Kristen Anne Glover

Five in Tow

30 Days to Enjoying Your Children More: Praise {Day 11}

Welcome to our series! Find Day 1 here.

The outer gates had already been locked for the night when the doorbell sounded.  The five of us looked at each other, startled by the interruption.  A second ring quickly echoed the first, followed by a frantic pounding on the gate.  Something was wrong.

The missionaries I was visiting rushed to the entry.  They found one of their parishioners standing under the street lamp, tears running down his face.  His fourteen-year-old daughter had run away from home.  Mario and his family had been searching for hours, but they could not find her.  Now night was falling on the streets of Mexico City, and despair was rising.

We gathered back inside and began to pray.  Members of the small house church began to arrive, pressing themselves into the circle and taking up the burden that was too much for any one of us to bear.  Fear reigned.  We all knew what could happen to a girl who gambled with a night on the streets.

Then someone started to sing a song of praise.  It was almost as shocking as a doorbell sounding in the middle of the night—praise in the midst of despair, praise in the midst of fear, praise when it was hard to be thankful at all.  “Tu fidelidad es grande, tu fidelidad incomparable es…”

Your faithfulness is great,

Your faithfulness is incomparable.

Something in the room began to change.  Our focus shifted from the hopelessness of the situation to the awesome sovereignty of God.  Hope began to drive out fear.  Light began to penetrate the darkness.  It was as if God came down to meet us there and turned the bitter stuff of earth into holy ground.

It took my breath away.  Never had I seen praise used like that before.  In my experience, praise was mostly confined to Sunday mornings or an occasional “Way to go, God!” when something particularly great happened.  But praise in the midst of darkness?  Praise for despair?  Praise when there was so much to ask for?  That was new.

The psalmist said “God inhabits the praises of His people.”  (Psalm 22:3)  I had never seen that verse come alive like I did that night in a small house in a barrio of a dark city.

When we praise God, God fills up our praises, dwells in them, and reigns on them.  Darkness cannot stay in a room filled with praise—it has to flee to make room for God to come down.  When we lift our lips to praise, God bends to receive it.  He comes into the midst of us.

If God is here in my midst, then this place where I am standing, this Mexican house or this home filled with sippy cups and board books, of broken promises and heartache—this is holy ground.  Neither Satan nor any of his mercenaries can stand on holy ground.  The darkness that threatens to undo me must go.

Some days, I feel too broken to praise.  Then I remember praise is God’s gift to the broken.  It is an anecdote to the hopeless.  It is power to those who have no advocate because it speaks the very essence of God into darkness.

Perhaps that is why King David spent so much time lifting holy hands in praise.  His wasted his best years running for his life.  His beloved friend died.  Two of his sons died.  His daughter was raped.  He had blood all over his hands.

Yet no one in the Bible praised God as much as David.  In the middle of the desert, in the dark of a cave, with enemies all around him, David had faith, and David found holy ground.

How I need God to come down on the days when I don’t feel any joy for my calling or any delight in my children!  How I need to praise Him.

Not just thank Him—praise Him.  The two words are not the same, and they do not hold the same power.  It is the difference between saying, “Thanks for the pie!” and “You make the best pie.”  One is thanks.  The other is praise.

Thanks, or thanksgiving, is temporal.  It can be new every day just like the mercies of God.  And it is a good thing to give thanks to the Lord!  We should always acknowledge His gifts to us.  But one day, all the gifts will have been given, and all that is lacking in us will have been filled up.  There will no longer be any need.

But when the needs have all been met, and the thanks have ceased, the praises will have just begun.  Praise is eternal.  It is not temporal because it acknowledges the unchanging attributes of God.  Praise affirms and proclaims God’s character.  It says something about Him, not just what He has done but who He is.

That is what we were created for, not just to respond to God, but to recognize and declare the truth about God even before His hand moves to bless us.  That makes praise an offering of faith.  When we praise God, we are saying, “Though I have not seen you, I know you.”  Thanks is remembering.  Praise is believing.

When we step out in faith and praise God even when our circumstances make it difficult, God always meets us there. 

Do you want to enjoy your children more, even when it is difficult?  Do you want God in your living room, giving you strength in the midst of the struggle?

Praise Him.

Please join us for Day 12: Focus on the Good

For further thought

1) Open your Bible to Psalms.  How far do you have to read before you come to a command to praise?

2) How can thanks become man-centered?  Why can praise never be man-centered?

3) Activity: The next time you or your kids are particularly cranky, put on some praise music and dance!  Did God meet you there?

Like Bread on the Water

Bread on the water

I hold in my hands a loaf of bread, still warm from the morning baking.  Simple and earthy, it is food for the day.  Fragrant, it is hope that I have enough.

I have come to the edge of the sea.  The water is calm with the morning, misty-eyed and heavy with the waking.  It reaches out over my toes, and pulls the covers back.

Something in the air makes me think the weather will not hold, and it makes me restless with the unknowing.  But I have this bread, and that is more than I can say for the gulls who circle overhead.  They have nothing for the stormy days.

Yet, they fly.  High up into the clouds where I must squint to see them, they touch the hands I cannot reach.   They are free to follow the fisherman’s wake, where even in the storms, they can glean all they want from his nets.

But this bread in my hands keeps me tied to the earth.  I am not free as long as I am holding on to something.

At least I have something.

No, it is more than something.  It is everything.  Everything that makes me feel safe, safely separated from uncertainty, safely veiled from eternity, safely immovable.   The wind can carry the birds wherever it wants.  But it cannot carry me.

Yet, they fly.  I can’t help but wonder at the magnificence of it.  Higher and higher, they rise on wind I cannot see and they cannot control.  They do not fear—they soar.  But I am left here, stodgy and rooted, crushing my vulgar grip into this one thing I can’t release, the one thing that keeps me pathetic and small in the midst of glory.

I wonder where the wind would take me, if I let it.  As soon as I wonder, I know.

With shaking hands, I rip at the crust, releasing a little steam into the chill of the air.  Wholesome crumbs drop down into the sand and melt into the sea.   My hands are full of bread as the waves roll in.  I cast the bread out to meet them—all of it.  I hold nothing back.

But wait!  No!  My very breath escapes me.  I collapse into the sand.  Foolishness.  Stupidity.  Madness!  There it is on the water, my one thing, my very life, now bobbing, now sinking–wasted.

I look up to the sky desperate to rise but more bound by the earth than ever before.  I have given it all!  For what?  For what!

There is nothing left.  I am empty.  I am alone.  Even the gulls have left for deeper ocean as the clouds mount over the water.  The wind rises, blowing sand into my eyes without lifting me higher.  It is stronger than I remember it being, and it pushes me out into the water, deeper and deeper.  The water swirls and foams with the storm, and I cannot fight it.  I sink down into the waves, flailing, desperate.  I look up at the glassy water that keeps me trapped and I see it, the shadow of bread on the water.

The waves are full of it, cast off bread, given in hope, returned in abundance, more bread than I can see.

I fight to the surface, and open my eyes before I even gasp for breath.  It is all there, and more.  “I do not understand,” I say to the no one and everyone as I reach out to touch that which was not wasted at all.  “I do not understand.”

In all my lifetime, I will not be able to gather it all.  I cannot hold it all.  I cannot lose it, or even give it all away.  But there is no need.  It is all around me, this bread on the water.

The wind pushes the waves to the shore, carrying me to back to the very place where I started.  But I am not the same.  I have felt the crushing power of the wind and the waves, yet I stand as one redeemed, bought back, renewed.

My hands are empty, but I feel no fear.  I feel no need to grasp on to something, anything.  Everything I ever had has been given back in ridiculous abundance, but I am not tied to it.  I am no longer immoveable.  Like bread on the water, I am free.

Cast your bread upon the waters, and in the day of trouble, it will come back to you.  Ecclesiastes 11:1

What Micah Taught Me

Micah, age 1

Micah and Paul were born at the exact same minute.  They were the exact same height and almost the same weight.  They were both tongue-tied.  They both had the same blue eyes, and even though Paul had a shock of red hair and Micah’s was mousy brown, it was obvious they were twins.

But by the time the boys were six months old, we knew Micah was behind.  By the time they were a year, we knew something was wrong.  It was painfully obvious.  By then, Paul was crawling all over everything and was on the verge of walking, but Micah couldn’t follow him because Micah had yet to crawl.  He didn’t even slither.

Our pediatrician was at a loss as to what was wrong.  She said all kinds of scary things before scribbling out a referral to Children’s Hospital in Seattle where Micah was examined by a team of neurologists.  They wrote lots of notes on little pads of paper while Micah smiled at them and tried to find the Cheerios they’d hidden under brightly colored cups.  “Micah does not play with his toes,” they wrote as they watched him.  “Micah does not roll over.  Micah does not bend his knees.  Micah can’t right himself if he falls over.  Micah can’t grasp a finger.  Micah can’t…Micah can’t…Micah can’t….”

Then, the doctors went out to talk about their findings.  I waited a long time while Micah sat on my lap and played with my necklace.  I wondered what life was going to be like for my sweet little boy.  It is one thing to be behind.  It’s another thing to be behind when you’re a twin. He had a built-in reminder that he didn’t measure up.

Finally, the chief neurologist came in.  She shook my hand warmly and told me what a delightful child Micah was.  “He’s very bright,” she said, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  “His delay is not cognitive; it’s muscular.”  It seemed that every muscle in Micah’s body was weak.  Every muscle was behind.  “He needs a personal trainer and a baby gym,” she concluded.

We were assigned a physical therapist who told me to write goals for Micah.  “Micah will learn to hold my finger.  Micah will learn to roll a ball.  Micah will learn to stand unassisted.”  I wanted to write, “Micah will learn to climb up the steps all by himself!” because at 16 months old, he was heavy.

But Micah could not achieve that goal.  Paul was climbing steps like a monkey, but it didn’t matter what Paul could do, or what any toddler could do.  It didn’t matter what was normal or expected or even desired.  Micah was not any toddler.  He was Micah, and I had to adjust my dreams, wishes, and goals for him based on who he was, not on who I wanted him to be.

Months passed, and then years.  The progress was painfully slow, but still, it was progress.  I quickly learned that achieving the goals was not the goal.  Success, for Micah, was about making steps in the right direction.

I watched Micah and I wondered if I was willing to accept that definition of success.  I like goals.  I like reaching goals even better.  I am not so good at being content with progress, especially when it seems like everyone else is running and I’m just crawling along.  It seems like I should be able to do it!  I should be able to keep my house clean and my kids dressed like they just stepped out of a magazine.  I should be able to make that creative birthday cake and look like I didn’t eat a piece of it.  I should be able to write two blog posts a week, for heaven’s sake, and keep all my kids happy and well-fed and educated.  After all, Facebook and Pinterest tell me that other moms can.  Why can’t I?

Every day, I get up and I aim for that goal.  I do the best job I can.  It’s not always Pinterest-able, but it’s generally a step in the right direction.  So why do I feel so guilty when I am still so far away from the goal?  Why do I feel like everyone is staring at me, writing down notes on their little pads of paper, Kristen can’t…Kristen can’t…Kristen can’t…?

It’s because I forget that I am me.  Not my mother.  Not my sister-in-law.  Not the other mom of five kids who does everything better.  I’m just me, the me with gifts and the me with shortcomings.  Like Micah, I must accept that some things are just going to be hard for me.  It doesn’t matter what is normal or expected or even desired.  I can only do so much.  Some things I will do really well.  And then there’s the rest.

Motherhood involves such a myriad of skills and abilities; it would only stand to reason that I would stink at 50% of them, maybe more if you count sports.  Some things I am just not naturally able to do.  I am deficient.  I am broken.  Sometimes, I really mess it up, and I wonder why I’m the only one who can’t get it all together.

But God did not give these children to the woman who has it all together.  He did not give them to the woman who is better.  He gave them to me.  He didn’t even check out my Facebook profile to see if I qualified.  He didn’t look to see if I am good at planning birthday parties or if I know 50 ways to sneak vegetables into macaroni.  He did not ask me if I felt adequate because it’s never been about being adequate.  It’s about letting God be adequate enough for the both of us.

At the end of the day, when I’ve poured myself in to these lives God has given me, and I am tempted to think that I haven’t been or done enough, I remind myself that I am a lot like Micah.  When I first became a mother, I could not even crawl.  But by God’s grace, I have learned to walk.  His hands have steadied me, and now I can even run.  I may not qualify for a marathon, but then, I was not made for marathons.  I was made to walk with Someone holding my hand, and that is enough.

Micah is now four.  He still struggles with significant speech issues because he can’t seem to get his tongue to do what it should do.  I can’t always get my tongue to do what it should either, so I understand.  He will never be the star of the soccer team.  I understand that, too.  But every day, he continues to try.  He lets me help him make steps in the right direction.  That is something I understand best of all.

He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.  —2 Corinthians 12:9

Success