Christianity Archives - Page 25 of 41

100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: The Stuff of Shadows {8}

The view sold this house. I walked into the living room, newly pregnant with the news of twins, and was captivated by what I saw in the window. On that crystal-blue day, I could see the rise and fall of the Olympic Mountains and the calm tranquility of the Pacific Ocean as it worked its way through the fingers of the Puget Sound. I could see trees where eagles sit and a valley hued in purples and blues. I could not take my eyes away long enough to notice the mint-green paint in the kitchen or the outdated gold light fixture above the table. It did not really matter when the house came with a view like that.

Nearly five years later, I have not grown tired of looking out my window at all that can be seen of this world. It is comforting and peaceful to be able to see so far, to know all that can be seen in miles and miles of looking.

But today, the view was hidden. The fog unfolded off the ocean like the fabric of a veil, keeping common things from sight, hiding both the known and the unknown. The valley below us descended into deep uncertainty.

Today, I was living behind a veil.

All my certainty faded away and I felt a little bit like a child, longing to see in the dark. I wanted the comfort of living on a mountaintop, but I was in the valley.

Some seasons of motherhood are like that, when the fog clouds my vision and I can only see in vague shapes and shadows. My eyes strain to focus, to deduce clarity from the dimness. But it is not there.

I wonder, some days, if I’m walking in the right direction, or if I’m making any progress. When the children fall into the same old fight or I find myself muddled by some unconquered sin, when my mind is filled with more questions than answers and I can’t even imagine how all this is going to turn out right, I wonder. How can I keep walking where I cannot see?

On those dark and uncertain days, when I cannot see where the next step leads and I feel uncertain in my footing, it is good to know that my destination is secure. I grab onto that when I can’t grab on to anything else. I am heir to a promise that one day, I will see clearly. One day I will know without shadows, understand without doubt, and see from one limitless horizon to the other.

But for now, when the fog settles in and I cannot walk where I feel most secure, I rest in the knowledge that what I know to be true does not change just because I can’t see it. The mountains are still there. The ocean is still there. And God is still there. Sometimes, His face is hidden so I can see His hand, leading and guiding me over the unfamiliar terrain and around the obstacles I cannot see.

I look before me and I cannot see the road. But it is okay to walk where I cannot see because it is not my eyes I trust.

I trust in the One who sets my feet upon a rock.

I trust in the One who makes shadows flee.

I trust in the One who tears the veil.

100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: School {6}

When I first started homeschooling my daughter, I had no intentions of making it a thing. I was a mom who happened to be homeschooling, but I was NOT a homeschool mom. There’s a difference.

In the beginning, I was organized and creative and a little smug. I had a daughter who, at two, could spell her name, count in Spanish, and sing the order of the planets. At playgroup, she said words like otoscope, marsupial, and impertinent. At age five, she informed me that her favorite book was The Swiss Family Robinson. Unabridged. I proudly displayed her beautiful handwriting on the fridge and plastered gold stars all over her work.

Fast forward a few years and a few more children. I am no longer smug. I am no longer organized. I don’t even have stickers because someone stuck them all over the cat. I have no idea what I’ve taught to whom or if my third child even knows there are planets.

The counters are covered with suspicious jars of things for science and toilet paper tubes for art, which is ironic because the old me would have sworn toilet paper tubes could never be art.

I am a homeschool mom. Not just a mom who homeschools, but a bona fide, tried-by-phonics homeschool mom who teaches not just one advanced child, but five children of varying degrees of talent and ability, attention and cooperation, desire and will. I am not just a patient, creative, enthusiastic teacher but a distracted, tired, and sometimes frustrated teacher who hopes the grocery clerk won’t ask the kids any difficult questions like “What grade are they in?”

I am a homeschool mom, and the dirty truth is, I don’t really like it. At noon on most days, I am on my second pot of coffee and my first pair of pajamas. Even on the best days, when everything is clicking right along and no one has cried over math even once, I sometimes stare out the window and indulge a fantasy about a big yellow bus that makes house calls.

I’d like to quit. I think about all the other things I could be doing instead of teaching long division again. I am convinced that if there really was such a thing as Purgatory, it would involve teaching long division. Or beginning reading.

Every few months, when a new math lesson results in mass hysteria or cursive practice threatens to be fatal, I have a little breakdown. I go up to my room and cry and think about the fact that there are worse things than raising five illiterate children.

Of course, that’s an exaggeration. Only two of them are illiterate.

There are also worse things than doing something you don’t like. No one will tell you that, but it’s true. We want to believe that we were put on this earth to feel good and serve our own dreams and desires, but that’s a lie. We were put on this earth to glorify God, and that sometimes takes a different road than I would have guessed.

I think about this often on the “I Don’t Wanna” days. Like it or not, homeschooling is the best option for our children for now. I’ve done the math. It always comes out the same. That means that God is in this. He has led me here and He has called me to this trial challenge opportunity for His time and for His purpose.

If God has called me here, He will provide the strength I need to stay here. I realize I have an unparalleled opportunity to see God work. And do you know where He tends to work first? In me.

That is the awful beauty of homeschooling. It gets at the stuff I tend to shove in the corners. It gets at the cruddy parts and the broken parts and the parts that should have been refined by now but aren’t. I am impatient, still. I am selfish, still. I am lazy, still.

No matter how many times a big yellow bus stops at my house, it is not going to take away all that stuff that lingers in my heart. Only God can do that, but God will only do that if I am obedient.

So on this beautiful day, I am thankful to be where God is. It just so happens to be in a living room sprinkled with flashcards and library books. It just so happens to be in my own home teaching my own children. It just so happens to be in the refiner’s fire.

It just so happens to be right where I need to be.

100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: Communion {4}

Sunday mornings are not for the faint of heart.

The alarm fails.

The oatmeal burns.

The clothes I set out the night before are covered in cat hair.

My children, who never have to leave the house before 10 AM, suddenly find it difficult to talk, or eat, or match shoes. And I find it hard to think about worship when all of Sunday morning is one manic rush to get to a place of rest.

But all of the rushing ends in a sanctuary where Word and worship work to restore what has been broken, clouded, and marred. There, a wedding feast has been prepared and set out for me by the Lover of my soul, the Groom who knows my weakness and understands my sorrow.

And yet He loves me. He loves me when I’m harried and late for Sunday School and forgot to bring my tithe. He loves me when I can’t worship because I’m thinking about the pipes freezing and the argument I had with the kids over toothpaste.

There, in the midst of all the shortcomings, He ushers me in to this beautiful mystery of grace. Mercy. Love unbounded. He gives me a common meal to illustrate the uncommon affection between a holy God and His undeserving bride.

Bread, like a body, broken for me.

Wine, like blood, spilled out for me.

Hushed by the sacred, awed by the reality, I come into His presence, into His rest, to eat and drink of His goodness.

And oh! How I need it. I need it for yesterday. I need it for today. I need it for tomorrow.

That is the beauty of this day. Those elements of bread and wine are not just a picture of what has been done for me. They are a picture of what is being done for me day by day. They remind me that I need Jesus. They remind me that I have Jesus.

This is the body and the blood that was shed for me. This is the covenant that brings me into a new relationship with God. This is the adoption that gives me the rights to all the riches in the heavenly places. This is power. This is life. This is rest. This is all I need.

What a beautiful thing it is to start my week with this thought in my hands.

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