We’re moving! Again. I’ve decided that my favorite verse right now is the second part of Psalm 23:6: “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” emphasis on “FOREVER”!

Seriously, though, I wonder what it would be like to be born, grow up, live an entire life and die in the same hometown. I’m intrigued by some of my farming friends who are tied to a particular piece of land, whose lives are defined by place far more than mine is.

Well, more on this later. I’m sure this will be a theme of blogs to come, since moving tends to consume life for a time. I dislike that, but I am

hoping to learn lessons along the way.

Today is my husband’s 41st birthday. For an entire month and 19 days, I can tell him, “I’m married to an older man.” Then I turn 41 myself. How did this happen? I remember being 15 and thinking, “In the year 2000, I will be thirty.” It was the equivalent of saying, “In the year 2000, my life will essentially be over.” Ha! Thirty was young.
For that matter, 41 is young. I don’t feel “old,” whatever “old” is, and I sure wouldn’t want to go back! A few years ago I had a lunch date/writing meeting with several women, all of whom were older than I. The one closest to my age was turning 40 that year, and she mentioned that. “Oh,” said the eldest of our bunch, “you’re just getting started at 40. You get some wisdom then, and you’ve still got energy to do a lot. It’s a good age.” I see that now. The past couple of years, it’s like I’ve found out who I am or at least who I’m not—and also discovered there’s a lot more to know, both good and bad. I’ve looked back at the past with so much more perspective than I remember looking back with at 35 or 30 (and I understand that at 50 and 60 I’ll probably see what a dunce I am now). I’m seeing so many ways I failed to take hold of everyday opportunities to know and love people, to be gracious and relaxed and human. I recognize how stiff and awkward I was, unable to allow differences to be just differences and feeling the need to label them “good” or “bad.” I see how I thought I’d arrived someplace, and now I’m somehow more aware that there’s this long journey of learning ahead of me, and I’ve taken about three steps.

Today was a “full house” day. I drove home from school this afternoon with three extra kids in the car. The last one was picked up at 5:30, and two hours later soccer players and college “foster daughters” started trickling in. I’m not sure how many came, but it was wonderfully busy. It made me think of a journal entry I wrote last fall on another full house day. I’m pasting it in below.

God brought this folktale to mind today. There was once a poor man whose wife was not content with the size of their house. The husband went to the local wise man and asked him what to do.
“Move your sheep into the house with you,” the wise man told him.
The next week the husband was back. Things were worse. How was this supposed to help?
“Move your cow into the house with you,” he was told.
For several weeks the husband returned to the wise man. Each week the wise man told him to move another animal into the house with him and his wife until his house was filled with his chickens, his pigs, every animal they owned.
Finally one week the husband was at the end of his patience. “She says she cannot bear with the noise, with the mess, with how the entire house is filled. The house is too small for all of us to live together.”
“Move the animals out, all of them.”
The man did, and when he came back the next week, he said, “Oh, our house is so clean and big and spacious. My wife is so pleased with it now.”
Well, I thought of that story today in relationship to children. We walked home from an early school dismissal (12:30) with my own four children and three others. When we got home, Shelby and Dylan from two doors down came over. Then Tristan and his brother Tray came. Finally Em’s best friend Katie joined us. In and out, in and out, the house felt like a zoo.
And then, suddenly, it was dinner time, and I was left with only my foor, Dierdre and Katie. It seemed so quiet in comparison! And in a few more minutes, when Kids Club gets out, it will just be me and the four Underwood children, and it will seem relatively sane.
I’m sure there are many reasons God gives me days like this one, and I KNOW that much of His good work for me involves my own children and the many others who enter our home, but I think that one of the reasons is to remind me that four children—well, that’s not so many. I could have 7, 8, 9. That’s chaotic, but this, just me and the four of them—well, that’s normal.

We keep a journal of funny things our kids say or do. I thought I’d share a couple with you today. These are both about the wonderful color-blindness of our children.

One day in the car, Em, then 9, mentioned that someone had recently told her how much she and Jake, one of our then-6-year-old twins, look alike. “Yeah,” said Dave, my husband, “you two are very like each other.”
From the backseat, Maddie (the other twin) piped up, “Yeah, and me and Patrick look alike.” (Patrick is our youngest; he’s adopted from Uganda.)
Pause, then, “Except that his skin is brown and mine isn’t.”

Jake was in the hallway at church when his buddy Christian walked by and said, “Jake, is that you?”
This puzzled Jake–why hadn’t his friend recognized him?
After thinking for a few minutes, Jake offered the suggestion: “I think he thought I was Patrick.”

I wrote this last year, but I found it in my journal this morning and realized it certainly applies to right now.

I am in the middle of summer—my four kids home all the time and several neighbor kids in and out nearly every day—and I am exhausted and feeling unproductive. I just read the above journal entry (note: it was about doing more personal writing) and thought, “What have I done since then?” I’ve wiped a lot of snotty noses (namely ONE nose, PJ’s); I’ve done a lot of ferrying to swim lessons, gymnastics, library activities, etc.; I’ve fixed a lot of meals; I’ve hosted a lot of people; I’ve written quite a bit for the College–just not stuff “for me.”
And I just read these verses:
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior” Isaiah 43:2-3
Oh, I am not going to be dramatic. There are others dealing with starvation and abuse and sickness and grief, but there are days when I feel overwhelmed, like a river is washing over my head and I am bobbing in its waves and pushing up again and again to suck in the quick breaths that will keep me alive.
And You PROMISE me that You will not let it sweep over me; I will not be carried away from You, from sanity, from the life You have for me.
Thank You.

Psalm 139:23-24: David shows such boldness before God—to ASK that his faults be revealed. It is a terrifying thing to request others (anyone) to tell you the faults they see in you. But David can do this because he has full trust that God will be gracious and loving—in both the revealing of the sin AND the sanctification that must follow.

He asks, too, because he has learned that he (David) cannot know himself. I understand this more and more as I get older. I look back at the past and see areas of sin that I never recognized as such in the actual time. My self-centeredness and pride pushed me to give up on relationships that no longer felt important or convenient; they caused me to use people rather than love them. Though my sins are clear to me now, they weren’t in the moment.

I don’t want this to be a constant in my life—to find only in hindsight the sin that was there all along. But what also becomes clear in looking back is the beautiful redemption of God in spite of—or because of—my sin. I see how He healed hurts, repaired relationships, gave second chances, worked GOOD, and only then, sometimes, revealed my hidden faults.

Because all this is true, I can be more open to seeing my sin in the now, more vulnerable with God. I can pray with David, trusting in the gentleness of a God who is all about restoration, all about redemption, “Search me [thoroughly], God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there is any wicked or hurtful way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

This semester I’ve had a continual conversation with a student about her God-shaped blank and the things she is trying to stuff in it.

Her “stuffing” is not working, and I told her that if she tries to fill her blank with anything other than Christ, it, too, will fail. I shared that my own methods of filling my “blank”—though they are more respectable than hers—are no more successful.

Christ is the only one, the ONLY one, who fills all in all.

All in all—not a partial filling, a complete one. I used to envision the God-shaped blank as a gaping hole, a wound made by a pike axe or lance. It was either filled or not. I see it differently now. There may still be a huge blank, but that’s not all. I am pierced all over, full of holes, small and large. The psalmist says, “Show me my lapses and errors, reveal my hidden faults, search me thoroughly.” I find that as God fills one hole, He makes me conscious of many others.

I am like a sponge, as much hole as connective fiber, and I’ve filled many of my pores with garbage. But Christ says HE is the ultimate filler—of all my needs, my lacks, my shortcomings. He can—and wants to—supply such fullness that He flushes out the garbage and saturates me with Himself.

And this over-filling (like the “cup running over” in the Psalms) has a beautiful effect not only on me but on those around me. So often I serve others out of my holes, out of my lack or for negative reasons—so that others think better of me, so my children don’t whine, so…–but Christ wants to fill me so full that He spills over and blesses others with His overflow.

I see my sin as a failure–and definitely, in one sense, it is–but that is a wrong view in another sense. If I strive for perfection as the thing that will make me pleasing to God, I am in essence saying that Christ’s death was not enough, that I want something different than to be–continually–in need of His salvation.

And when I say, “God, I want to approach You as the Prodigal, in humility and acknowledgment of my own sinfulness,” I don’t really mean that. What I want is to be past it, and, looking back, to say, “What a sinful creature I was. Thank You for accepting such a hideous creature as that” (as if the hideous creature is separate from the new enlightened person I have become).

Yet to come as the Prodigal means I come (present tense) in my sinfulness, with sin and by myself, needy and broken at my Saviour’s feet, and in this state, to receive His grace-filled embrace.

 

Yesterday was a terrible mothering day. I locked myself in the bedroom at one point and told the kids I wasn’t coming out. I was too tired of struggling with frustration, of feeling annoyed by their being 7, 7, and 5, even 10!, and of being borderline mean about every silly comment and a nag about every misplaced toy. I knew if I faced them again, I would just be more of the same.

So I locked my grumpy self in the bedroom and lay on the bed and thought, “I just can’t do it, God. I can’t. Give me three minutes out there with them, and I will bite their heads off again, and I cannot face that. It’s only three in the afternoon. There are six hours till I can put them to bed. There is no way I can make it.” The younger three kept knocking on the door. “Can we come in? We need…”

“No. Go away.” and then, to take away any sting, “love you.” Love is easier from behind a closed door. Up close it has to be full of patience with raw egg smashed on the floor (we dyed eggs for Easter), snotty sleeves (PJ will NOT use a Kleenex), dramatic tears (Jake’s response whenever he and PJ fight, which is often this day), and the “So what’s next?” (for dinner, for entertainment, whatever expectation I am supposed to provide). I was out of that patience.
I eventually emerged from the bedroom, though without any special revelation from God. All I’d done was lay bare my inability.

And I guess that was enough. Somehow, by the time we’d finished soccer and gotten cheap pizza and decided to eat it at an outdoor table in front of a bookstore, I was having fun. Like, really, their inane comments made me laugh and led to real conversation. Here’s one.

“Mom, why do all black people look the same?” Seriously—in this family! I think it was Jake who said it.

“They don’t. You only think that when you meet a black person you don’t know. When you get to know them, they become individual. Like, you wouldn’t ever confuse Cecil and Godfrey, would you?”

“Who’s Cecil?” That was Maddie. She sees Cecil every single week at church but Maddie is TERRIBLE with names. I sometimes wonder how long it would take her to forget mine. A month? “Mom, who’s that?”

I tried a different tack. “Okay, if you put PJ in a crowd of African children, you’d be able to pick him out.”

Pause. “Not really,” Jake said. “He would look like everyone else.”

“He’s your brother!”

“Well, if another little kid had round eyes and a big mouth, they’d look just like him.”

“Yeah, but they’re PJ’s round eyes. Don’t you think you’d know him? Seriously, I’ve met Africans who say that white people all look alike to them. It’s just when you don’t know them.”

By this time Em was shaking her head at me in that “Give it up” way, and the lady at the next table was cracking up. And I was having fun—when I’d considered running away earlier in the day.

I don’t know how You did it, God, but that’s some real transformation.

By the way, today’s another long day—just me and the kids. I’m going to need some more of that.

Preferably before I lock myself in the bedroom.

I realize that I am trying to make myself someone I am not—or rather, I am fixated on the image of myself rather than my true being. It is not that I am NOT a business-type person, dressed up and meeting people for appointments, nor is it that I am NOT really a stay-home mom who is sloppy much of the time. I am neither—they are both outward things.
Why, still, do I confuse my “being” with my “doing”?
I am beginning to understand more and more that beautiful Michael Card song with its line “see with and not through the eyes.” It’s one of the paramount themes of John—the one I feel the Spirit pressing into my soul. Look past the seen and don’t get hung-up on the outer trappings—of yourself or others, “see” the truth of My presence, “know” beyond intellectual knowledge that I am GOD! And what I can see with my physical eyes (what too, too often holds my attention) is but a shadow of a very small portion of the true reality.
So as I walk to my office and think about the length of my pants, my inability to wear heels more than a few hours, my graying hair, I wish for a more Christ-centered gaze.
Who am I? I really don’t know and I’m not sure it matters.
But I know HIM—more and more each day—and that’s ALWAYS essential.