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Aletheia, part one

I was really delighted to be asked to speak at a local retreat! When I was asked if I would speak on “truth that shines,” I simply began to pray that God would lead me to the topic that the women would need to hear. I had no idea who would be attending this event, the background or baggage, preconceived notions or presuppositions that would be coming along for the ride.

In the end, I decided to focus on a very high-flying, broad view of how to discern truth from Scripture about who we are as Christians, women, wives, and mothers—and how we ought to live in light of those realities of Truth. The Greek word for truth is a beautiful term: αλήθεια (aletheia). In ancient Greece, this was used in a lot of philosophy, to designate full disclosure and the reality of being unconcealed: truth.

The Truth of Who We Are

  • as Christians
  • as women
  • as wives
    (homemakers)
  • as mothers
    (homeschoolers)

and how the light of the Gospel shines here

In case you are new around here, I will briefly introduce myself. I’m Melissa Joy, and I have been married to my husband Steven for almost fourteen years. Ten years ago we built our house on a plot of land beside my parents’ property in the Pacific Northwest—there, my husband runs his Bible software company Olive Tree—there, I plan annual Paideia Northwest conferences to encourage moms in the Christian education & upbringing of their children—and, most importantly, there we seek to raise our five children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

I am a second generation homeschooling mama, and I love spending my days delving into stories, songs, histories, sciences, and messes of all kinds with my always-too-precocious children.

I am also a who-knows-how-many generations back Christian mama. I was raised with five generations of Christians alive at once, attending the same church (we regularly filled two long pews in the balcony) & having Sunday evening dinners together every week at Grandma’s house. The faithfulness of God to my great-great grandparents and beyond is astounding. Having such a long standing line of faithful Christians to stand on is a humbling thing, but a glorious heritage to follow. We take up our cross to follow Him, but His burden is easy.

As we look together now at the subject of discerning truths, those are just little pieces of truth about me as an individual. Telling the truth about me allows you to know me. The truths that we now turn to are what allow us to know God. He is truth, and so my hope is that by time we are done here, we will all know our Lord a little more intimately. These truths are not new—they are as old as creation. And they are graciously, generously both broad and simple.

We turn to Scripture in order to seek truth. I believe in (and love) 66 fully inspired and Spirit-breathed books in the canon of Scripture. When it comes to certain topics especially, I just don’t even see the need to try saying anything eloquently because the Word of God is right here at my fingertips! My desire is to thumb through the Scriptures now in search of Truth, beginning with this Psalm 139:

“O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know my sitting down and my rising up; You understand my thoughts afar off. You comprehend my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word on my tongue, but behold, O Lord, You know it altogether. You have hedged me behind and before, and laid Your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it. For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well. My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them. How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How great is the sum of them!”

Something that really strikes me in this particular Psalm is the way David writes about both our spiritual selves and our physical selves. We are fearfully and wonderfully made, and the glory of God is expounded when we contemplate His hand in both our spiritual and physical life. Those are the two things we will begin contemplating—who are we spiritually and physically?

The majority of people who would read my blog, probably including you, are Christian women. That is both a spiritual and a physical designation. Fearfully and wonderfully Christian. Fearfully and wonderfully female.

So what does it mean to be a Christian?
Where do we find the truth about this in Scripture?
And how are we called to shine the light of Jesus in our Christianity, corporate and personal?

I would like to suggest that three ways we ought to shine truthful light as Christians are by being disciples, evangelists, and worshipers. We are disciples when we seek the face of the Lord to learn at His feet, like Mary the sister of Martha, in Luke 10. You know the story, right? Martha was bustling about the house, and fretted because Mary was sitting at the Lord’s feet, listening to what He said. Jesus told Martha that she was worried about many things, but Mary was singleminded. In fact, Scripture says in Luke 10:42, “One thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.” She was taking the part of a disciple, and Jesus says that this is good. So we must begin with being disciples, eager to learn truth at the feet of Jesus, saturated in His Word.

Throughout the history of the church, true ideas and false ideas have grown together, and it’s up to faithful Christians to be watchful and diligent to compare every idea with the Word of God—we must prayerfully consider His Word as we discern everything else life and culture throws our way. Especially in this world of having a “31 flavors of ice cream” kind of Christianity smorgasbord, we must be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves (Matthew 10:16).

On an average Sunday, my family drives almost an hour to reach our church. I have not tried to count all of the churches we pass directly on our way, but it is undoubtedly dozens—including my parents’ church, my brother’s church, and multiple churches where good friends of ours worship. And the point is this: there are countless houses of worship even right in our county. Many of them are definitely preaching Scripture, gospel truth, and pursuit of faithful living. (Amen! Praise the Lord!) But many of them likely are not. How are we to discern the truth of the Gospel? How do I even know what it means to be a Christian?

According to Scripture, the term “Christian” was first used in Antioch—Acts 11:26 is the first place where the Greek word Χριστιανός was used. It is a noun which literally means “one who is like Christ.” It is not a casual participle saying that those folks over there are kind of Christ-ish. It is its own designation. Christian. One who belongs to Christ. One who is part of His body. There are multiple ways this can be nuanced, probably according to which church tradition you study: and, often, it can be associated with the time of baptism or some kind of conversion experience.

So, the truth is, I might say to you that I became a Christian when I was baptized in 1996—I can tell you the jumper I was wearing (it had sunflowers on it) and some of the people who were in the room—because that is the time when I visibly joined the Church.
Or I might say to you that I became a Christian when I was a toddler—I don’t remember it, but my parents have told me that at bedtime one night while my daddy was playing guitar and singing to me, I said I wanted to ask Jesus into my heart—so that is probably the time where I prayed some semblance of “a sinner’s prayer.”
Or I could tell you that I was a Christian by the time I was born—I had faithful Christian parents, (some) faithful Christian grandparents & great grandparents—and I was raised in the church from the womb, not ever knowing a single day where I was not taught to sing and pray and read my Bible and repent and forgive and trust in Jesus.
But then again, the truth is, it was two millennia ago when Christ died at Calvary, thus atoning for my sins and sealing His promise of everlasting life to me… and it was long before even that when God chose me to be one of His children—in fact, Ephesians 1:4-5 says that He chose His people before the foundation of the world, predestining us for adoption as His children.

But what does this mean or why does it matter? How does this tell me anything about the truth of who I am as a Christian?

At its most basic level, to be a Christian is to belong to Christ.

I think a lot of times, we think that being a Christian means doing certain things, living a certain way, checking off certain boxes—like reading your Bible, believing in the dual nature of Jesus as both God and man, attending public worship on Sundays. Or maybe even legalistic things like dressing a certain way, avoiding certain substances, praying certain prayers.

But here is the thing: too often we focus on what we are doing as Christians. We need to focus on what Christ has done for us.

We don’t belong to Christ because of the things we do, the theology we believe, or the way we live our life.

Rather, we do the things we do, believe the things we believe, and live the way we do because we belong to Christ. Who we are is Christ’s! What we do flows out of that reality.

When we belong to Him, we walk in His ways, we seek to become more like Him, and His Spirit produces fruit in us. These things, like salvation itself, are by grace through faith. (Ephesians 2:8-9) Salvation is not procured by our good works, it is a gift of God. He gives us this salvation and eternal life as a gift to receive with humility, thanksgiving, and joy. We can not boast about it, except for boasting in Him (Galatians 6:14 and 1 Corinthians 1:31).

…

(…continued in Aletheia, part two…)

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A Series is on the way

Back in January, I received a message from someone who knew me through my conference work at Paideia Northwest, asking if I would speak at a weekend retreat in March. I remember actually busting up into giggles: no, really – I did that! When my husband, who was sipping coffee nearby, asked what was so funny, I said, “I think somebody must have me confused with someone else. Because I just got a message asking if I would speak at an upcoming retreat.” My husband didn’t see the level of humor I did, and admitted, “I think you would do a great job at that. What makes you think it wasn’t intended for you?”

I am pretty sure I gave him a blank stare. Giggles stifled, I sent a quick response basically just clarifying who I am, and checking to see if the request was actually for me. I admitted that it has been almost ten years since I have spoken officially at anything… you know, outside of being the emcee of a medium-sized conference every November in recent years. I figured the sender would appreciate being given an “out” once they realized their mistake in reaching out to me.

I was surprised to shortly receive a response which clarified that they knew exactly who I was, and I was exactly the person they wanted speaking at their upcoming event. And she knew that I was not a seasoned speaker… and apparently that didn’t matter to her, and wasn’t necessarily what she was looking for.

She told me the topic and theme for the retreat weekend, and I began to pray and read some books and decided to step across the threshold of the door God was opening.

Tomorrow evening, I will be giving my first of two sessions. I will give the second one on Saturday morning. I don’t have stagefright about being in front of people: honestly, I think that whole idea of being an emcee in front of three hundred people every November has sucked those nerves right outta me. But I have a deep desire to simply be a conduit of God’s grace to this group of women… and I am confident that while I have nothing to offer, the Lord can use me. Even me. Even my words.

So I am praying for the women that will be sitting near, maybe even note-taking, while I deliver a little treatise on a large topic.

I ended up having so much to say about the subject that I wrote it all down, and decided to share all of it in a blog series here. I will use some of the things for my talks, of course, but with only a total of ninety minutes of presenting, I won’t be able to cover as much ground there as I can in a blog series. There are no time limits when it comes to blogging!

This is the pile of books that I started with, and I will share links to each one. They are not all created equal, and just because I revisited them or even quote from them doesn’t mean that I would encourage you to go out and buy them or gift them or apply them unapologetically. Sometimes mediocre books have wonderful things to chew on, but there are also things to be spit out. Have wisdom. And I would love to engage further about these books or the series that will begin to go live tomorrow… so if anybody wants to discuss these things, just contact me and I will get back to you: I won’t even laugh out loud, thinking you contacted me by mistake.

To whet your appetite, here is what’s coming:

The Truth of Who We Are

  • as Christians
  • as women
  • as wives
    (homemakers)
  • as mothers
    (homeschoolers)

and how the light of the Gospel shines here

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Grandmama’s Treasures

Growing up, I was blessed with the multi generational upbringing of five generations alive at one time. Sundays were one day a week where we could count on all being together. We attended the same church, and I remember sitting in that balcony pew with my brother & parents, my mom’s parents, my grandma’s dad, and my great-grandpa’s mom. Until I was almost ten years old, I got to worship alongside even my Great-Great-Grandma, Martha. I don’t remember a lot about her. But I do remember the yellow swingback chair she sat in at Grandma’s house. I remember her thick ankles, and how tan pantyhose would slide into wrinkly piles just above her solid black shoes. I remember the shape of her jawline and the stern corrections she would offer when we young whippersnappers did something out of order. When you’re born in 1887, you see a lot of history unfold. Great-Great-Grandma really had seen and experienced a LOT. I didn’t really have a grasp of that until just recently, I think. It makes me wide-eyed with awe.

My mother had the blessing of inheriting a lot of various treasures from these people, these familial generations who lived together in the winter of life. My mom was the only daughter of an only daughter, who was the only child of an only child. So as far as wills and inheriting all the things, perhaps you can just imagine the treasures my mother has been given. Also of note: these people lived through things like two World Wars, the Great Depression, and a whole bunch of other history we can only begin to imagine. Gathering items of potential future use and keeping things not just out of necessity but out of a worldview of knowing loss & need could be just around the next sunrise ~ this was the norm. Not to mention the longing, the genuine need in the soul, to have things that were simply lovely in the midst of an uncertain and dusky world.

Great Grandpa and Great Great Grandma each had their own rooms & bathrooms in the house where my grandparents lived during the majority of my childhood. My grandparents had their own storage in addition to the storage of these previous generations. Their triple garage barely ever fit a vehicle because it was a treasure trove of antiquities. And junk: yes, plenty of junk as well.

When my parents finally helped go through and clean out that house and garage full of boxes and bins and bottled up memories of lives from almost a dozen decades, they ought to have earned badges bearing the title of Museum Archivist.

I still don’t know what they dug through, boxed up, moved out, gave away, or brought to their own home. I was given a box of square dance clothing, which brings back a cornucopia of memories from my childhood, for my children to enjoy when they play dress up or put on shows with their cousins.

The truth is, there were things boxed up and stored away which had neither seen sunlight nor usage for decades.

There was, in classic fashion, an incessant reminding at Grandma’s house from three cohabiting generations of grandparents that we were not to touch, that we were to be careful, that there were a small number of certain things intended for being used and all others intended for only being gazed upon at best (packed away at worst).

That was my own childhood.
Now my children are the ones with curious imaginations and busy hands, wanting to touch and play and use and experience.

My mother has ten grandchildren of her own now, from one to twelve years old, all living nearby, all loving beautiful things. Of course there are glass-fronted curio cabinets with breakable treasures in them, which the energetic wee ones know are to be gazed at but not opened unattended. But Grandmama is teaching the grandchildren to gently use and tenderly enjoy fragile treasures. Tea parties and Sabbath feasts are prime moments for using antiques and heirlooms. Even the toddlers are given china teacups for sipping and real linens for wiping ketchup from chins.

Grandmama shows by example and embrace that beautiful things are made more beautiful by using them and sharing them. When a treasure gets shattered, fellowship doesn’t have to be shattered with it. We learn to sweep up broken glass and apologize if there is broken trust.

This attitude and approach is where the very idea of a little Wonder Garden came from. Why should my children collect nature’s gifts of seashells, sparkly stones, and textured lichens simply for hoarding? Teaching my children that putting these treasures on display in little coves in the forest is teaching them to use and share their beautiful collections… like their Grandmama.

Generational living. Generational learning. THAT is one of my very favorite treasures of all.

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Wonder Gardens


Spring is trying to sprout, and we are loving the sunshine and longer days! My three younger children walk around with their eyes searching for treasures, their boots sloshing in mud, their fingers sticky with pine sap. The one year old is learning about prickly pine needles and pokey pinecones (he is not a fan). The five year old collects a pile of rocks, the eight year old collects chunks of bright green fuzzy moss: they both run to the garage to pilfer old cardboard boxes to fill with their treasures.

When I return from a walk to reach my 75K workweek steps, during which I was listening to an audiobook on authenticity in the Christian walk, the children want to go into the house with me. Tea and stories, they beg! I make no promises but agree it is a lovely scheme. I watch them grab small cardboard boxes, and they ask where they can store their treasures. Is there a shelf in the garage where we can make space for these boxes?

Suddenly I think about boxes of treasures in basements. Parents and grandparents who have lovely things boxed up and put on shelves. Stored away. Supposedly treasured, yet simply coffined.

I stop the children, and stoop down to meet their eyes. “Why would you find treasures, just to put them in a box and hide them on a shelf? Wouldn’t you rather beautify something with them?”

Quizzical looks spread across their faces. They don’t quite understand.

“Did you collect these things because you find them lovely or pretty or wonderful? Let’s not stuff your treasures away, let’s use them to beautify something. Let’s go plant a wonder garden!”

We found a little cove in a forest stand right by the driveway, and two children each claimed a small spot of earth. They unpacked their treasures, decorating their garden spot with tangible pieces of wonder.

Sparkly rocks encircle tree trunks like necklaces. Pieces of moss line up against a fallen branch like a lace collar.

They are catching on.

A pile of deer bones, an antler, a bucket of shells from last summer’s scouring of the beach… the children suddenly see their treasures with new eyes. Not just as things to hoard and collect, to quantify and pile up like a dragon. But rather as things to use and bless, to decorate and share. To take dominion over a spot in the forest by sprinkling gathered wonder.

We’ll see if this idea catches on. But for now, even the tiny seed of idea makes the possibility bubble in joy.

“Now we can go in the house. Now that we have found a proper home for your treasures, let’s go sip tea and read stories.”

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Lenten & Eastertide Poetry

Looking for some poetry to memorize with your children during this season? Let me share some pieces here that my family finds pertinent and lovely.

THAT EASTER DAY WITH JOY WAS BRIGHT
By J.M. Neale

That Easter day with joy was bright:
the sun shone out with fairer light
when to their longing eyes restored,
the apostles saw their risen Lord.

His risen flesh with radiance glowed,
his wounded hands and feet he showed;
those scars their solemn witness gave
that Christ was risen from the grave.

O Jesus, King of gentleness,
do thou thyself our hearts possess,
that we may give thee all our days
the willing tribute of our praise.

O Lord of all, with us abide
in this, our joyful Easter-tide;
from every weapon death can wield
thine own redeemed forever shield.

SEVEN STANZAS AT EASTER
By John Updike

Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
Eleven apostles;
It was as His flesh; ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.

THE DONKEY
By G.K. Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

THE SCARS OF GOD’S HANDS
By Jason Farley

My soul clung to the dust,
now dust clings to my soul.
Your life-breath, once blown
up the nose of my father,
once exhaled in fruit-statutes,
once blown across the dry bones
until they could get up
and dance; breathe life
on me. Speak again the six
stanzas that climb up to rest.
Speak them into me. Tie
my ears to my dusty soul
and blow.

I, clay-jar, am
cracked. Scratched. Divoted. Grand
Canyons that leak. But, Lord, if
my scars leak out,
might they leak in?
If I am not air tight,
might your breath
sneak in?

Can scars be glory?
Can glory leave scars?
I will run to my heart’s end.
Enlarge my heart.
Might your scarred love
love the scarred?
Let your scarred hands
leave scars.
Blow. Blow hard enough
to dislodge the dust.
Even if it takes a hurricane.
Even if it leaves scars.

NO SCAR
By Amy Carmichael

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land,
I hear them hail thy bright ascendant star,
Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers, spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die, and rent
by ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned:
Hast thou no wound?

No wound, no scar?
Yet as the Master shall the servant be,
And, pierced are the feet that follow Me;
But thine are whole: can he have followed far
Who has no wound nor scar?

LEST WE FORGET
By Amy Carmichael

Home of our hearts, lest we forget
What our redemption meant to Thee,
Let our most reverent thoughts be set
Upon Thy Calvary.

We, when we suffer, turn and toss
And seek for ease, and seek again;
But Thou upon Thy bitter cross
Wast firmly fixed in pain.

And in our night star-clusters shine,
Flowers comfort us, and joy of song;
No star, no flower, no song was Thine,
But darkness three hours long.

We in our lesser mystery,
Of lingering ill, and winged death,
Would fain see clear; but could we see,
What need would be for faith?

O Lord beloved, Thy Calvary
Stills all our questions. Come, oh come,
Where children wandering wearily
Have not yet found their home.

EASTER LILY, A POEM
By Tinuviel

In unseen Saturday silence
Petals unfurl,
Mute trumpets crying out
With rolled-away stone: 

“Take hope! Take heart!
Why do you seek the living among the dead?
He is not here; He is risen! 

“Your trust, your toil,
His promise are not vain.
Death will be swallowed up in victory.
This body of death, This broken life,
This night of tears are not the end. 

“At last trumpet’s fanfare
Dead shall be raised,
Dustless, Deathless, Glorious.” 

White heralds soundless sound:
“Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again.”
Hallelujah!

AMORETTI LXVII: MOST GLORIOUS LORD OF LIFE
By Edmund Spenser

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day,
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin:
And having harrow’d hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And grant that we for whom thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean wash’d from sin,
May live for ever in felicity.

And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same again:
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear love, like as we ought,
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

LOVE’S AS WARM AS TEARS
By C.S. Lewis

Love’s as warm as tears,
Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain,
Tension at the throat,
Deluge, weeks of rain,
Haystacks afloat,
Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green.

Love’s as fierce as fire,
Love is fire:
All sorts – infernal heat
Clinkered with greed and pride,
Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
Laughing, even when denied,
And that empyreal flame
Whence all loves came.

Love’s as fresh as spring,
Love is spring:
Bird-song hung in the air,
Cool smells in a wood,
Whispering, “Dare! Dare!”
To sap, to blood,
Telling “Ease, safety, rest,
Are good; not best.”

Love’s as hard as nails,
Love is nails:
Blunt, thick, hammered through
The medial nerves of One
Who, having made us, knew
The thing He had done,
Seeing (with all that is)
Our cross, and His.

~C.S. Lewis, Poems, (1964)

RESURRECTION SUNDAY, 1
By Joseph Carlson

The trumpet blast! The bells in Church tow’rs rings.
The cymbals crash! The hosts in Heaven sing.
Now let the nations all, their praises bring-
For Christ the risen Lord has conquered death!

The sun has risen from the darksome night;
He spreads his rays and on us casts his light.
A new day dawns on blind men, giving sight,
For Christ the risen Lord has conquered death!

Where is thy biting sting, O conquered death?
O grave, thy victory that stifles breath?
The sting and victory of death are gone-
Destroyed in that bright morning’s breaking dawn.

As all God’s children sing out loud and long,
Let Church bells ring out clear their ageless song.

RESURRECTION SUNDAY, 2
By Joseph Carlson

I hold an old gnarled seed in my gnarled hand.
Above the earth, it cannot hope to live.
Above the earth, it nothing has to give.
But plant that old gnarled seed, and watch the land.
One day my old gnarled hand will till no more;
Though much it gives, the best has not yet come;
Though much it sees, it has not seen its home,
But plant my gnarled hand, and watch as before.
Both seed and hand must die for them to grow;
Both must descend and find their homely grave.
For this world’s dirt has now been built to save
The dead, and raise the hands and seeds you sow.

O grave, O death, where is thy biting sting?
Our Jesus rose and has become our king.

EASTER
By Jason Farley

If it’s true,
Why do we live like we do?

Excerpts from THE HEEL-STONE
By Jason Farley

Wars and seed and bruises.
Our God promised us
wars and seeds and bruises.

But we would win
in the end.
The dragon’s curse—our promise—
is a man with a heel.
A seed with a heel.
A dragon skull crushed.

The ground remembered all of the blood from Abel.
The ground remembered all of the blood to Zechariah.
The ground knew the dead’s taste.
The ground swallowed up our dragon-slayer.
Life’s an unfamiliar flavor.
The Son of God was manifested,
to destroy the devil’s works.
Took on mortal flesh:
That, through death, he might destroy
him that had death’s power.
That death might swallow Death.
Dragon skulls echo when they crack.
Wars and seed and bruises.
The God of peace went to war.
Children of the God of Peace
now playing in the asp den.
The God of peace may soon crush Satan.
May soon crush Satan
underneath your feet.

JESUS IS THE BEAUTIFUL GATE
(Acts 3)
By Jason Farley

Jesus is the Beautiful Gate
through whom we walk and laugh and leap
into the presence of God the choreographer.

We join the sphere-dance like kings.
Join the sun, leaping and dancing,
covered lightly in light.

As Christ’s Life-Word
bubbles and leaps—alive in the dance—
within us. Stopped springs suddenly re-dug.

De-roof my heart.
Let down this paralyzed soul
to wind up a bucket of living water

To pour it out in sermon-song.
To un-dry the desert dust
that this cactus might fruit, might flower.

That it might be poured to fill the trough
of young calves, freed from their stalls
to walk and laugh and leap.

I GOT ME FLOWERS
By George Herbert

I got me flowers to strew Thy way,
I got me boughs off many a tree;
But Thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

The sunne arising in the East,
Though he give light, and th’ East perfume,
If they should offer to contest
With Thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we misse:
There is but one, and that one ever.

EASTER HERALDS
by Amos Russel Wells

Who came from the tomb
When Jesus came,
To scatter our gloom
With his living name?
‘Twas the angel Hope,
Whose sunbeams go
To the farthest scope
Of our darkest woe.
Hope came from the tomb
When the Saviour came.

Who came from the tomb
When Jesus came,
In the bursting bloom
Of a world aflame?
It was Joy, the angel,
Who sang and sang
Till the glad evangel
Through the wide world rang.
Joy came from the tomb
When the Saviour came.

Who came from the tomb
When Jesus came
From the conquered doom
Of our sin and shame?
It was Love, supreme
Of the angel host,
And her graces gleam
Where we need them most.
Love came from the tomb
When the Saviour came.

Easter Hymn
by A. E. Housman

If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.

But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.

EASTER DAY
by Oscar Wilde

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.

Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.

My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’

SEE WHAT A MORNING
By Keith Getty

See, what a morning, gloriously bright
With the dawning of hope in Jerusalem
Folded the grave-clothes, tomb filled with light
As the angels announce, “Christ is risen!”

See God’s salvation plan
Wrought in love, borne in pain, paid in sacrifice
Fulfilled in Christ, the Man
For He lives, Christ is risen from the dead!

See Mary weeping, “Where is He laid?”
As in sorrow, she turns from the empty tomb
Hears a voice speaking, calling her name
It’s the Master, the Lord raised to life again!

This voice that spans the years
Speaking life, stirring hope, bringing peace to us
Will sound ’til He appears
For He lives, Christ is risen from the dead!

One with the Father, Ancient of Days
Through the Spirit who clothes faith with certainty
Honor and blessing, glory and praise
To the King crowned with pow’r and authority!

And we are raised with Him
Death is dead, love has won, Christ has conquered
And we shall reign with Him
For He lives, Christ is risen from the dead!

And we are raised with Him
Death is dead, love has won, Christ has conquered
And we shall reign with Him
For He lives, Christ is risen from the dead!

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Musing upon Memory Work

One of the things I love to do with my children during our Morning Time collective (which is a lovely word I recently heard to describe the gathering of all the ages to do a collection of things together – and I want to adopt the word!) is memorizing poetry.

Surprisingly, even to myself, I love memorizing with my children. I have never been good at memorizing anything, and I am not sure if it is a particular lack in the chemical make up of my physical brain, or a lack of having exercised my brain in quite this way as a child myself, or what… but memory work has always been the thorn in my side. It made studying for tests excessively difficult, and it made my pursuits of music extremely burdensome. I simply have not had very good recall. Not only of facts, but also of my own life. My memories are few and vague. It actually saddens me deeply. Thus, trying to memorize things has been a source of anxiety and struggle for me throughout my life. So the fact that I now completely love memory work with my children just blows my mind! And it goes to show me that I still have much room to grow and deepen and practice and learn. God is so good to continue my education, and to bring me joy in it.

To be precise: I love the pursuit of a certain kind of memory work. I am not a natural proponent of all kinds of memory work. In fact, I will be willing to stick my neck out here and tell you that I have rather a disdain for the memory work of Classical Conversations and other similar Classical education niches which emphasize the rote memorization of a multitude of facts, without giving the explanatory depth and fattening the curiosity which comes from having been introduced to a new word or item or idea or event.

I don’t want my children to be able to regurgitate things on command simply because it feels shiny or impressive. I want them to be able to regurgitate things of eternal value and importance. Will they memorize secular things along the way? Absolutely. You bet! Times tables and measurement conversions, recipes and formulas… and probably all kinds of things their mama can’t even begin to wrap my head around.

But the things which I absolutely believe ought to be hidden in their hearts are the things I take the trouble to bring into our Morning Time collective, and work to cycle through regularly on repeat. These are mostly faith based, but also some additional beauty-based things (my friend Heather would tell me they are wonder-based!) which are still nourishing the mind and nurturing the soul.

Being Renewed in the Spirit of our Mind for the Practical Existence of the One New Man

What do I find to be the spine of our memory work? I don’t know whether boiling it down to “faith” is too simplistic or not, because it is so much more than just that. Scripture passages (sometimes a single verse, sometimes an entire chapter), catechism (which are formed around doctrines from Scripture), liturgical pieces (creeds, the Lord’s Prayer, and other high church forms I love to pull from early church fathers, saints, or the Book of Common Prayer), Psalms (in my home, usually sung- often verbatim Scripture, sometimes metrical/poetized), and hymns are the faith-based things we pursue daily.

So faith is our spine. No surprise there, I think.

But what do I pull in that isn’t faith-based, but rather draws us to beauty and wonder in a more material way? Poetry. Sometimes we have added in geography songs or ditties like that… and I think they do enhance our wonder, even if they lack a little bit in the beauty category I so love. But poetry is a joy, and we pursue it in our Morning Time collective regularly. We memorize poems as a group, but also as individuals. About two weeks ago my children finished memorizing their winter/snow poems that we began in January (which were on the heels of the Advent/Christmas poems they had memorized during those seasons), so after taking one week to cycle back through memorized poems from previous weeks and months, this week we began Lenten/Easter poetry. This is later than I probably should have started, but we will dig in and see if we have these memorized by Resurrection Sunday. If not, that’s okay. We will do our best recitations possible at our Sabbath feast that day, but if we need to read rather than recite, that’s okay too.

What struck me is how difficult it was to find excellent Lenten or Eastertide poetry. A simple Google search did not suffice. I asked some trusted resources personally (like Amy Sloan and my friends at Schole Sisters), and got a couple of recommendations. I pulled out some beloved books of poetry written by some friends (Jason Farley, Ben Palpant, and Joseph Carlson). I searched for specific poets I know we love, and found a few gems. And then after I printed them all up, I let the children (currently ages 12, 9, 8, and 5) choose which poems they wanted to memorize for this season. It is always interesting to see what they pick, and to ask if they can articulate why they chose a specific piece. Length? Rhythm? Rhyming scheme? Subject in general? The wonder of the words? The beauty of the image it evokes?

It never ceases to amaze me how we remember these things. Even when we revisit a poem memorized a year ago (which we have revisited multiple times previously since then as well), it still comes rushing mostly back. Perhaps we have to peek at a word or two for a good cue at the next line now and then… but for the most part, these things are rooted deep.

What I long for is for those roots to grow fat and tight around the brains and hearts of my children. When they are challenged, I want the roots to cling and stick. When there is suffering, I hope Psalms will spout up from the depths of their souls. When there is laughter, I hope poems of joy and silliness ring out of their mouths. When there is comfort to give, when there is doubt in faith, when there are growing pains of any sort… it is the Creed, the Catechism, the Proverbs, the epistles, the hymns… Psalms & other Scriptures!… those are what I pray will bud and flower and bear much fruit.

If something must be forgotten, dear Lord, let it be the times tables and the periodic table and the long lists of states & capitals. Please, Lord, let the faith and the beauty remain.

Amy at Humility & Doxology wrote about this recently, and simply echoed my own previous experience with my grandpa. After watching Grandpa forget everything from his address to his family members to what were his favorite foods, and then forgetting even how to walk or speak… there were faith and beauty memories brimming under the surface.

The miracle of hearing him hum along when my children and I would sing hymns to him… or mouth along the words of Psalm 23 or the Lord’s Prayer when we recited for him… or raise his hands and nod his head while listening to the reading of Scripture from the mouths of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren… HE REMEMBERED.

That was the experience that really drove home to me the importance not only of memorizing things, but of choosing carefully what to memorize. When everything else was erased from him, Grandpa still remembered what mattered most: faith.

Renewed Day by Day | 2 Corinthians 4:16

Our bodies will waste away, the things of this world will turn to dust; but our soul is eternal. That immortal part of us which can not die, but ought to be renewed day by day in God’s grace, is what lasts. That is what matters most.

So we will memorize all kinds of things in our pursuit of an excellent, nourishing education as I walk through life with my five children. But it is soul-fattening and faith-saturating memory work which will be the spine.

That begins here. For us, it starts with our Morning Time collective.

At the end of my life, may I too recognize the truth, beauty, and goodness in Psalms, hymns, poems, creeds, catechisms, and Scripture. When my body has wasted away, may I too (like Grandpa before me) still lift my hands and nod my head and groan in my spirit when the things of faith wash over me. And may my children and grandchildren be gathered around me, washing me with the Word.

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“Botanies”

When a child wakes up and immediately packs for a “backyard safari,” the correct answer is, “when are you heading out? And did you remember to pack a water bottle?”

As it turns out, this sweet boy desired an “adventure assistant” and asked Mommy to take the job as he was ready to head out the door. I was glad to drop other things and see the world through the wonder of his eyes. Every inch of creation is magical. This boy knows it in his bones. As he gazed around the field and forest through the binoculars, he gasped at one point: “Mommy! There are so many botanies out there!” and I suppressed my giggle enough to help him revel in the wonder of his epiphany. He was, after all, absolutely right.

He was beyond delighted to unearth an old rusted can of some sort, declaring it to be undeniable treasure. He pulled out almost every tool he had tucked into his backpack in order to dig it up and work at prying the sheets of metal apart in order to discover what the golden sheen hiding inside was made of. The slight tremor in his voice proved to me that he absolutely believed it was either elven magic or earthen gold. Eventually he said we should turn back home, treasure in hand, because he didn’t want anyone to worry about us.

Half a mile distance and half an hour’s time – that’s all it required. But who can think of the smallness of that reality when the wonderment was a thousand times bigger than that?! For five year old Simeon, we were on the other side of the world making discoveries never before touched by human hands.


Memo to self: remember to say yes to adventures with little ones.
For some excellent reading on this subject, I suggest Greta Eskridge‘s 2020 book, Adventuring Together. Such a beautiful testimony to the beautiful childhood we can encourage for the sake of our families just by saying yes to adventures ~ both big and small.

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Joyful Giving

When my little girl turned eight last week, I had the joy of giving her something I knew she wanted. There was a particular pleasure of knowing that she would be delighted when she pulled the doll out of the box, because she had been hinting for months that she hoped I would give her one of my vintage American Girl dolls from the nineties. There is a sense of predictability in the giving of something that has been requested or wished-for.

Conversely, three of her brothers pooled their money to buy her a really great yo-yo because it is something THEY wanted her to have. But what was really special about this in my eyes is what the gift signified. It was not the type of gift that means, “I really wanted this, so I got it for you and hope you will let me use it,” or even “I really think you need this in order to find some certain sense of achievement…” Rather, it was a gift that implied an invitation. When her brothers (especially the two older brothers, who have been recently enamored with yo-yo skills and tricks) gave her this yo-yo, it was an invitation to join them in their fun. It was extending their hobby toward her with an open door and a mat that said, “welcome! please join us!” And they had a particular pleasure, knowing that they would be surprising her by giving her something she had not requested… except for the innate and inexhaustible desire to be welcomed and accepted and loved and included.

There are many ways to give. And the most important way is to give with a heart that overflows with joy. Our little joy-girl was given much joy by receiving gifts that were given with much joy. And it got me to thinking: how can we live and give this way not just on a birthday, not just to a family member, but within the larger context of community and daily living.

How can we pursue joyful giving???

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Spent Days

Lately, I have fallen into bed at night feeling completely spent. You’ve heard that phrase, right? “I feel spent.” The definition of spent is literally to be used up, consumed, emptied, depleted. We talk about spending time or spending money. But what does it mean to spend our days? I was meditating aloud a little about that here. Today I am contemplating not what it is to spend my days, but to be spent at the end of the day.

As I think about this, I immediately think about N.D. Wilson’s book Death By Living (which, incidentally, is one of my favorite books of all time ~ grab yourself a copy or listen to the audiobook in Nate’s own voice). We were created to be used. In fact, we were created to be completely used up! God wants us to be spent. In 2 Timothy 2:21, I am reminded that it is good to be separated from dishonor so that I can be set apart for holy work, useful to God, and ready for good work.

When I reach the end of my workday feeling as though I have no more energy or wit or words, it is (or ought to be) a sign that I have been busy with the work God set before me. Have I been useful to the Lord? Have I been ready for the good work He gives me? These are questions I have been trying to ask myself at the end of the days, and I seek to answer honestly and prayerfully.

“GLORY IS SACRIFICE, GLORY IS EXHAUSTION, GLORY IS HAVING NOTHING LEFT TO GIVE. ALMOST. IT IS DEATH BY LIVING.”
~N.D. WILSON~

Do I ever feel completely spent by 11am though? Well. Yes. Yes, in fact, I often do. And that is when I take a walk, drink a glass of water, and ask God to refill me for the remainder of my day which requires a lot more spending. It is grace and glory to be exhausted. So where do we get refilled and refueled? At the feet of Jesus. In His Word. Through communing with Him in prayer. I’m most definitely not saying that an extra cup of coffee, a good cry, or a power nap are not sometimes helpful or necessary. Believe me: I run to those refill stations when I need them. But I do not want to get refueled in those ways to the exclusion of getting spiritually refilled. “Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Deut. 8:3) I do need physical sustenance (water, food, exercise, rest), but if I rely too completely on the physical, I can easily begin to rely on my own strength and stamina. I also need spiritual sustenance (Scripture, song, prayer, communion, quiet/rest, hiding the Word in my heart, reading what others uncover in His Word as well), which is one of the best ways for me to remember my reliance upon His strength and provision. We can learn from Psalm 81:10 that when we open wide our mouths, He will fill them, and (in 81:16) that with fine wheat and honey. He will satisfy us when we ask! Honestly: how often do I feel unsatisfied, but don’t even realize that I haven’t bothered to ask my Father for His provision?!

So when I fall into bed at night, it is a small picture of how I want to fall into the arms of Christ at the end of my allotted days on earth. Just like going to sleep at night followed by waking in the morning (or winter’s barrenness followed by the fertility of spring) is a little picture of death and resurrection, so too is my emptiness and exhaustion a foreshadowing of what I want to find when it comes my time to die.

“BE AS EMPTY AS YOU CAN BE WHEN THAT CLOCK WINDS DOWN. SPEND YOUR LIFE. AND IF TIME IS A RIVER, MAY YOU LEAVE A WAKE.”
~N.D. WILSON~

It is a good goal to spend your life. It is a good goal to reach your death having been used up and spent.
So I ought not groan or bemoan my nights of falling into bed without energy to do another single thing before the sunrise. It should rather make me thankful, bring me to praise, cause me to rejoice. I have been given work to do, and I have done everything I can to give it my all. And it is the Lord who has provided the strength to accomplish the tasks He put in my path.

Be spent. Rejoice in being emptied for the sake of the King. When you do this work with joy, gratitude, and humility, He will refill and refuel you for what He sets before you. For the spending.

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Spending Days

When it comes to learning and growing in my calling as a mama, I always enjoy gleaning from those a little bit further down the motherhood road than I am. I love to learn from books and blogs and podcasts, but one of the best ways to learn can be by watching people in your actual life, and asking questions of flesh & blood mamas within your own circles. This week, I asked a friend (whose kids are all teens now) how their family spends weekends. Not because I was wondering how to spend our family weekends now, but because I was curious about what life might look like in a few years.

But the thing Betsy said that stood out the most to me was a simple way of stating something inherently obvious:
“If you spend your Saturdays right, you can spend your Sundays right.”

And that sentiment is timeless, applicable to all phases of family life and places of living. It is true whether you are single or married, have children or not, work outside the home or not, live in the country or suburbs or city or Sahara Desert.

It reminded me of the kitschy cliché “how you spend your days is how you spend your life.”

Ephesians 5:15-17 says, “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”

How do you spend your days?
How do you want to spend your days?
When you think of “spending” your days, do you recognize that there is only a limited amount in that bank account? (And we don’t know when it will run out.)
Do you think of spending your days simply along lines of how you fill your hours with tasks? Or do you realize that you spend your days smiling or crying, eyes on phone or nose in books, thankful or bitter, circumspect or thrown to the wind?