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Epistolary Artistry

This morning I had a “first experience” ~ I was interviewed on camera for a spot in a video curriculum. I’ve known this was coming for a number of weeks, but once it came down to it, I really felt like I just didn’t know what to expect. A week ago the interviewer sent me a list of nine potential questions for the interview and I was able to take the time to write out my answers, just for a dry run at things. I’m so much better in writing than in spoken conversation! It’s really too bad that the interview itself could not have been conducted through letters. ;) That being said, my interviewer and my husband both congratulated me on accomplishing a job well done at the end of things, and it sounds like I was able to answer questions that would be pertinent to the study being covered in this particular video course. I am looking forward to seeing the final edited version of the interview myself! I would love to know what I said. :) It should be interesting, too, because it was held in my own home, with my own writing desk behind me. Perfect ambiance, I guess you could say… and at least I had a chance to dust a little before the film crew arrived at my home. Always a good thing.

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Some of the points I actually got to touch on during the interview were what I was expecting, and some weren’t (a lot more focusing on my courtship with Steven, and the role that written correspondence played in that ~ they even panned over to Steven a couple of times for his take on being the recipient of my letters). But here are a few things that I think I was able to say during the conversation, and I am hopeful that something here will be a blessing to the students in their studies.

I have been writing letters since before I remember. Officially, I know I was heavily penpalling by the time I was twelve years old, but I know I wrote letters in the form of pictures and simple notes to my grandmother and one of my cousins when I was very young, four or five years old. By the time I was twelve to fourteen years old, though, I had roughly fifty official penpals with whom I corresponded on a very regular basis, mostly in the United States but some internationally as well—I corresponded with girls as young as seven years old, and with women in their nineties, although the largest portion of my penpals were teenage girls like myself. These were all old-fashioned, handwritten letters at this point, and I think I wrote roughly three letters a day—some just a notecard perhaps, but most of them being rather lengthy as is simply my style—up to twenty sides of stationery pieces was not abnormal for me.

Letter writing is in my blood and also was simply part of the culture my parents instilled in me. My parents courted across the country before the age of cellphones and internet, so they wrote countless letters to one another, and my mom just loved writing letters and communicating with people through the written word, so I grew up watching her write letters, seeing her pour over stacks of mail, loved going through her stash of stationery and pretty return address labels. I grew up loving the artistic elements of letters: I collected stationery, postage stamps, stickers, different sizes or colors of pens.

I didn’t choose letter writing—it was put before me, ingrained in me, part of the culture around me, and it just organically expressed itself in myself as well.

My parents even considered my profuse letter writing part of our homeschooling routine. Sometimes they would read the letters to offer their suggestions on spelling, grammar, or even artistic and communicative flow.

I even loved the licking the envelope and tasting the different kinds of glue each one seemed to have—some were definitely better than others. Stamps used to have that same kind of tasty glory, but of course that’s been replaced by self-adhesive stamps these days. I think reading and journaling were two other ways that I developed some letter writing skills as well. It wasn’t something I was taught to do exactly, it was just instilled into me as part of our family culture.

I mean, really, there’s just nothing like opening your mailbox to find something other than catalogs, advertisements, and bills.

My parents specifically, cliché or not, have inspired me the most. As I’ve alluded to previously, their long-distance courtship through letters always inspired me. Someday I would love the pleasure of reading all those letters—for the most part, I’ve seen the envelopes and heard about the romance cultivated therein, but have never read the correspondence. I think the general feel of L.M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, Jane Austen, and the short diary-based series of books called Dear America were somewhat forming in my style—but they were not generally themed on letters so much. And then both David and Paul in Scripture have also been inspiring to me in the way they poured out their souls in writing both for God’s glory and for the encouragement of others—perhaps not so much in forming my style for letter-writing but in the foundational aspects of why I write, why I love writing, and why I need to keep doing it—they continue to be authors who have deeply affected me personally.

I don’t utilize a lot of the modern forms of communication that are so popular these days—texting, facebook, twitter, etc. I don’t have them and I don’t want to. I do have email and a blog, and I do utilize those things to a large extent, but I use them in such a way that I am trying to pursue deep relationships, communicate on a deep level, and both maintain and pursue further connections with people. I don’t know a lot of the shorthand lingo that people use these days, which probably makes the chasm between my style and a typical modern style even larger and more obvious.

I came up with routines, stances, and rhythms that simply work for me. When my husband and I were courting long-distance we had the blessing of the internet to aid our communication, unlike my parents had had—so we largely emailed our letters to one another. I had spent many years typing (letters, a magazine for Christian young ladies, short works of fiction, etc) and had grown fast—very fast.

I have always felt that I am more myself in writing than in any other medium, and part of that IS simply due to speed. I can actually write faster and more accurately what is contained in my heart than I can speak, and I get less distracted while doing it.

In To The Letter by Simon Garfield, we’re told “the poet William Cowper was credited with a phrase equally attributed assigned to his contemporary Jane Austen—that letter-writing may be best described as the art of silent speech, the notion that the best letter to a friend was a ‘talking letter,’ something that read as if you were telling it to them over tea” (p281), and I think that is part of the inherent personality in my letters: they are read just as I write them, which is to say, directly from my heart and just about as quickly penned as they pop into my head.

That is one of the beauties of typed words, though, especially when you are quick and accurate with your typing—speed CAN be a blessing, especially if you don’t have an excess amount of free time on your hands. But the sacrifice of taking the time to write by hand may be an even bigger blessing, especially in this modern world where we are all-consumed by techie communication forms.

There’s just nothing like handwriting. Each person’s handwriting is unique to themselves, their fingerprint. I can pull out a stack of mail, and when I see the handwriting on the envelope, I can tell you immediately if it’s from my grandma, my best friend, my husband, my mother, my father, a childhood penpal, or someone who has never handwritten me a letter before. You can’t do that with typing: we all look the same when we write in Times New Roman, or whatever font. It’s like hiding behind a veil. There is something precious about that fingerprint of handwriting, and I love to utilize that.

I love how letters take a journey between hands—a letter that I write and seal and pop in the mailbox then takes the rest of the journey without me—in a car, maybe in a truck or on a plane, sometimes just across land but occasionally across an ocean—and how many hands it touches before it reaches the hands for whom it was intended, I will never know. I love that little sense of romantic mystery about it.

I don’t start with a plan in general—but I think I do have an unofficial style, in thinking about it. I generally open with a greeting and close with a farewell, each at least a sentence long: and in the body of the letter, I think I tend to try focusing on the other person first and then focusing on myself second. I’ve always been taught that we always put the other person before us: in our heart attitudes and even in grammar, so I think that just naturally carries over into my letter writing. So I will first answer anything pertinent from the previous letter and respond accordingly, after which I would then add my own news and thoughts. Part of the purpose of a letter for me, at least very often, is to be a blessing and encouragement—I need to remember that’s not all about me. But at the same time, the person receiving my letter may well want to know my newest news, perhaps wants to pick my brain on a certain subject, wants to know how I am faring and what God is doing in me and through me. So I don’t want to overlook those aspects either—it’s a balance.

My word choices, especially in relational aspects, definitely differ from person to person. How I sign my name at the end of a letter definitely has implications depending upon the relationship. And also, my knowledge and understanding of the recipient’s place in life as well as spiritual depth have a real implication on the shape my letters will take. I may communicate the same ideas to six different people in six different ways, depending on my relationship with them; I may change my wording, my inclusion of details, even my handwriting.

A letter’s depth can also vary, however, not so much depending upon the depth of your relationship with the recipient, but also the purpose for which you are writing. I write a lot of notes of encouragement on a spiritual level, whether to people in the body of Christ just to be a blessing to them and let them know I’ve been praying for them, or to people I know who are suffering the loss of children because that is something I have suffered and have a heart for in particular ministry. Sometimes the purpose of a handwritten letter completely outweighs the fact that the person I’m writing to has never heard my name before, doesn’t actually know my story, and probably will never write back to me.

And when asked what tips I would specifically give to someone desiring to develop the skill of letter writing, my main points were easily summed up into five categories… with a little p.s. at the end. 🙂

Practice handwriting. In this modern day and age, handwriting is going by the wayside, so my first encouragement would be to write by hand. Write legibly and write often. Typing is great, and it certainly has its place and enormous blessings, but try writing by hand.

Keep a journal. Journaling is one way to write one-sided letters. It isn’t the same thing, but it can be good practice. I have a large box in the basement full of journals, which I have kept by hand since I was eleven or twelve years old. Outside of true correspondence, journaling is the best practice I have received—both for formation of carrying on a one-sided conversation on paper as well as for the physical practice of actual handwriting.

Find a penpal. I honestly don’t know how people find penpals as much these days, but when I was twelve years old, give or take, we had these things called “slams” or “friendship booklets” and they were really just little papers stapled together, and girls (because yes, it tended to mostly be girls—but maybe that’s just because I was a girl—I know my brother had at least three penpals through the years, so I know for a fact that penpalling does not necessarily have to be a female-only art) would write their name, address, age, and interests on it—then stick it in a letter and send it on to another penpal. It would get passed around to a dozen or so people before it was filled up, and then someone would send it back to the person who originated it—and anyone who received it along the way could take down the information of anyone on it, and strike up a penpal conversation by sending a letter to one of the people listed. I don’t know if there is a modern equivalent or not. I have had penpals who I wrote for years and eventually met in person—I have had penpals who were children of people my parents knew—I have had penpals of long-distance relatives—I have had penpals that I met via those little friendship booklets, one of whom I have corresponded with for fifteen years and have still never met in person, never spoken with on the phone. So there are lots of different ways to acquire a penpal. Be creative. Find a friend at church who would like to write, or see if there is an exchange student from another country who would like to practice English by writing letters (I’ve done that too), or see if there is a way to find someone utilizing modern technology (facebook maybe?) to put out a request for someone who would like to also try their hand at real, old-fashioned, handwritten letters. You could even correspond with a parent or grandparent—communicating through written words is an amazing way to speak to one another’s hearts, and to glean wisdom from someone who is older and wiser and who loves you unconditionally.

Be practical with your choices—use a writing implement that will serve you well (a pen that doesn’t smear or skip, or a pencil that is just sharp enough), sit in an environment that will aid you rather than hinder you (trying to write notes while my children are playing pirates nearby is not highly conducive, for instance), and choose paper that will fit your purpose (for example, if you expect to keep your note short and to the point, choose a small card or sheet of paper rather than something that you will leave largely blank—that just feels awkward; but, on the flipside, be prepared to add additional sheets of paper if you have the feeling you may extend past your original card because being cut off at the end can be disturbing or disruptive to both the author and the recipient).

Practice, don’t give up, writing the kind of letter you would want to receive. Remember what Jane Austen favored, amongst numerable others, that one should write as one speaks. Even if you start with thank you notes, you can build from there. Remember that this is not only an art, but it is a gift. Think of the joy you will give to someone—and think of the joy that you may receive by receiving a letter in return. Don’t let a hand cramp or needing white-out or spending half a dollar on stamps keep you from sending notes. Bless people—you’ll be blessed too.

 p.s. (that means post script…) sign & date your letters! Never assume that if the envelope says the recipient’s name, the card inside doesn’t also need their name. It may get separated. Always include the to & from and the date.

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Honoring My Mama

Proverbs 31:10-31… a beautifully common passage of Scripture when it comes to describing femininity and the multifaceted work of a godly woman. This is a passage which is both loved and scorned, because of its depth and breadth, because of its high aims and claims. How many of us, especially women who have been churched for years upon years, have done studies on this passage? can quote it by heart? know its ins and outs, ups and downs? who cling to it with joy and promise? who maybe even look at it with doubt and worry, wondering if we can ever live up to it?

Well. Today I’m not here to encourage you in the paths of Proverbs 31, to exhort you to pursue these many feminine graces, to show how God wants to accomplish these incredible things in you and through.

Today I am here to honor my mother.
Today is my mother’s birthday, and today I am recalling what an excellent woman she is in so many facets and incredible ways. I am musing upon the mighty works of the Lord in her and through her, for her and by her.
Today I am looking at Proverbs 31:10-31 and contemplating just a small handful of ways that I see God has worked out these wonderful deeds and characteristics in my own mama.
Today I pray for God’s continued hand to be resting mightily upon her, for Him to bless her with grace and glory because of Christ, for Him to lift her spirits and strengthen her body, for His power to continue being evident through her words and her deeds ~ she belongs to Him, and I am just so thankful to say that He has given part of her to me too.

Mama, I love you entirely, deeply, and forever. Thank you for being my mama. Thank you for being my babies’ grandmama.
Happiest of Birthdays to you, and many happy returns.

An excellent wife who can find?
    She is far more precious than jewels.
The heart of her husband trusts in her,
    and he will have no lack of gain.
She does him good, and not harm,
    all the days of her life.

My mother was, of course, already a wife by the time I knew her. She had been married for over eight years by the time I was cradled in her arms. My father knew her well… they met when they were only ten years old, and were married at twenty-one. I have known my mother for thirty years, and never have a seen a wife more trusted than she; and never have I doubted that she does good to and for my father all the days of her life. He has never had a reason to doubt her, and their hearts are united in such a way that they simply beat as one.
She seeks wool and flax,
and works with willing hands.
She is like the ships of the merchant;
she brings her food from afar.
She rises while it is yet night
and provides food for her household
and portions for her maidens.
She considers a field and buys it;
with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.

My mother has always been industrious. Some of my earliest memories of her, and definitely some of the fondest, include spending time at Michael’s craft stores or Jo-Ann’s fabric stores and watching her collect items that she would then work on to make into beautiful and functional things. I have early memories of gardening and grocery shopping with her, and a library full of memories of cooking, baking, sewing, creating, decorating, party-planning with her. We weren’t a processed food kind of family… she always cooked from scratch, baked our bread, catered meals and parties and office luncheons from menus she created herself and concocted frugally with ingredients she picked up in the freshest places we had available. My mom always made sure there was more than enough: never “just enough” but always with an abundance. She has been frugal and wise and capable. She emphasized productivity and industry with her purchases yet beauty and aesthetic with her finished products. She can make anything look beautiful, and make anything taste delicious. She spends money with a deft hand: she saves it with wisdom. The Lord blesses this kind of balanced insight, and He causes the increase. I’ve seen this in and through how my mother has planned, prepared, purchased, planted, and produced.

She dresses herself with strength
    and makes her arms strong.
She perceives that her merchandise is profitable.
    Her lamp does not go out at night.
She puts her hands to the distaff,
    and her hands hold the spindle.

One funny thing about my mom is what a night-owl she is, and always has been. I’ve always smiled at the thought that her lamp does not go out at night. But what I wanted to focus on here is strength. My mother is a strong woman, in body and in spirit. She is no limp noodle. She has always shown me the value of physical exercise, of bodily exertion, of eating healthy, of taking care of the physical body God gave to me—and she has, even more, shown me the value of spiritual strength. My mother is continually seeking to grow more and more in the knowledge of the Lord, deepening her understanding of Scripture, widening her girth of ministry, advancing her battle-waging prayers, and becoming ever closer to her Father and Brother and Comforter. She does not grow weary in these things, and does not give up when things require extra strength—she digs in her heels, grits her teeth, and uses all the strength God has given her, while continuing to ask Him for more. Whether speaking of spiritual graces or materials works, my mother is diligent and labors industriously, for the good of others, for the blessing of her family, for the glory of God.
She opens her hand to the poor
and reaches out her hands to the needy.

My mother is a generous woman. If she hears of a need, she does what she can to fill it. She loves to share things with people. She loves to give. She gives gifts, she gives money, she gives food, she gives cards, she gives phone calls, she gives counsel, she gives time, she gives countless prayers. She would never be the first one to tell you—in fact, most often, she keeps her generosity rather a secret unless you’ve been blessed to be on the receiving end of things, because while she is very generous, she is very discreet and loves to share of her bounty and her graces behind the veil. God blesses her for that, and I love her for it.
She is not afraid of snow for her household,
for all her household are clothed in scarlet.
She makes bed coverings for herself;
her clothing is fine linen and purple.

Even when my parents were young and dirt-poor (yes, there was a time when they didn’t have two nickels to rub together), my mother sought to beautify her home to create a haven for their family and for those around them to whom they would open their doors. Those were the days when sewing and crafting were the frugal way to do things rather than simply the chic way… so she could pull together clothes, curtains, table linens, wreaths, and bed sets on pennies and grit. She took delight in doing that. As time has changed and the Lord has blessed my parents with more than two nickels through the years, she continues to seek wise and beautiful care of her home and her family. She knows that these things are a gift from the Lord, and she puts herself to use in being a physical conduit of His grace in these ways.

Her husband is known in the gates
when he sits among the elders of the land.

If there’s one thing my father has never been, it’s hidden. He has always been well-known, and he has always used that for God’s glory. He is well-respected, well-honored, well-loved—and with good reason. Not only is he a jack of all trades in the sense of being a true Renaissance Man, excelling in everything from plumbing to doctoring to woodworking to preaching to composing poetry, but he is an adamant lover of God above all else. This is something that my mother has loved about him and encouraged in him since they were teenagers. My mother is not ashamed of his position in our community as a well-known, popular, albeit somewhat controversial (hey, that’s what being an outspoken conservative Christian will get you these days!), medical professional—nor is she offended by his incredible love of learning Scripture, continual desire to deepen his knowledge of God’s character, his sharpening by & of other Christians by discussion and reading and asking and searching and praying. My mother is constantly encouraging him and uplifting him, honoring him and seeking his good.

She makes linen garments and sells them;
she delivers sashes to the merchant.

My mom has always been a stay-at-home mom, but that doesn’t mean she has not worked in the marketplace during my lifetime. I remember when she would host craft fairs with a friend of hers… I remember when she would make things to sell… I remember when she taught our church’s monthly craft night for women and led Bible studies. She also spent years catering the office luncheons my father held for his staff, and when begged for recipes, she even put together cookbooks of her favorite things. She has always been a woman who has done good work, things that people enjoy and value—and she has taken delight in various ways at various times in sharing these things with others around her.

Strength and dignity are her clothing,
and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.

Strength, dignity, laugher, wisdom, kindness, speech—I really feel like these things particularly embody my mother. If you know my mom at all, you know she loves to converse, and never on a superficial level. My mother, if she’s anti anything, is anti-superficial. Have you ever heard the saying, “still waters run deep”? That describes my mom. A good part of that comes from her depth of wisdom and kindness, which the Lord has graced her with by His merciful care. And she is stalwart: strong and dignified, never wondering where God’s sovereignty is going to land but confidently resting in His plan with peace. These are some of the things that God has equipped her with that have specifically blessed me in recent years of my own struggles and griefs. My mother is the type of Titus 2 woman every young woman should have in her life, not because she has all the answers, but because she has the characteristics that God delights to give older women who are resting and growing and passing His fruits of the Spirit on to others through love and good deeds.

She looks well to the ways of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.

I’ve heard of women who, once they reach the stage of empty-nesting, take up all kinds of hobbies (whether self-serving or otherwise)… that’s not something my mother has done, nor has she any desire to do it. She continues to give of herself, her time, her love, her resources to look well to the ways of her home and family. She does not sit around reading novels or watching soap operas. She doesn’t even sit around quilting or knitting or gardening, even though those would be delightful and creative and profitable things to do. She gives herself to caring for her home, nurturing her family, teaching her descendants about God, and spending time with Him and His people. Some people have come into my parents’ home and made the comment to my father that he has done pretty well for himself, and I recall him once saying, “my wife does a wonderful job with what the Lord has given us.” She is not idle, and she cares well for what the Lord has put under her care.

Her children rise up and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
“Many women have done excellently,
but you surpass them all.”

My mother is mama of two, mama-at-heart of two more, and grandmama of sixteen so far (that’s a pretty good return on investment right there). Nobody takes more delight in this honorable, delightful, godly, wise, kind, competent woman than her husband, children, and grandchildren. I think that’s because we are ones who are blessed to know her most intimately. She is a humble woman, but we are not necessarily humble about her—we love to tell the world how marvelous she is, and we love excuses to tell her how much she means to us. We don’t want to wait to tell the world about her until she has died and we have to write memorials and obituaries—we want her to know now what a blessing she is, and in what ways God uses her in our lives.

Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands,
and let her works praise her in the gates.

My mother may be charming and beautiful, but her fear of the Lord is the most prominent thing about her. The fruit of her hands is obvious and abundant but honors and praises her in delicately sweet and graceful ways. She has been a lifelong homemaker (full-time for the last 33 years), and her home continues to be a place of beauty and rest and hospitality. She is the matron of a God-fearing, Jesus-loving, Spirit-filled family of children and grandchildren who cling to her, body and spirit, with joy and dedication. And I think that is one of the most rewarding fruits that have been thrown from her fruit-laden branches—the generations that are following her are following her example of faith—and these are fruits that will not return to dust but will flourish throughout eternity.

Mama, I love you completely and thoroughly. I want to be like you when I grow up—I pray the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree so that I can grow and drop the same kinds of fruits you do. They’re delicious. Happy birthday, and may you have many more fruitful years and joyful birthdays. MJ

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Molder of Childhoods

You are now on your own.
And then you aren’t.
Other real live souls are now depending on you.
You are the creator of their childhoods.
You are the influencer of their dreams and tastes and fears.
You are the emcee of all reality,
the one to introduce those small people to the true personality of their Maker
(as imaged by your life more than your words).
The choices you now make have lives riding on them. Always.
Their problems and struggles are yours to help them resolve.
Their weaknesses yours to strengthen. Or not.
(Maybe they’ll outgrow them.)

~N. D. Wilson, Death by Living, p44~

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For good and ill,
I am a molder of childhoods,
an instiller of instincts,
a feeder (or famisher) of souls,
a sensei of humor.
I am an image of God
(stunted and vandalized but all the earthly father my kids can have).
Thank God for faith and bulk-ordered grace.

~N. D. Wilson, Death by Living, p44~

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Guest Posting “My Story”

This week I was asked to guest post (a new thing for me!) in honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, and it was a real joy and honor to spend a couple of hours writing my story out for this purpose. It is always beautiful when I feel like God is just giving me specific words to say and a particular message to share with His people, especially those who are suffering. May the Lord be praised, and may His people be encouraged by what I can share of the story He has written for my family.

Snippets and teasers until you pop over here to read my story yourself:

One of the big things about “infertility awareness” is the whole idea that we aren’t all completely aware of what infertility is. We may not know how to define it. We may not understand what it’s like. We may have no real idea who is affected by it. And that’s one of the interesting things about my story, my angle on infertility—at first glance, you may well not think of my story as one of infertility. And that’s why my story, and others like mine, are told, especially during times like National Infertility Awareness Week—to help open eyes, advance knowledge and understanding, to nurture fellowship and empathy amongst women who so often suffer in misunderstood silence.

This is my story, that God wrote for me before I was created in secret (Psalm 139:15-16)—the story that He reveals to me chapter by chapter, that I live out before Him by faith, that I don’t completely understand but that I embrace because I know He is good. I recognize that my life, my joys and my suffering, is for the purpose of glorifying Him (1 Peter 4:12-13, 5:10).
~~~

All of a sudden a new chapter of the story of my life was unfolding. It was unlovely and unfamiliar. It felt cold and harsh. Its very essence was isolating and debilitating. I cried myself to sleep so many nights, and found it hard to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I had a living son—my womb had managed to produce life before! And, thus far, it had never taken more than two cycles of trying to conceive before the Lord filled my womb. How could infertility become part of my reality?
~~~

Whether we are facing another chapter—or perhaps simply an interlude—of uRPL in our family or not, we have realized that we just don’t know what the chapters in our story are going to look like; we can’t predict their endings; we may not always understand the storyline as we’re going through it (and maybe not even when looking back). But infertility will always be part of our story, as God has used it to shape us and use us in ways we would not have otherwise been used in His Kingdom.

If you look at my family picture, you probably would not automatically think, “I wonder if that family has ever struggled with infertility?”—which is just another reminder for us in the midst of National Infertility Awareness Week that we really are unaware of so much about infertility, its effects, its forms, its reach. My arms are both full and empty. I have children on earth, but more children who reside in the glories of heaven. I know the miracle of getting BFPs (that’s infertility-speak for “big fat positive” which is code for a positive pregnancy test), but I also know the depth of anguish that comes from my naïveté being stolen and understanding that being pregnant does not necessarily mean I am having a baby.
~~~

And that is one of the reasons why I feel God calls me to speak out about it, to share in others’ similar journeys, to offer words of encouragement and empathy on this path, so that others can share in the comfort of Christ (2 Corinthians 1:4) which He has offered to me through these locust-eaten years (Jonah 2:25) as well, even as He continues to reveal my own story to me little by little.

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Sharing, “Beauty From Ashes”

The interweavings that the Lord gives us with various people, the odd connections that seem to pop up in His people, amazes me sometimes. For instance, I called my grandma yesterday to chat and she said that she had just been listening to a Focus on the Family program and heard something she thought I’d be interested in: she said, “I think the woman’s name was Teske Drake, and I thought you’d really be blessed by her story, she sounded so much like you.” I had to giggle, and I told Grandma, “I know Teske. Via the internet, but I know her. She recently recruited me to be a contributor to her online ministry, Mommies With Hope, and so far she has accepted four articles from me, and the second one is about to be published online.” Oh, God’s ways. 🙂

With that said, my real introductory post for Mommies With Hope was published today, called “Beauty From Ashes,” and I would love to share it with you. As I responded to one of the comments it has received already, I could not have written this post even just a couple of years ago. The Lord has continued to mold me and shape me, to give me acquiescence to His will because I know that He does all thing well. Not that that makes it easy or simple or happy to walk these roads ~ just that my worries, fears, doubts, tears, and anxieties do NOT have the last word. Amen!

I have the incredible blessing of having eleven children—a blessing that I did not know I ever wanted, and honestly, part of me still doesn’t know I want it. But it’s the wonderful, painful truth.

The Lord has continued to sharpen, hone, and strengthen us so that He can continue using us as His tools. This is a true testimony of His beauty—seeing Him redeem the days the locusts ate by granting us growth in Him, ministry among His people, and the ability to reap joy after sowing years of tears.

…here I sit in the ashes, with tears streaming down my face once again. But this time I not only hope and look for beauty, but trust and truly believe, that there will be more beauty—that it doesn’t end here in the ashes, but that these ashes are here precisely because the Lord intends to draw beauty from them. So I’m weeping with my eyes open, because when the beauty begins to rise, I want to see it and rejoice (Psalm 119:74-77).

May God continue to give me eyes to see His handiwork, so that I would be able to praise Him for His good works, so that I would pray with integrity that His will would be accomplished, so that the beauty around me would glorify Him and bless His people, no matter how deep the ash heap has gotten.

Psalm 50:1-2

The Mighty One, God the Lord,
    speaks and summons the earth
    from the rising of the sun to its setting.
Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,
    God shines forth.

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“Singing” today

God’s timing is always amazing, isn’t it? This morning after spending some time in prayer, I was feeling like singing… but felt conflicted, not knowing what kind of song my heart and lips needed to pour out at God’s feet. I felt hope and joy colliding with doubt and fear. And then I remembered that something I wrote was being published on a blog today, titled “Singing.”

I wrote, “I often sing through my tears and in my confusion. This is one of the reasons that I have been drawn to the songbook of the Scriptures—the Psalms. The psalmist David encompasses such a vast variety of human experiences and emotions in his songs, and I cling to that example with thankfulness and relief,” and today the Lord used my own words to speak to myself and remind me to sing.

So I sang with the man after God’s own heart, I sang of His law, of my love for Him, of my trust in Him, of my fears of stumbling blocks around me. I sing because I can, because I need to, because I want to, because He commands me to, because He loves me to.

Psalm 119:165-176

Great peace have those who love your law;
nothing can make them stumble.
I hope for your salvation, O Lord,
and I do your commandments.
My soul keeps your testimonies;
I love them exceedingly.
I keep your precepts and testimonies,
for all my ways are before you.

Let my cry come before you, O Lord;
give me understanding according to your word!
Let my plea come before you;
deliver me according to your word.
My lips will pour forth praise,
    for you teach me your statutes.
My tongue will sing of your word,
    for all your commandments are right.
Let your hand be ready to help me,
for I have chosen your precepts.
I long for your salvation, O Lord,
and your law is my delight.
Let my soul live and praise you,
    and let your rules help me.
I have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant,
for I do not forget your commandments.

Please take a few minutes and visit Expecting With Hope, which is a subdivision of Mommies With Hope, a ministry where I am a contributing writer online, and sing along with me because “even when we are speechless, the Lord gives us His book of psalms to bring us back to singing.”

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Tangible Resurrection

I am so humbled that God gave me the incredible gift of little humans that show God’s incredible power, His love of drawing straight with crooked lines, His miraculous ways of bringing forth life ~ how good and gracious God is to give us these treasures to enjoy here on earth and that He entrusts them to us. May we live out the Gospel of Easter before these sweet children this week and throughout our lives, amen.

Such tangible and eternal reminders of life after death, of resurrection light following deep darkness, of joy after grief, of miracles we just didn’t expect. :happytears:
Looking at my kids, I simply see “Easter” written all over them. Christ is risen, indeed! Alleluia! Thanks be to God!

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Easter Outfits

As I was just getting Easter outfits set out and prepared for this upcoming weekend, I was remembering back to just a handful of years ago when I was anticipating Easter. I remember how painful it was to pick out clothes for Gabriel ~ and nobody else. How he was my only one to dress up. He wasn’t a stairstep kid. He didn’t have siblings on earth. I couldn’t put bows on his sisters’ hair, because I can’t reach all the way up to heaven. I didn’t get to pick out matchy-matchy stuff for brothers, or even think about finding coordinating things. Sometimes he got to coordinate with his cousins (thanks to Grandmama’s excessively good taste and love of filling out the grandkids’ wardrobes), but sometimes that was more painful than fun for me.

Easter of 2011, I was raging with pregnancy hormones and new drugs, painfully aware that the baby in my womb may not survive to the next Easter. Going to church on Easter to celebrate resurrection almost made me feel like a fraud. I was stuck in death and waiting… it didn’t feel real to celebrate new life and resurrection. I went through the motions, but it felt fake. Forced. Habitual. I saw families at church with coordinated outfits. I saw little girls everywhere with bows and hats and patent shoes and purses and flowers and plastic bead necklaces.

I remember feeling like I was surrounded only by shattered dreams. And I remember that depth of anguish.
I simply can’t forget.

But here I am, just a few years later. And oh God, how merciful You are to me, a sinner… You saw fit to come down and lift my downtrodden state… You gave me stairsteps, and You even gave me a daughter. Oh God! I cry at the thought! Why would You do such merciful things for me?!

So today I cried as I laid out two little plaid shirts, grey pants, white bow ties and suspenders… and a poofy flowery dress, patent shoes, tiny tights, a big white bow… and my own THREE miracles, my little darlings I dreamed of but nearly despaired of ever holding in my arms… they will sit in the Easter service singing and praying and eating candy and shouting “He is risen, indeed!” in their matchy-matchy outfits, nearly stairstepped in size (Gabriel is like the landing on a set of stairs, haha).

And this mercy is not lost on me.

Nor is the pain that my joy could be causing someone else.

So I will pray for infertile women, suffering mothers, bereaved mamas, single women. I will pray for hurting hearts that will throb and bleed when they see my own little brood of Resurrection-Life children. They may not know what a miracle it is that I have been given this gift… but I know.
I simply can’t forget.

And so on Easter morning, I will look again at these miraculous children… these gifts of life that followed so much death and so much waiting… so much sitting-at-Christ’s-feet… so much crying to God why-have-You-forsaken-me… and I will feel mercifully, undeservedly, bountifully blessed. And I will shout with tears in my eyes as I think of all eleven of my beautiful children, “CHRIST IS RISEN!!! ALLELUIA!!!”

Christ came. He conquered. He lived. He died. He rose again. He gives us hope.
Hope even for a woman who is raging with hormones, dealing with awful drug side effects, grieving for a daughter I don’t get to hold again… hope that resurrection has happened, and it will happen again.

That’s what packing Easter outfits did to me today. It reminds me of broken dreams, and of dreams come true.
Death inevitably follows life, but for those of us in Christ, life follows death. Hosanna! Alleluia!

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The Fleeting Moments

Sometimes it is the fleeting moments that are the hardest for me to enter into with my children (aren’t they ALL fleeting though?) ~ specifically things like reading books or imaginative play. Somehow I have always found it easier to incorporate my children into my world than it is for me to enter into their world. It’s difficult to remember that reading The Bobbsey Twins may be even more important than cooking dinner; playing “hide & tickle” may have more eternal effects than having freshly ironed shirts & folded socks; going on hikes in the woods may teach more important lessons than accomplishing page after page in certain textbooks. These fleeting moments of wide-eyed wonder and full-on joy are not always easy for me to grasp, they slip right through my fingers while I sit here saying “just one more minute” ~ especially as I look up and see that suddenly an hour has passed. An hour of my children’s lives that I will never get back.

I don’t want to miss out on reading those books, feeding those imaginations, tickling those round bellies, chasing those rippling strong legs, holding those tightly gripping hands, answering those never-ending questions.

My mom and my grandma are constantly reminding me of this quintessential poem (which applies to every child, not just the fifth, of course).

Song for a Fifth Child

    by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

So what are some of the ways that I have learned (and am continuing to learn…) to better embrace these fleeting moments with my children??

Going to the library.
It really helps to have new materials to keep minds engaged (especially Mommy’s…), to spur new conversations and new questions, so I try to keep our library bag constantly filled but also continually changing. Storytime at the library (I go to the preschool geared storytime, as it is sort of a happy medium for the age range of my kids currently) gives me an hour each week to simply sit with my kids and let someone else do the reading, and it inspires me in my own reading with my kids too.
After being at the library, we often have a good excuse to stop for french fries or milkshakes, errands at a grocery store where they have fun little cars attached to the carts, or a romp at a park. It is good to be faced with out-and-about things once a week. 🙂

Getting chores done consistently.
When I am consistently staying on top of dishes, laundry, cleaning, and other such piddly things that are basic necessities of being a housewife and homemaker, it is easier to be willingly interrupted. Doing the dishes takes less than ten minutes after each meal, but if I don’t stay on top of it, it can wind up being an hour if the sink is piled-high (same principle applies to other areas of my home work). Staying on top of my chores, and involving the children in it whenever I can, is a wonderful way to stay more consistently available to embrace fleeting moments with the little ones.

Being a homebody.
Being at home the majority of the time, not always on the run, gives me many more opportunities to slow down and embrace the kids and their lives.

Saying YES to my children.
When someone asks me to come play, to please read books, to sing songs, to go outside, to pull out board games or dance around being silly… saying yes is the best thing I can do. I don’t always do it… in fact, only about half as often as I would like to… but God is giving me grace and helping me grow this skill. With each year that flies by, I feel like I improve on saying yes to my children. May God grant me continued and deepened grace so that YES is my most frequent answer when these fleeting moments show up on my lap!

Embracing the day, or even rather, the hour.
Looking at the big picture is often overwhelming, even saddening. Embracing little moments as they come is not only more joyful for me but more profitable in the big scheme of things. It’s sunny? Okay, let’s go plant flowers and go on a walk right now ~ sweeping and ironing and changing bedsheets can wait for another hour. It’s rainy? Okay, let’s build blanket forts and eat snacks by dim flashlights while listening to books on tape ~ we can always have leftovers or nachos for dinner if I don’t get around to making a well-balanced freshly cooked meal because I’m took busy embracing little moments with my children!

Remembering Ecclesiastes.
It’s all fleeting. The housework, the yardwork, the correspondence, the educations, the playtime, the bellies that need fed, the diapers that need changed, the lives that are being lived. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t supposed to embrace it all and do it with gracious, God-given gusto. That’s exactly what Solomon in his wisdom suggests. Life IS fleeting. But LIFE is exactly what we are supposed to do. I need to remember this as I work, live, and play with my children. It may be fleeting, but it is wise to blow with the wind when I know I can not embrace it and keep it as it is.

Looking back.
Nothing gives me perspective on the rate of my babies’ lives than looking back at photo albums. How quickly they change! How fast I forget! How little a time I get to have them with me in the daily grind! Remembering and reminiscing is a huge reminder to me that embracing the moment is key in my calling.

Looking forward.
Hope for the future, confidence for what lies ahead, joy for what God is working out & working in ~ this takes faith in Him and His sovereignty. What really matters? Yes, they need clean undies and beds with sheets tucked in; they need to learn how to read and how to perform arithmetic; they need nourishing meals and bubbly baths; they need naps and bedtimes… but the way these necessary things are communicated to them is even more important. The children need hugged, tickled, read to, played with, laughed over, tousled. My children need to know that I love what matters to them, what goes on in their heads; that what bothers them, bothers me; that I’m in their corner; that my life is for theirs; that being their mommy is more than simply having given them life and sustaining that physical life ~ that being their mommy is in the big things, the little things, the necessary things, the icing-on-the-cake things, the physical and spiritual and emotional things.

So this is my prayer, my hope, my desire.
That I would be the kind of mommy God wants me to be, so that He is molding me into the kind of Grandmommy He wants me to be, so that I can best be a honed tool for the Kingdom work that He wants me to do. Life is fleeting ~ my life and their lives ~ and I want to be diligent, obedient, joyful, and embracing in the midst of the mist that is the gift of life.

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Glimpse of a New Corner

Beginning this month, I am a new contributor for a (mostly) online ministry called Mommies With Hope. My first post is scheduled to be live in a couple weeks, and I’ll post the link when it comes out. In the meantime, take a look around Mommies With Hope, and please pray that the group of Christians there would band together to increase God’s glory, hallow His name, and to further His Kingdom through the ministry of coming alongside others suffering infertility and babyloss.

This is just a little glimpse of a new corner where I get to minister, and I’m pretty excited to see what God’s great plans will include.