busyness

The Lists We Make

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“So how was your week?”

“Absolutely crazy!

Dave coached three away games and had an evening meeting.

Em and Kelly’s junior high team had five games.

Em had a choir concert.

Judy and I had three dress rehearsals and two performances of the international student production.

And on Wednesday, Patrick broke his arm!

So–how was your week?”

++++

I had that conversation several times this past weekend, and it made me think about the “lists” we make. I would call the above list a “suburban mom” list. There’s a little bit of an undercurrent of, “So how busy are you—in comparison with me?”

Ugh!

That’s not the only kind of list we make. Our lists change depending on the people we’re with. It’s a little bit like small kids talking about their dads: “My dad can run faster than a car.” “Well, my dad can run faster than a rocket!”

We can have academic lists, job lists, travel lists, sports lists—even spiritual lists.

I’ve certainly been guilty of using a list to make myself seem higher than the person I’m talking to—or at least to feel myself equal to that person.

What a nasty thing to do.

What a dangerous thing to do.

These lists separate us from other people. They deceive us into thinking that we have more differences between us than commonalities. They make us forget that we are all fellow creations, that we are all sinners, that we are all loved by God. We are all so much lower than the God who created us that our individual differences count for nothing. After all, a flea with an impressive list of accomplishments is still, well—just a flea!

And that brings me to the second dangerous thing about these lists: they separate us from God. Aren’t all of these lists ultimately ways to identify ourselves as worthwhile? Don’t we use them to convince others—and often ourselves—that we have purpose and value?

Purpose and value apart from simply being a creation of God. From simply being a flea, if you’ll pardon the extended metaphor. A flea among fleas, but each one uniquely created.

Paul had lists, too. In the context of church-planting, his were pretty impressive. In Philippians 3, he talked about his credentials as a Jew of Jews: circumcised on the 8th day; full-blooded Israelite; tribe of Benjamin; a Pharisee; strictly obedient to Jewish law—without fault! And zealous to boot! In II Corinthians he feels he must make a list simply to point out the Corinthians’ wrong way of thinking. You want to judge me the way the world does? he asks. Well, my list is better: beaten, imprisoned, shipwrecked, stoned, hungry, thirsty, cold, naked…

But Paul says this about his list-making: In this self-confident boasting I am not talking as the Lord would, but as a fool (2 Cor. 11:17). I once thought these things were valuable, but now I consider them worthless because of what Christ has done. Yes, everything else is worthless when compared with the infinite value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have discarded everything else, counting it all as garbage, so that I could gain Christ and become one with him (Phil. 3:7-9a).

That’s the choice we face: we can hold onto our lists—the things that, according to the world, give us value—or let them all go and gain Christ!

When we gain Christ, we no longer have to carry around our value-less lists. Like Paul, we have other things to boast about it: (For the Lord) “said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.  That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:9-10).

For when we are weak, then we are strong! Because HE is strong in us.

What a difference it would make if we boasted in these kinds of lists! When we share our weaknesses and how God meets them, it unifies us; it reveals common ground; it encourages and gives hope to others. It creates real, authentic, ultimately beautiful relationships.

Let’s start making a different kind of list!

suburban gratitude

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Dave bought me this sign for Christmas and I hung it in our family room. I think (I hope) it describes us well.

Dave bought me this sign for Christmas and I hung it in our family room. I think (I hope) it describes us well.

I’m working on chapters three and four of our adoption story, so I spent a couple hours this morning sorting through emails I sent out during 2008 and 2009. Some of those were specifically about adoption matters: court dates and home studies and official documents, but many others were simply newsletters about our family.

Em was seven and Jake and Maddie about three and a half in the earliest updates (January 2008); the last one I read was written six months after Patrick and I came home from Uganda (September 2009). I wrote about funny things they said (like when Maddie was pretending to be Jake’s mommy until Jake, fed up with bottles and blankets, ran away from her, crying, “I all growed up now, Maddie. I not a baby any more”). I wrote about daily routines that I’d forgotten, like Patrick coming home on the preschool bus in Kansas. He would bring his backpack inside, tell me to “Close eyes, Mommy,” and then show me each paper he’d worked on that morning, one by one. Then we read his new library book—they went every day—TWICE. And all this before lunchtime. I wrote about life lessons they were learning, like when Em got the teacher she did NOT want and her words three weeks into the school year: “Mom and Dad, you were right. I think God did want me to have Mrs. Farney. I really like her.”
The emails made me a little sad. Those times are gone, and life with my kids isn’t so simple anymore. It’s not full of long Saturdays spent at home or morning playtimes at the park. They’re growing up and away—just as they should be—but I was suddenly a little nostalgic.
And I was also grateful—for something I don’t think I’ve ever before been grateful for. I was thankful for all the driving, the times in the car, the back and forth to this activity and that practice that consumes so much of my life these days.
Usually this is one of the things I hate most about life in suburbia. Twenty-minute drive here, thirty there, another fifteen…
But my kids are captive in the car—right there with me, right there with each other. And we talk about our days and we listen to good books (yay for audio books), and we sing, and we spend time together, and they can’t escape, and I can’t get all busy with housework or writing projects. And when it’s me and just one of the kids, we get quiet, let’s-really-find-out-what’s-going-on time.
Hmm. Maybe there are other things on my “hate” list that I can learn to be thankful for.

MORE from the MOST

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I want more today. Not superficial, “getting through the day” more. Not more “stuff” or money or even time. I want the 24 hours, the 1.440 minutes, the 86,400 seconds I have been gifted with to be filled with MORE. I want to be more aware that I spend each of those seconds with my hand held by my Abba Father. I want to walk each step as a redeemed person, made new and whole. I want x-ray vision to see into the hearts of people instead of getting hung up on their outsides. I want more of the eternal, the true and the truly good. I want to be so overwhelmed, so wonderfilled by my relationship with my Redeemer that it shines from my face like it did from Moses’s. And I DON’T want to wear a veil.
I want more from each minute I spend with loved ones today. Heck, I want more from each minute I spend with any fellow God-creation today.
I want more from each minute, period! This minute I am eating an orange (and typing, of course). I want to get more out of this orange. I want to savor the burst of juice in my mouth and appreciate that amazing mix of tart and sweet. I want to be awed by a God who thought up such an incredible treat, packaged just right—and who likes me to enjoy it.
HE wants more for me! He didn’t sacrifice so I could meander through life and relationships and work and get nothing more out of them than an unredeemed person can.
He wants the MOST for me.
He wants Himself, the MOST High God, for me—in every minute. Now and forever! Here and for eternity.
So. I. want. more.
More of the ONE
who is the MOST of all.

Will work for food

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Red light. I stop, wait to turn, notice the man standing on the sidewalk beside the right lane.

His sign is crude: Will work. Need money for food, gas, home.

But his gaze is direct. And across two lanes he finds my eyes. He stands tall—not a challenge, just acknowledgment: “Yes, I stand on a street corner, I hold a sign that tells you I need help.”

I consider a U-turn, glance at my dashboard clock, estimate the time it will take me to get home to meet the scheduled repairman.

I turn left.

Drive three blocks.

Slower and slower.

I hear You, Lord.

Turn around.

Pull into the grocery store lot, stop behind his tidy old-model Taurus station wagon.

He meets me halfway.

Taller even than I’d thought.

My left hand holds out the money. He tucks it away, fast. Not grabbing, just… like he doesn’t want it. Like putting it away makes it less real.

My mind is blank. I’ve forgotten to ask for words. God bless you, I think. I offer my right hand.

He shakes it. His eyes slip above my head.

“I’m a mechanic. I can fix cars.” Urgent voice. “Do you have any that need work?”

I shake my head. “I don’t.”

“I can work. I can… You don’t have cars that need…?”

“No, but… God bless you.”

Our eyes meet again—closer now than across two lanes of traffic.

He juts his chin at me, eyes slip up again to the blue sky. “I like your necklace.”

Pressed clay, sitting right at the base of my throat, stamped firm and clear with the words “Set Free.”

Good to receive, not just give. “Thanks.”

Back on the road, the regrets. Why didn’t I say more? Why didn’t I get a name, number? He’s a mechanic. I could have sent word out through e-mail, Facebook: “Mechanic, corner of Main and Geneva: if you’re willing to take a chance, he’d appreciate it. Name, number.”  At under 142 characters, I could even tweet it. What is social media good for if not for this?!

Marketing background kicks in: he needs a better sign, one that advertises his specific skills while still expressing willingness to do odd jobs.

Stop.

Stop, Jen.

Let it go.

But this day it’s hard.

Because I’ve been set free not only from

But for.

And in the callused handshake and averted eyes, the money tucked quick out of sight, the urgent plea for the dignity of work, I felt a moment of his pain.

Through love

I am

Set free

To care.

Building a good fire

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At summer camp bonfires when I was a kid, we used to sing “It only takes a spark to get a fire going…” (Evie, 1976).

It made fire building seem easy. Light a match: done!

Not true.

Several years ago I read “Making Fire,” a short story by one of my writing friends. In it, an outdoorsy guy takes a girl on a camping trip and teaches her to build a fire.

He shows her how to set the logs up like a teepee, how to build an island of bark and twigs inside and then layer the island with dried grass. If the dried grass is brittle enough, a spark will set it ablaze. The hope is that the flames will lick the logs above into ignition while the base gets hot enough to spark the bark underneath. “Never rest,” he instructs her. “You have to keep watch, keep feeding it.”

By the end of the story, it’s clear this guy is good at building both literal and figurative fires, and if this girl stays with him, she will get burned.

Still, he is a good fire builder (he was based on a real character), and I’ve followed his instructions this winter as I’ve coaxed fires to life in the wood-burning stove in our “new” house (though I use the cardboard and paper contents of my recycling bin for kindling). “It Only Takes a Spark,” though true in its context, is not enough. A spark may create a flame, but it takes a lot more effort to get and keep a good fire going.

Fire building has a strong parallel to my faith. It took a holy spark—not created by me—to begin God’s work in my heart. He had already prepared and built up a readiness for that spark to take hold. Again—all God’s work.

But what about the “feeding” of the flame?

That’s partly MY work.

And I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in my spiritual fire-tending of late. I’m feeding it twigs and balled-up newsprint. They create spurts of flame but no lasting burn. I’m reading three books at one time—and each of them is worth reading slowly, thoughtfully. I’m doing devotions quickly, without much deep thought. I’m reading through the Bible in a year, but I’m doing it on my Kindle just before I fall asleep at night, so I’m not taking notes and reflecting on it; I’m barely keeping my eyes open for the Psalms and Proverbs. I’m listening to podcasts while I work out in the mornings—each morning a sermon from a different church. I listen to more sermons on the radio during all my commuting. This is all good stuff—but it leaves no time for reflecting. My thoughts and my prayers flit from one “small” piece of truth to the next.

It’s like I’m trying to keep the fire going with a steady influx of little stuff. It keeps the flame alive, yes, but stop feeding it for about a minute, and the flame is gone. There is no deep-burning core to keep it going. I need larger pieces of wood to do that. The flame burns into the core of these pieces, and the glow from that produces long lasting heat and a fire that is not easily put out. Eventually you have the kind of fire that ignites other pieces of wood when they are placed on it.

That’s what I want.

And to move toward that, I’m going back to the basics. I’m not saying “the basics” is the only way to combat my 21st-century, technology-fed, short-attention-span spiritual growth, but I want to focus, and when I can easily switch from my Bible reading to check my schedule or e-mail and can get sidetracked by an interesting link I see on the sidebar of Bible Gateway, it’s really easy NOT to focus. So here is my plan: I’m studying one book, reading it again and again and then slowly, verse by verse. I’m reading it in my good old print Bible. I’m going to write notes on the margins and journal with paper and pen. If I want to compare translations, I’ll just have to get out another print Bible (okay, I might use Bible Gateway for that—I love that feature). I’ll read commentaries only after I’ve studied it myself. I’m going to find some logs rather than wood chips of time for study and reflection and prayer.

I’m not going to get rid of all the other stuff (the podcasts and sermons, etc.), but I’m hoping that with a source of deep flame, the other twigs will become part of that flame, feeding it.

God is a deep, steady flame Himself (the burning bush, the pillar of fire in the wilderness, the symbol of the flame in the tabernacle that was never allowed to go out).

He wants that for me, too.

Flu perspective

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I know several moms who LOVE the holidays, with their children all home from school. I tend to be more like the parents in “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” who “can hardly wait for school to start again.”

There are WONDERFUL moments—like staying up late with Em last night and this morning when all three younger kids crawled in bed with us (Then the dog joined in, too, prompting Dave to say, “Well, would someone go wake up the older three and tell them to join us, too.” PJ took this for a literal question and was halfway off the bed before Dave stopped him.)

But there is also no quiet—which my introvert self craves. So I was already praying about this before Christmas break began, and Dave was already telling me to get away some each day, alone, without any children. And he was already bemoaning the fact that, although he tells me to do this all the time, I DON’T— because I believe the lie that “good moms don’t need time away from their children” (along with a host of other lies that perfectionistic people believe to make them feel better about themselves).

Anyway, we were a good eight days into it and I hadn’t gone away—as I’d promised I would.

So God allowed me to get sick.

Fever, chills, flat-on-the-back sick.

For two days.

I’ve decided it was a really good thing.

I got peace and quiet. I got lots of sweet affection—hands patting my back, hot tea from Em, backrubs from Dave… On the second day, when my brain was a little less foggy, I even got a rough draft of an article written (which was what I was supposed to be doing on my “times away.”)

And then, in the couple days following my time in the bed, when I was up and about but still woozy, I had a different perspective. I cared a lot less than I usually do about keeping the house tidy and accomplishing everything on my to-do list. I was too foggy to have a to-do list.

On Friday I went to the grocery store in this fuzzy state. I used the self-checkout line and made a mistake as I was processing my order. The clerk said something pretty snotty to me, but I didn’t even notice it, just nodded at her, thanked her, and walked away. It wasn’t until I was in the car that I realized that I SHOULD have felt snubbed, should have been offended.

A time of rest, a softer, gentler outlook, a break from my driven personality—and then, bonus, a chance to see how this lack of self-focus can positively impact my interactions with others: I’m actually–post chills and fever–grateful for the flu!

The Nativity Wars

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Besides the five nativities with movable figures, I also have several small, fixed nativity ornaments or sets. Here are two of my favorites (plus a star) that I have hanging on my bamboo plant next to my kitchen sink (I haven't managed to kill it yet!). My sister bought the dark wood ornaments for me in Africa, and on a recent trip to Ten Thousand Villages I treated myself to the carved gourd nativity made in Peru. So beautiful!

Besides the five nativities with movable figures, I also have several small, fixed nativity ornaments or sets. Here are two of my favorites (plus a star) that I have hanging on my bamboo plant next to my kitchen sink (I haven’t managed to kill it yet!). My sister bought the dark wood ornaments for me in Africa, and on a recent trip to Ten Thousand Villages I treated myself to the carved gourd nativity made in Peru.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving we decorated the house for Christmas.

Our three youngest were in charge of putting ornaments on the tree, a chaotic process because the youngest, PJ, gets a little over-excited (I told my sister he was like a bunny rabbit on crack, which made her howl with laughter—not because of my description but because she could easily imagine it.) Plus, since none of them is over 4 ½ feet tall, there are a lot of territory skirmishes over the lower half of the tree, and it ends up a little bottom heavy—until the older ones come in and help them rearrange.

While the kids were busy with the tree, I put out the rest of the “stuff,” which includes a lot of Christmas books and five nativity sets: one I received as a child, painted by my Mammaw (yes, I’m from the deep South); three others Dave and I received for our Christmastime wedding more than twenty years ago; and one that the twins’ Sunday School teacher gave them when they were in first grade.

I arrange them just-so, in careful semi-circles so all their faces can be seen…

And then I wait for the nativity wars to begin.

The first attack this year was sneaky. I didn’t even see it happen. I walked through the dining room and noticed a clump, not a semi-circle, of figures on top of the piano.

He’s been at it, I thought.

I checked the others. Two of the remaining four had been rearranged.

I put them back in semi-circles, but just a few hours later they were all huddled together again, a crowd rather than a scene.

Son Jake and I love nativities.

We just like different arrangements.

So every year we do “battle” during the Christmas season.

We start out with sneak attacks, but pretty soon it becomes open warfare.

Last week we had a longtime friend over. She noticed the crowded nativity on the kitchen counter and began to rearrange it. I noticed what she was doing and laughed.

“It won’t stay that way.”
“What?”

“Pretty soon Jake will come in here and push them all together again.”

“Why?”

And, suddenly, it hit me, the why. I couldn’t understand why I’d never seen it before.

“Because he wants them all close to Jesus, that’s why.” I was stating my revelation more than answering her question.

I tested my theory later that day.

“J-man, why do you like all the figures clumped like that? We can’t see their faces when you put them that way.”

His tone made it clear he thought he was answering a pretty dumb question. “But they can’t see Jesus when they’re all spread out.”

Aah!

After all, what’s more important—that we see their faces or that they see Jesus?

It’s a busy, busy season, and we tend to get a little caught up with the celebration of it—and, often, with how others see us celebrate it.

But what’s more important—that they see us or that we see Jesus?

So gather as close as you can, crowd into Him, stretch high on tiptoes, do whatever you need to do to fix your gaze on HIM.

Because not only is that the absolute best for us, it’s also when others get glimpses of Him, too. When we press close to Jesus they want to see what we’re so excited to see. In our wonder and awe, they catch some of the fascination of Christ’s love for us.

It’s a fascinating love, isn’t it!

From glory, He put on flesh—such limitation!—and then “humbled Himself…” to “death on a cross.”

All for love!

All for us!

 

II Corinthians 8:9 “You know the generous grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. Though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty he could make you rich.”

Letting be

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“Let be and be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46: 10, Amplified.

We just moved for the second time in less than a year, and I want everything settled. I wake up with strange thoughts on my mind: “I wonder if the kids’ soccer stuff should go with winter wear downstairs or in the upper hall closet?”

I usually don’t spend a lot of thought on things like that.

And in the midst of this upheaval, it seems like my mind wants to worry on other unfinished matters: unsettled relationships, questions about this upcoming school year—on and on. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” this stranger mind says, “so what are we going to do about you not having called your grandmother in months? You need to fix this.”

God keeps whispering the Amplified version of Psalm 46:10 to me. “Let be.” “Be still.” “Know that I am GOD!”

More familiar versions leave that implied first part off, but it’s the part I’m hearing loudest of all. “Let it be, Jen. Let be.” Be all right with the chaos in your house. Remember that relationships are between fallen, messed-up people; they require a LOT of grace. An orderly life is not the equivalent of a “full, abundant” life.

Things will NEVER, this side of heaven, be perfect and settled, though right now I really want them to be. Actually, it helps when I realize that my desire for this perfection and order is truly my deep heart cry for the Perfect One. When I don’t wholeheartedly pursue Him, and instead become obsessed with creating complete order in my life, I’m actually creating chaos in my soul.

Far better to have some chaos in my home and in my life than chaos in my soul.

So even though I DO have to get my house settled, even though my life, with four/six kids, is always going to be kind of crazy, I will practice this verse.

“Let be and be still and know (recognize and understand) that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations! I will be exalted in the earth!”

And I will start with letting be.

Other than the beautiful symmetry and order of this bridge that Jane, my international student daughter, built last month, this picture has little to do with this post, but I’ve been wanting to post a picture of the amazing bridge she built for her physics class. She did an excellent job.

One lace sock

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There’s a lot going on right now for my family (end of school year–both for the kids and for me and Dave; end of the soccer season for Dave; Nina and Jane’s–our international students–exams and packing [and that, considering the state of their room, is a MAJOR task]; and, of course, our move into a new house). So, although I’ve been doing lots of praying/reflecting, I have not been doing a lot of writing/reflecting–which is what usually results in blog posts.

But today was a gift–full of unhurried time with the younger three on a field trip (with my weird teaching schedule, I rarely get to go on these) to Blackberry Farm. God rested my rushed soul with enjoyment of Jake, Maddie, and Patrick at the stages they are in right now while we walked through the barns and different learning centers. Then tonight the younger three joined me on a bike-run with Chai while Em put the finishing touches on dinner.

And THAT is what I’m grabbing a few minutes to write about–because it was hilarious, especially in retrospect. Chai (the dog) and I jetted out, as usual, while Jake, Maddie, and Patrick followed behind on the sidewalk. I was around the corner from them when I heard: “Mo-om!”

Patrick.

I turned around to check on him, but he was pedaling toward me. A neighbor friend called out from her yard to provide the answer. “His shoelace got stuck in his chain. I got it out, but you’ll definitely need to do a re-tie.”

I caught up with the kids stopped at the corner and tied his shoelace, double-knotting it for good measure.

We’d made it half a block.

A full block later, Chai and I were ahead again. “Mo-om!” Patrick–again. We turned around–again. This time his pants leg had gotten stuck in the chain. I turned his wheel backwards and freed it.

We made it two blocks this time. “Mo-om!”

Somehow his shoelace–the one I tied–had gotten wrapped AROUND the pedal! As I freed it, I noticed that he had on a lace-topped sock.

“Dude! Why are you wearing a frilly sock?” I lifted his other pant leg. “And on only one foot?” I peeled the lace-topped sock down. “And why are you wearing it over YOUR sock?”

Maddie looked closer. “Hey! That’s MY sock!”

He shrugged, but we’re both looking at him, so he had to come up with something. “It was on your bed.”

“And that explains why you put it on?”

“Well, my other sock was cold.”

I tapped his other foot. “But not this one?”

“Uh-unh.”

One lace sock and the gift of humor.

I may still be tired, but I’m also refreshed.

And speaking of the end of the soccer season, here’s a pic I took of the girls lifting the regional champs plaque last week. Unfortunately, they were stopped in the sectional final, but still–great season, great girls!

Trusting God in sleep

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PJ, wearing my sunglasses at a soccer game

Last spring when our old Joe Boxer (literally of the boxer breed) died, he was fairly docile. He grumbled when we had the college men’s soccer team over (he was a woman’s dog), but that was the extent of his grumpiness.

He wasn’t always that way. We got him as a wild, uncontrolled one-year-old, and he didn’t respond to the regular training I’d used with all our other dogs. By the time he was 3, I was fed up with his desire to fight every male dog we encountered and I worried that this aggression might spread to people. I called a dog trainer and shared his history. She asked to see him in our home.

He was tense with her, displaying all the behaviors of an unreliable dog, and when she sat down with me at our dining room table, I could tell she was going to give me bad news.

Then Joe came over and curled up at my feet, quickly slipping into a deep, snoring sleep.

She stopped her lead-up to the “bad news” and looked at me in surprise.

“He trusts you!” she said.

“What?”

“Dogs don’t sleep like that—“ she pointed to his now fully-splayed-out position—“unless they feel secure with a person.” She looked back up at me. “I think you can work with him.”

I recently re-listened to a sermon by John Piper (http://www.desiringgod.org/) on Psalm 127:2, “It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for He gives to His beloved sleep.” The most straightforward interpretation of the second half of the verse is simply that God gives us sleep and rest. He allows us the time we need to step away from life, to lose consciousness of stress and concern, heartache and pain. We ALWAYS need this break from life, but it is especially necessary when we are suffering with deep grief or pain. In those times, sleep is one of the greatest blessings.

But Piper pointed out that this interpretation, though completely valid, doesn’t fit with the phrases preceding it. Therefore, based on the context of the verse itself—and the meanings of the Hebrew words used—he suggests another interpretation: “He grants IN sleep to His beloved.”

In our sleep—a resting, trusting sleep—the never-slumbering, never-weary God works for us and in us.

Piper gave the example of preparing for the seminary classes he taught years ago. He would stay up late, trying to get everything right, and wake up stressed about the class. Finally he realized this was a lack of trust.

I identify with his example. I’ve burned the candle at both ends for much of my teaching career. I’ve regularly gone without sleep to get things done and not sacrifice time with my kids. And I’ve trusted and prayed that God would increase my strength even though I was not getting enough sleep (and, for seasons, I think this is valid).

But long-term patterns of this are not healthy. And the pattern I’m currently in of living like this is going a little too long.

Could this be a lack of trust on my part? When I’ve managed my time well and prioritized my tasks and responsibilities, should there be a clear stopping point? What would happen if I really trusted this promise? Really trusted that God will work miracles while I sleep?

Obviously this is not like the elves and the shoemaker. I’m not going to wake up to find my house cleaned and my papers graded. But perhaps the verse “the mercies of the Lord are new every morning” applies to this. At 10 at night, facing a messy house, I feel nothing but frustration. At 2 a.m., bleary-eyed, staring at a computer screen, I lose sight of anything but exhaustion. But in sleep I gain a new perspective. I see those mercies of the Lord. I gain strength. My creativity is refreshed.

Doing my best and then stopping my efforts, allowing for good rest: this requires that I trust God will increase my strength, my creativity, and my thinking IN sleep so that the next day more is miraculously accomplished than what would have gotten done had I stayed up late.

That interpretation fits with the first part of the verse, which tells me that it’s foolish (and counter-productive) for me to stay up late and get up early—in this hamster-in-a-wheel effort to get it all done.

That brings me full circle (no pun intended) to Joe Boxer and his trust in me. The trainer was right. His trust allowed me to work with him, to form a dog-person relationship that transformed him into a dog that was amazing with the twin babies I had less than a year after I talked with that trainer, and with the rambunctious three-year-old we brought home from Africa in Joe’s old age.

Could the same be true with God?

Is my lack of trust in this area hampering His work in my heart? Interfering with my focus?

Psalm 4:8 “In peace I will both lie down and sleep;

Jake, being silly and wearing my sunglasses at a soccer game (where much of our afternoon time is spent right now).

For You, Lord, alone make me dwell in safety and confident trust.”