two and a half weeks early, and the pressure and weight of his body moving through mine. That weight was followed by the greatest gift – a little, tiny, perfect, pink baby boy. So much awe and wonder in finding his tiny hands, counting all ten, discovering his little hairy ears. Awe that we held this gift and got to take him home; wonder that we were his parents, this new title bestowed to us whether we felt ready or not.

I feel his weight constantly now. Countless afternoons spent on the couch, holding sleepy baby over my shoulder, cuddled close, heavy head, perfect eyes and little mouth. My arms and back are sore from naps, standing and rocking, shushing, back and forth, back and forth, until eyes close. Setting him down gently relieves the physical weight, but as much as I want the freedom to go to the bathroom and refill my water, I don’t want to let go. Setting down his physical weight doesn’t relieve the weight on my heart. There is so much sweetness and tension; savoring and longing. Longing for him to grow, savoring his little body that fits on my chest. Longing for sleep, savoring late night feedings where it’s just me and him. Longing to watch him run, savoring his constant need for cuddles. The heart-weight is so much greater than the physical. This weight of raising a little boy, one who, I pray, loves Jesus and stands confidently as a man.

As he gains weight, the once little chicken legs are now sporting hefty thighs. He’s getting heavier, squirmier, louder and more engaging. One day I will not cart him around and feel his weight as I do right now, and I feel like there will be an inverse relationship between his physical weight in my life and the heart weight of raising and guiding him. But I love this weight. There is so much joy of watching him grow and discover the world around him. I love looking in his eyes and wondering what he’s seeing and taking in. I love thinking about who he will become, what he will like and dislike, what he will excel at and what will be his challenges. I’m in awe and wonder that I get to be his mama, get to be a part of forming and guiding this little boy soul. There is a lot of weight, a lot of joy.

I want to always feel his weight and not let go.

muscles

These muscles know the routine. They know the rhythm of the day these days. They once knew how to pound mile after mile and pedal hill after hill. Now they know the pattern of our walking, and the set of yoga after a long day of work. Wobbly muscle resulted in teetering over; slow consistency has resulted in strength.

These muscles move my body. This muscle of a heart moves my soul.

There are many muscles in my heart, and it doesn’t seem that they can be exercised all at the same time.

My financial dependence muscle grew strong when my bank account came close to zero at the end of college. Watching graduation checks help pay for security deposits along with provisional job, roommate and home had me experiencing His daily bread. It solidified that muscle in my heart, even when it felt like it was often little and barely enough. That muscle has weakened recently as we’ve found ourselves in a season of abundance. Raises, bonuses and financial favor has strengthened the generous stewarding muscle instead. At first, it ached when it was put to use, but now it knows the routine. It’s strong and ready.

My surrendered planning muscle grew strong when I moved every year for several years, both in location and vocation. Unknown future was my reality, and the uprooting, constant newness of that season strengthened that muscle of faith and trust when I could not see beyond the next month. That muscle got so strong that I wondered if it would ever give way to anything other than constant change. It has, and now the faithfulness, steadfastness muscle is getting overtime as a year has turned into almost five years at the same job. It’s needed to get up every day and go to work with joy and a clean fresh slate grace for situations that don’t change and projects that drag on.

We are on the brink of a lot of change. A little is joining our family and I can imagine that the powering-through-while-exhausted muscle will get some work in the next few months. It’s also meaning that what is our comfortable heart exercise routine is changing, and what was the known routine years ago is coming back.

I know I have trusted the Lord when finances were tight. I can look back and know that I have exercised faith in that area before. But it’s not how I’m exercising faith right now, and that makes it hard. It’s not my normal, and because of that, I know that that muscle has atrophied and that asking it to perform again is going to be fairly achy and painful at the beginning. I know I have trusted the Lord when there was more unknown than known. I can look back and remember standing on the brink of many seasons where I was a month away from everything changing, and nothing was in place. I have seen God’s faithfulness in the unknown, but I know Him best right now in bringing grace to the repetitive, the known, the drama and politics that happen when I’ve been in a place long enough that church, community and work are no longer acquaintances.

And so I feel like I’ve been lifting weights and now I’ve been called to run a half marathon. I know it’s all faith, but it’s different kinds, and I’m anticipating the pain of exercising these particular parts of faith in this upcoming season.

Father, remind me that you’ve carried us in seasons in the past that are similar to the season you are carrying us into. Remind us that you are the author and sustainer of our faith, and that you are able to do abundantly beyond all that we could ever ask or imagine, whether we feel like our muscles are weak or strong.

gift

I have a sweatshirt with a buffalo on it and it is my favorite. My husband picked it out among other items as a birthday gift for me, and it’s one of those things that I didn’t ever know to want or ask for. But it is perfect. And far more than it’s cozy benefits, I love it because when I received it, I felt so known, and therefore loved. It is a simple item that I can live without and will eventually wear out, but to me, it’s a token of love.

Its Christmas and we are in full gift mode. I marvel at my husband’s gift of gift giving; no matter how much I concentrate and try to think of gifts for people, he always outpaces me. He’s great at buying gifts, which means we have lots of boxes at our door; but they aren’t just filled with things. There is careful and clever, personal thought packed in each box, almost as if each one is a tangible result of knowing, and therefore a token of love.

I think of how I often thank God for the tangible things in my life, and I often refer to them as gifts. Thank you God for this home, the food on our table, the reliable transportation we have, the money in the bank. On rushed days, I stop there. On more contemplative days, I might acknowledge that it’s not just the visible gifts I’m thankful for, but the gift of His presence that I am ultimately praising. It seems like I split between secular or sacred. But tonight seems like a rare, crystal clear, star-studded night where my heart is just barely able to grasp that these tangible gifts are not purely earth-bound, nor that the gift of Him is just merely in a spiritual sense, but that these very earthy, visible, in-my-hand gifts can be tokens of love, seasoned with His grace, goodness and character. Now I don’t mean that to say that tangible gifts are the only means of demonstrating love. I know my husband loves me whether or not he picks out the perfect buffalo for me; he shows me love in a million different ways every way. And I don’t mean to say that gifts are some currency of love, because that gets dark and dangerous quickly.

I guess what I’m really trying to say and what is awe-ing me tonight is how human-given gifts in my life have made me felt so known and loved. Buffalo sweatshirt. And how with God-given gifts, I so often just thank Him for them and stop there, or I ignore the gift all together and thank Him for being Him. I rarely connect the dots and thank Him for this gift of home, and then continue on to meditate on what this gift teaches me about who He is. He provisional and He cares for things like our shelter and warmth. Yet it is not just a general care of well being and goodness, but I feel so particularly known and loved because He put cows and sheep in our backyard, and a kitchen window that looks out on a beautiful hill rather than a side yard. He gave us country roads to walk on because He knew this season would be full of stress at work that is better talked through during twilight walks in the quiet then with busy streets outside. He knew life would be loud, so He gave us quiet, pulled away, farthest out, up on the hill so we can look out. He knew we would grow, so there is a second room upstairs to be filled with a little.

I thank Him for the gift. Or I praise Him for His character; yet I rarely run a string to connect the two.  Father, I am rich and I hold many gifts. I know it is not so in everyone’s life, but it is true in mine. As I hold things, keep my eyes darting back and forth, connecting the dots, letting the gifts be avenues for conversation and knowing and loving, both towards You and others. May gifts given and gifts received be tokens of love. May they reflect being known and loved. May they be free, with no strings attached, given out of joy and not obligation, reflecting character and heart.