Holy rollers, life with three kids three and under is proving to be a lot. A whole lot. One minute I’ve got this and everyone is content in their place: one on the breast, one playing with his ABC computer, another at the table making Valentines for her friends. But I blink and it all falls apart. Little man finally clears the gas bubble but half of his milk comes up with it, and at the same moment his big brother wants on mama’s lap and the Valentine’s fun has worn off so the three-year-old has pushed the chair to the counter and found the kitchen shears so she can make “big girl crafts.” Deep breath. Because this is it, this is motherhood. Life with my babies is all at once more than I can handle and everything I love most in the whole world.

A few days ago, Alex picked up Cannon, our sweet middle child, and he hugged him tight and said, “Cannon, I just love the way God made you.” And as I watched that hug, I grabbed those words and thought, yes, that. That is exactly what we are going to tell our kids every single day. Especially on the hard days, when it goes from good to crazy in half a second. And not because we need a false motivational talk to reorient our parenting, but because it is true: we love the way God made our kids, and we want them to know it.

At the very core of each of our kids is the Imago Dei, the image of a perfect God. When I look at Harper, who is wild, folks, real wild—she demands our attention at all times, wants to sing and roller skate in the house and tell stories about everything—I know that underneath that will and fierceness is the exact nature God wanted her to have. He wanted her bold, strong, and loud. And I don’t know what plans he has for her, but I know she will need those things, and my job is to train her heart to want to use them for his kingdom.

And then I look at Cannon, who is quiet and tender. He prefers to watch, and when crowds get to be too much I can usually find him in another room with his blocks or big orange tractor. Cannon has not found many words yet, but he sure isn’t stingy with his cuddles—this boy loves to be held, finding his place in the nook between my shoulder and head with no trouble at all. He is so gentle and mild-mannered, and I don’t know what plans God has for him, but I know he will need those things, and my job is to train his heart to use them for his kingdom.

And Jordi, my precious newborn, who has proven thus far to simply be content. He smiles at anyone who will coo along with him, and his chubby cheeks are irresistibly kissable. We don’t know what personality will emerge in our littlest, but whoever he becomes, whatever God gives him, I know he will need those things, and my job is to train his heart to use them for his kingdom.

Our kids are all so different, and they all need very different things from us. But we are ALL so different, and we all need different things from one another. I love that about God. He knew we would all need a Savior, so he gave us one. But then he layered on top of that beautifully unique ways to walk through the world and love one another, and not one of us could do exactly what he has asked another to do. I need that confidence for myself every day, and I want to give it to my babies, too. Harper will play a role that Cannon may not, just as he will impact people in a manner Harper never could. And the same will be true for Jordi. And I am so in love with every detail of it, because I get to be the mom who cheers them all on, watching God do for them what I will never be able to as he guides the steps of their lives.

Every day, I want to speak truth over these precious kids. I want to tell them that they will need grace and forgiveness, as we all do, and that Jesus is the only one who offers that without condition. I want them to look to the sky, over the mountains, across the ocean and even at the details of a flower and think ‘Wow, you did all of this, God?” I want them to love God’s words and hide it in their hearts forever. And I want to speak truth to myself in the process, giving 'out loud' reminders to my heart that the hardest of moments are part of the beauty in being a mom to these children.

I hope they look back on their childhood and remember joy and laughter and consistent training from their mom and dad, and I hope they always believe it when we say, “I love the way God made you.”

To my left is a bulletin board. It is covered in pictures and letters, things that remind me of people and places that have left a mark on my heart. To my right is a long line of books: commentaries and devotions and two Bibles, mine and my husband’s. A globe sits next to them, sturdy enough to act as a bookend, and a constant reminder that my place in this world is so, so small. And in the rooms around me my babies are sleeping. They are warm, comfortable, safe. They will wake up to the promise of food and the pleasure of a little PBS Kids. We will read books, play games, say I’m sorry a dozen times, and learn—we are all always learning around here. And tomorrow will be a lot like today: lessons, friends, and my constant effort to provide all they need, to show up for them.

____________________

In the last ten years, the world has become an increasingly violent place. So many of us know that, but we don’t lean in further, because that is when it gets too hard. And we have a tendency to shield from view the things that are too hard to see: the difficult to love person we pretend we didn’t notice at the grocery store, the homeless man on the corner we avoid eye contact with, the women working the street in our city that we drive right past… the refugees trapped on a mountain, Aylan, the women assaulted in Cologne, the violence of the Democratic Republic of Congo…It’s too hard sometimes, all of it. So we pretend we don’t even see it.

Life is so much easier when we choose what we see.

But we cannot keep living that way, the easy way. There is a need too great to ignore. There are too many vulnerable faces looking to us, begging us to see them. And the majority of these vulnerable faces are also the ones who will be a huge part of the solution to the violence in the end: the women.

Around the world, women in conflict zones are without question the most exploited group, but they are also the strongest. They’ve been brutally raped in Syria, Iraq, Ukraine and the DRC, and then they find a way to get water for their babies the next day. They are threatened, but commit their lives to being peacemakers. They are taken advantage of as they sell their produce and goods, but they show up at the market the next day to try again. In the face of violence, sexual exploitation, pain, and fear, they fight back for their children and for their communities.  

The UN Force Commander, Major General Patrick Cammaert, has said that, “It is possibly more dangerous to be a woman than a soldier in conflicts today.” Devastating. There is no other word for a statement like that. And we can choose our response to it. We can choose to put the plight of our sisters around the world in front of us and see them. I’ve said this before, but I believe it with all of my heart: when we ask the question, “What can we do?” the answer is never, ever, nothing.

Friends, we can always do something.

And you knew I had an idea coming atcha, right?

One Million Thumbprints is a grassroots campaign seeking to catalyze a groundswell of people (y’all, that’s us!) focused on overcoming the effects of war against women through storytelling, advocacy, and fundraising. As an organization, they are advocating on a global level, urging the UN and other government leaders to follow through on resolutions to protect women in conflict zones, as well as funding programs on a local level through their implementing partners in three of the most dangerous places to be a woman: the Democratic Republic of Congo, South Sudan and the region of Iraq and Syria.

The mission of OMT is three-fold: survive, stabilize, and sustain—providing emergency relief to women and families in war zones, which includes providing rape or sexual violence treatment, trauma assistance and medical support; including women in the peace-building process by training female leaders to mediate in their communities; and supporting long-term programs such as community micro-savings, microfinance, farming co-ops, agribusiness, refugee resettlement and education.*

And where we come in (you knew this was coming): our voice and our money. Gather your friends, get your thumb kit here, and start talking about the violence and oppression women around the world are living under every day. Each time OMT collects 1,000, 5,000, 10,000 or more thumbprints they will share them with the UN Secretary General and other important policy makers. These thumbprints are our way of saying WE SEE YOU, SISTERS, and now we are going to speak up for you.

And these women need our resources, too. Let’s not skip over that. I think many of us live with the mentality that our dollars won’t really make a difference. And that’s a lie, because not only does every single penny make a difference, it also reminds us where to look; our eyes tend to follow the places we give our money. Can we look past our lattes, our lunches out, our new shoes and our Amazon purchases and straight into the eyes of the women who need us to act? They don’t need our sympathy. They don’t need our advice. These are women more capable than most in so many ways. But friends, they need us to act. Please, don’t let yourself think that they don’t.

My friend, Krista, is climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro with One Million Thumbprints on International Women’s Day (March 8, 2016) to promote grassroots peace for the women who experience violence in war. Would you give this cause your latte money today? Would you skip the Target trip you were going to make and support this amazing team’s effort to say “no more” to the painful injustices committed against women?

Will we all do something? Because we can.

The answer is never “we can’t.”

Let’s see them, these strong and resilient women who, even though they have lived through the most devastating things imaginable, are choosing to believe peace is possible for their families. Let’s teach our young girls that our most noble heroes won’t ever be found as the popular searches on instagram or in the press of Hollywood but in the villages of the South Sudan or bravely fleeing the terrorism of Syria, women and mamas and grandmas giving of themselves without reserve. Let’s keep the right things on our minds, let’s tell the most worthy stories with our words, and let’s see the pain of these beautiful souls—because when we see, we can do.  

______________________

As I look again at all that is right around me, the pictures of my people, the resources to know and study God’s beautiful word, the globe—ever so fitting in moments like this— I am reminded of all the people who need me right here in my home, and all the ways I need a Savior. But I cannot help but think about my sisters around the world, like me in so many ways, but unlike me in others: on the floor around them their babies are sleeping, but they may not be warm, safe, or comfortable. They may not wake up to the promise of food or the pleasure of anything. They will read, play games, say I’m sorry a dozen times, and learn—because mamas and babies everywhere are always learning, aren’t we? But tomorrow may not be anything like today, because a life of security is not offered to them the same way it is to us.

But these women will show up bravely. Every day that they are given, they will show up.

So let’s show up for them.

*click on links in the post for more information or to donate to OMT through Krista Gilbert's page. If everyone gave even $5, OMT would be on their way to helping create peace where it is desperately needed.

So many things amaze me about the life of Jesus, perhaps none more than the way he could perceive the true intentions of the human heart.  He knew, he always knew, the motive behind the questioning onlookers and the fear behind the pleading petitions for healing.  He knew the faith of the woman willing to merely get the “crumbs” of his power or the other just needing to touch the hem of his garment.  He knew the doubt and disbelief behind the passive aggressive prodding of the religious leaders, wanting only to catch him in a battle of rhetoric they tried again and again to win. (They never could).  And he knew our tendencies would be to feel all of these same things at different seasons in our own lives.

As I have planned and prayed intentionally for a fruitful new year, God has done some serious business in my heart through the beautiful, timeless words of Jesus.  This should not surprise me; He always seems to do business with me when I’m getting serious about being in the Bible.  But this time around, He has gotten straight to the heart of a struggle that has always been real for me, and I think real for many of us: our desire to be seen.

In Matthew’s account of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus sets a pretty high standard for the life of a believer.  There are a hundred things I want to process and apply in my life from these three chapters in the Bible; but this idea of “being seen,” well, it has not left me in two months.

Matthew 6:1- “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people to be seen by them…”

Matthew 6:5- “And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites.  For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others…”

Matthew 6:16- “And when you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by others…”

Three times in eighteen verses, Jesus, the Savior of the world, the one who knows the hearts and motives of men, the only perfect man to put his feet on the soil of the world… tells us to throw away this desire to be seen.  Three times in eighteen verses.  I think he must mean it.  Don’t act godly to be seen by others.  Don’t pray or throw around scripture to be thought well of by others.  Don’t sacrifice or give or serve so that others will admire you.  Don’t do anything if your motive is the applause of men.

And I cringe. I have a physical response to this because y’all, this is my struggle. I may not have a temptation to stand in front of church and pray as others file in for service, but you better believe I want you to like me, comment on my writing, think highly of my children and how I parent them, like all the pictures, and essentially, see me. I am so often over here in my tiny corner of the world silently yelling “do you see me?!”

The world has taught us to do all sorts of things to be seen. It says we need a social media platform to be an influencer. It tells young men and women—who am I kidding, all men and women—that our value is found in likes and followers. It convinces so many of us to keep score like crazy people, and in that even the good things we pursue end up being done with selfish motivations behind them.

And God sees. And he hates it. Because while we are working ourselves into a frenzy to be seen by others, we miss seeing Him completely. (We often miss our husband and our kids, too, if we are really honest. The ability to carry the façade of our reputations with us on our smart phones at all times has us hooked). There’s a better way, a much better way. And, gosh, I want so desperately to walk in it.

While Jesus tells us to not do things to be seen, He also promises that He does see: “And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” Isn’t that so much better? The idea that we could get to heaven and have nothing to show for our lives but a hustle for approval in this world; or the thought that we could stand with Jesus as he introduces us to the people that we silently, compassionately, bravely pointed to him with the truth and humility of our lives.

I’m working hard on figuring this out. And I know many of us are. Because we are tired of the temporary satisfaction found in the way others celebrate us, and we hate the jealousy that arises when others are celebrated more. We feel guilty when our family calls us out for looking at our phones, and we are starting to wonder how on earth we will raise insecure teenagers in this social media world when we cannot even navigate it well ourselves. We want Jesus, we look at the world today and we are desperate for him; but we are so distracted, so tempted at every turn to point to him but make sure we are still peripherally in the picture. This struggle is certainly harder for some than for others, but the desire to be seen is as old as humanity.

This year I have taken a step back from social media, not so I can be legalistic about 365 days without instagram or facebook—there is nothing wrong with instagram and facebook, and from time to time I will jump on and connect— but so that I can give myself the space to check my heart. It can get yucky in there, and I am more aware than ever how big the idolatry is in my life. There are a hundred good things that grow from the connection with others that social media gives us, but I need to pull out the handful of weeds that come with it. I do want to take and share beautiful pictures of my family, but I don’t want that more than intentional, real moments with them. I do want to put my writing out there so more people will see it and maybe even affirm it, but I don’t want that more than I want to steward this space and the love of words God gave me.

I want Jesus. So there has to be less of me.

I want others to see Him, because there is not anything else worth gazing at.

When I think about my life and making this year the most purposeful year yet, it is not captured in filtered images. It is simply lived, and much of it in secret, like Jesus told us to.      

The lake was frozen. The sun was shining. The kids were slipping and sliding and grinning from ear to ear. 

With three young ones, the days can be long. Their needs are great and at every moment some little face is relying on you for something.  But the days are also fun.  We play, and no one can tell us not to.  We laugh, because we don't always have to use library voices.  We blow off naps because mom is the boss and she says the sun won't always be out in the middle of winter like this.  And these three young kids, well, they won't always be young.  So while they are, I'm doing my best not to miss it. 

Winter, you're winning me over just a little bit.    

these three... thank you, Jesus.

Last night was just one of those nights.  Fed the baby at 1:00am.  Three-year-old crying at 1:45am.  Fed the baby again at 3:30am.  Toddler crying at 4:00am.  Baby needs a serious diaper change at 4:45am.  Mama finally gives in to the morning just before 5:00am, because the infant is not going back to sleep.  A snapsort of mothering little ones in all its glory.

This weekend a sweet friend asked me for an update, wondering how being the mom of three children is going.  Well, we are tired.  Real tired.  I am making it through the day just fine but by about 6:00pm I’m in the danger zone—as in, if I sit down there is a 100% chance I will fall asleep right there on the couch with three unattended children watching Dora, throwing things in toilets, attempting to pour their own milk, giving the baby his gas drops and explaining to me as I come out of my momentary coma to a gagging baby that she was ever-so-not-gently “just giving Jordi his paci, mama.”

Life with three.  Please excuse the cliché, but there is never a dull moment.

Jordi is six weeks old today, a fact I can hardly believe.  I feel like a moment ago I was marveling at his brown hair underneath the newborn hat, and today we can already load the car in under 15 minutes.  (It started at about 45, so I consider this a win).  But our newest family member is a dream: he is mello and cuddly almost all the time, save for the hours he is working out the gas his little body is still not used to.  He sleeps well at night, waking up every few hours for milk but then going right back to sleep.  He loves his swing, his big red dog paci, and his mama’s chest—and I love him there, too, so we’ve got a good thing going.

Cannon is twenty-months old, and ever my sweet, introverted little man.  Two things make Cannon giggle like nothing else: his daddy’s tickles and the map on Dora—he just loves that little guy and claps his hands excitedly every time Dora announces that it is time to ask for help because we don’t know where to go.  He could drink ovaltine all day long and be totally happy with it, and if there is a slide around he wants nothing else more than to go up and fly down again and again.  Cannon is not talking much yet; he says mama and dada, Dora and “ma” (more), and he also has the sweetest rendition of “do-du” (thank you) going on, as he taps his mouth to sign it but seems to think one says it as you hand something off rather than receive it.  He sees the sweetest speech therapist every Thursday, and he reminds me with every challenge and victory that one of the greatest privileges of motherhood is getting to be our kids’ cheerleaders.

If Cannon is quiet and introverted, well the very opposite of him would come in the package of love and energy and fire that is his big sister.  Harper is three years old, and if she is awake, she is, quite literally, putting on a show.  She can, and does, turn anything into a microphone, comes up with her own words to the rhythm she chooses—which will undoubtedly have something to do with a ballerina or princess—and shake her hips from right to left like she has been doing it all her life.  She has a wild imagination, and although we spend a good amount of time every day training her heart to listen and be kind and learn what respect is, we spend even more time laughing at the things she says.  For example, she handed me the Kazoo she earned at a birthday party this weekend and said, “Here mama, you blow.” I tried a few times and could not get that kazoo humming, so I gave it back to her and remarked with sarcasm, “I’m glad my daughter can do this and I can’t figure it out.”  To which she responded, “Well, you’re husband can do it to, mommy, and you can’t.” (Thank you, three-year-old).

These three are the joy of my life.  They really are.  And yet, they all need very different things from their mama right now, and I have certainly had my moments of despair at the incapability I have to parent each one of them well.  Harper wants anyone within twenty feet of her to watch her show and listen to her stories, and she needs a hard line of discipline to know that her strong will is a gift but it has a limit that must be respected.  Cannon wants one on one time and his own space to learn, and he needs encouragement and correction in a much softer manner than his sister does or his sweet soul will break rather than repent.  And Jordi, he just needs me: a breast to eat from, hands to change a diaper, eyes to make sure no one pulls him off his boppy pillow, and ears to listen for the rise and fall of his lungs as he breathes. But sometimes, most of the time, all three of these precious babies need these things at the very same time.  And I can’t.  Someone has to wait, and no one wants to wait.  And if the wait gets too long then all four of us are crying and that looks about as bad as it sounds.

But here’s the thing: I have never loved being a mom more than I do today.  God has so graciously and tenderly given me a heart for the training and stewardship of my babies that I just did not have a year ago.  I have always loved them, but I have not always seen this job as the job, the work of my life.  Motherhood, quite by accident, became something that I had to “finish” in order to get other things done: like writing an essay, grading papers, prepping a lesson plan, finishing a task around the house, or something really important, like posting the perfect caption to my instagram picture (obviously that is a joke.  Not the part about picking my phone over my children for moments at a time, the part about it being important, that’s the joke.  It just took me far too long to realize the joke was one me.) 

On my worst days, I saw my kids as in the way of these things.  You would probably never say that about me, though.  It was more of a heart condition than an outward action.  But that’s the sweetest thing about the Holy Spirit: he loves to gently correct the heart.  Good behavior done with bad motives is not good behavior at all; it is people-pleasing and box-checking (story of my life!) and God sees right through that.  We don’t want that for our children, and God does not want it from our parenting.  As I learned this, God began to strip down my goals for motherhood from healthy, happy, successful, smart, kind, articulate, brave kids to just this: sinners saved by grace.  That is all I could ever hope and pray for my babies.

So while I am exhausted and many days feel in way over my head, I am so full.  Did you really give me these three souls to steward for a lifetime, Lord?  He did.  My joy is too big for words here.  And I feel the weight of this blessing in a new way since Jordi joined our family.  I am not capable of motherhood.  It is a job far too big for me, because I default to worry, anxiety, frustration and an utter lack of patience at every turn.  But I am capable of calling on Jesus, and he is so happy to show himself glorious where I am the weakest.  I know that that will be the story of my parenting, one day after another of Jesus saving the day. 

Faith: the only resolution I have this year

The past few months have been a season of serious self-reflection for me— perhaps the deepest I have gone in searching for the things that make me come alive.  It started with a book club that became, quite unexpectedly, the catalyst to a number of intentional changes in my life.  Then came an opportunity for leadership I thought I was ready for, but found out in the face of it that I was anything but ready.  It did, however, force me through several weeks of desperate prayer and many coffee dates with people willing to listen to me cry, and in that sweet humility was a beautiful moment of reckoning: we can accomplish nothing of lasting value without Jesus and very little without each other; an invaluable lesson to learn for many reasons. 

And finally there was David Platt, whose influence always seems to be a part of the biggest seasons of reorientation in my life (I’m still recovering from my 2011 encounter with Radical, but that’s another story entirely).  Alex and I sat in the living room of our good friends, Dave and Kelly, with popcorn and coke and sparkling cider, and for six hours listened to David Platt teaching us how to study our Bible (#Christiansgonewild!)  But y’all, I’m telling you, it was amazing.  And six hours and a journal full of notes later, God’s word started to become precious to me again; in a way that it hadn’t been in several years.  The longing for scripture I buried under marriage and children and sleep and the excuse that weaves its way in to all of our lives, a busy schedule, had slowly been crawling its way back to the surface for months; but the time with trusted friends and an incredible Bible teacher came in and in one swing cleared everything still in the way to the side. For a girl who grew up being told to read her Bible, who attended church faithfully, who had all the right boxes under good Christian girl checked, I thought I had this idea of faith down.  But I have no idea.  I have truly been reading my Bible for what feels like the first time in my life the past few months.  Thank you, Jesus, for that grace.

“If Jesus didn’t think he could handle life without knowing scripture inside and out, what makes you think you can?” –Tim Keller

There is a story in the book of Matthew that Jesus, after coming down from the mountain with a few trusted friends, joins his other disciples in town where a man had been searching for healing for his son.  As Jesus arrives, the man pleads with him for help, telling this Rabbi that his disciples were unable to change the horrible state of seizing his son was in.  In his grace, Jesus heals the young boy, and the disciples immediately wonder why they were unable to.  Jesus’ response: you did not have enough faith.

“For truly, I say to you, if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move, and nothing will be impossible for you.” –Matthew 17:20

Stories that bring us right up close to this word—faith— are found all throughout the gospels and in the entirety of scripture.  Peter could walk on water until his faith started to waver.  A Samaritan woman begged Jesus for even the “crumbs” of his grace and power while another woman longed only to touch the hem of his garment, and both were commended for their great faith.  And Jesus withheld healing and miraculous works in his own hometown because they did not have faith.  Not because they lacked understanding, but because they lacked faith.

I have done the planning, set the goals, quite a few of them, in fact; and even began sorting through the things that need a “yes” and others that need a “no” for this coming year.  I love that a new year provides us all with the space to do that with an imaginary blank sheet—amazing how motivating one turn of the calendar can be!  But nothing I hope to accomplish in this year, nothing I want to become, nothing I want to make happen, carries more intention than learning what it means to have faith.  Real faith.

Because my marriage needs a faith in Jesus and the selfless servanthood he modeled every day of his life.

My babies need a mom so saturated in faith that they see me living the gospel for them every single day.

My writing needs a foundation of faith so grand that it can actually accomplish the purpose God may have for it.  Maybe that is just for me, my own growth and accountability, and a record for my family.  And y’all, I am more than ok with that.

My friendships need the intention of a faithful friend.  My home needs the fresh air that faith brings in to the room.  My hopes for justice in the world and speaking for the marginalized need faith that God can and will change the painful trajectory so many lives are on. 

There is not one area of my life that does not need faith.  And that means that more than anything, I need faith.  What I have is a somewhat educated rhetoric and a big enough Christian vocabulary to talk, at least on a surface level, about God; but something is missing.  It is the thing that jumps out at me on every page of scripture right now, and what I want more than anything, that mustard seed of faith. 

Right this moment, I am looking down at my youngest baby sleeping soundly, and I am begging God to show Alex and me how to live a life of great faith right in front of them.  These people in my own home, they are my most important life’s work.  Listening to Jordi breathe and watching his eyes dream the way only a newborn can do… moments like this remind me of who I want to be the most.  And that is the journey I want God to take me on this year.

Some seasons are for building great things, others are for repenting, learning, listening, and waiting.  The latter is where I am, and I’m there confidently, knowing that the work of all great things of eternal value begins in the quiet of time and space with the Creator.  God needs to build my faith before He will build anything else in, through, or around me.

"God gives us the vision, then takes us down to the valley to batter us into the shape of the vision, and it is in the valley that so many of us faint and give way.  Every vision will be made real if we have the patience." -Oswald Chambers

Happy New Year, dear friends.  May this be the year God does a profound, miraculous work of faith in all of us.

____________________

In an effort to give my best to this fight for faith, I will be taking, as much as is possible, a sabbatical, if you will, from social media.  This year is my “valley” year, as the poetic Oswald Chambers puts it.  My marriage and my family need more from me than they have been getting.  My teaching job needs new intention.  My writing needs a right motivation.  I need to be a woman who lives to be unseen in order to make God seen.  I hope and plan to write more than ever through the journey this year, but social media elevates my idol of approval more than anything, and I need the discipline of clearing that away for a time. 

See you here, on the blog? 

What a gift.  That’s the phrase that keeps coming to mind as I think back on this year: what an incredible gift!

As I try to put in to words the ways in which God has blessed and provided for us, I realize that reducing his greatness to the tangible blessings of life in middle-class America does a great injustice to him.  We are blessed, to be sure.  And no one knows that more than we do.  I have an incredible husband, humble to the core and devoted to me and his family above anyone or anything else.  Together we have three precious babies, and parenting them has taught us more about God and each other than any other endeavor.  We both have been given the gift of meaningful (paid!) work: Alex as a nurse and me as a teacher.  And of course we have the blessing of enjoying the little things in life: creativity and writing, reading and learning and filling our bookshelves to the brim, setting goals and being disciplined toward pursuing them, and enjoying the people God has graciously given to us as our friends.  These are graces that so much of the world does not have, and when I really think about it, they are not so “little” at all.

But perhaps the greatest thing that has happened to us this year is that we finally understand with new purpose why we have this life: to bring God glory.  That’s all, and amen.

Our marriage, our parenting, our work, our hobbies, our passions, our home: none of them are meant only to set up a comfortable life from now until the end.  God is far too big and far too concerned with the things of eternity to think only about giving a very small percentage of the world a nice eighty-or-so years on earth and then entrance into his presence forever.  No, no.  We have purpose here, and great work to do.  And that great work happens in the big moments and the small details. 

This past year our family grew from four to five.  God was just so good to give us Jordi Daniel. We bought a mini van to accommodate and, haters gonna hate but it has been my favorite purchase ever.  Alex began his career as a nurse and found a home in a job he loves.  I spent the school year as a “lecturer” at a small Christian university in town, which basically means a teacher but my title made me feel the tiniest bit proud (and gave me something to write on a resume, you know, the important things in life).  We spent much of the warm months at my parents’ home on the lake, we laughed with new friends and even got the chance to visit old ones in other parts of the country. 

We made lots of mistakes and let other people down at times, moments I wish I could take back and words I wish I could unsay.  But we learned a lot about repentance and hope to walk out those lessons with more and more humility our entire lives. 

We read books, studied scripture, and are imperfectly finding the beautiful rhythm of new routines that allow for real time in God’s word, even in the busy-ness of a swing shift job and three children.  And after almost four years at our church we decided to make the move to a new one, a small church plant in the very heart of our city.  It has been the best decision for us; we absolutely love the place God has led our family and the way we are learning about Him there.  But leaving one home for another after four years has not been easy.  We have over-explained to some and failed to explain at all to others.  I wonder still how one finds the right words for a transition like this.  We tell people the truth, that we sensed God doing many new things in us, and in that process calling us to a new place- but how does one manage how others interpret and accept that?  Well, I have landed on this: I do not think you can, and I do not think I should.  My desperate to please everyone self wants to more than anything, but I have to trust that the Holy Spirit is alive and moving and directing the steps of all of us, and in the process he is teaching us to keep our eyes on Him and on building his bride, the church, the way he has asked each of us to.  We pray daily for unity among all believers, and then we walk forward with a humble confidence.  The way we see it, we have two precious church families now, and hope to forever.

Alex and I have fought and then reconciled.  We wrestled with what his sobriety needs to look like, how to parent together rather than one at a time, and how to value this marriage relationship more than any other on earth.  I wish I could say we’ve found the formula, but we haven’t.  What we have found is God’s word, and what he has to say about dying to ourselves seems to inform the way we need to do our marriage better than anything.

I struggled to no end with fear and insecurity this year: in my parenting, in my job, in my friendships, and like always, in my writing.  But I think when the anxiety of those feelings hit the hardest we also have a chance to learn the most, and that is what happened to me.  I turned off the tv a few months ago and really have not turned it back on, because I am finally taking responsibility for the things I let in to my mind and taking seriously the exhortation to truly think about whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, anything worthy of praise... (I have tried so hard to fit Bravo into this category and right now, for me, I just cannot.)  I am working so intentionally to get a handle on social media and the comparison issues it causes in me.  I love the connection and learning about meaningful work of others afforded by Facebook and Instagram, but at times I fail to celebrate others in their life and work because I’m only thinking of me and my not-enoughness; and then up comes an ugliness in my heart I am anything but proud of.  But I see it all very clearly now, and I’m daily learning how to walk with Jesus through a culture I want to be in but not of.

And finally, I think Alex and I are re-learning what it means to parent.  Maybe this is something we are always re-learning, all of us.  As our children grow from babies to little toddlers trying to grasp their words, and toddlers learning their words to young children telling stories and practicing kindness, we have to continually find ways to give them each what they need.  I think that being a mom of intention may very well be the most profound journey God takes me on this coming year.  But as I look at all three faces under my roof, I am overwhelmed every time to know that God would give me the gift of investing in these three souls with eternity in mind.  It's my favorite job. 

A whole year’s worth of moments, mostly really great, some really hard, all of them telling a story.  In the end, I think this year has been one of me wanting to keep the main thing the main thing and fumbling my way towards that end.  I’ve learned who I am not while learning who I am, and those are important distinctions to make.  I am a follower of Jesus, a sinner saved by grace through faith.  I am Alex’s wife and mom to Harper, Cannon and Jordi, the two titles that are the honor of my life.  I am a teacher and a writer, a homemaker and an advocate for the marginalized.  And, I hope many of you reading this would also say I am a friend, because caring for the people in my life actually makes me come alive, too.  I hope and pray that in 2016 I can live in to these roles with more love and intention than I have given them before, spending my days wanting more of Jesus and, by his grace, making more of Him, too. 

He's making all things new, friends, and he is starting with each of us.  Here's to a year of faith in Him, lived out with a bold simplicity and the humble offering of praise that our life can be. 

I love words.  So much.  They teach, they convict, they inspire.  And they make me think about things in new ways, always probing at that buried desire every single one of us has to contribute something meaningful to the world.  Words have so much power, both for good and for malice, but I am convinced that is why we should fill our lives with them, so we can be people who weed out the malice and hold up the good.

Something I know to be true about myself is that if I am not reading, I’m going crazy.  I must always have a night stand full of books, it makes my heart happy.  And one in my purse, because one never knows when they will find themselves with a few minutes of wait time and, for me, it is a small tragedy to not have a book on hand when those unexpected pockets of time show up.  Between two children, then a pregnancy, and now a newborn, I did not finish nearly as many books as I wanted to this year.  My Amazon wishlist is growing much faster than my ability to keep up with it, but that’s the beauty of good words: there will always be more than enough to go around, and they will wait for us to get to them, even if it takes a few years.

Still, 2015 brought with it some great reads and really beautiful narratives.  My favorites were a mix of serious and lighthearted, inspiration and informative.  There were beautiful stories and heartbreaking truths about society.  There were books filled with scripture and books that made me laugh again and again.  But all of them made me think; and all of them pointed me to something worth praying about, whether it was my friendships, my walk with the Lord, my role in the world, or the most important people and place in my life: my home and my family.  And as I stacked them up and revisited the highlights and notes in the margins, I actually started praying, dreaming, wondering and thinking maybe, just maybe, I could write one someday. 

When words do all of those things for you, well those are gifts that keep on giving.

I have hundreds of quotes highlighted in these books; just so many thoughts I want to hold on to from each of them.  But I leave you with this short excerpt from Just Mercy, because I truly believe that when we put our hands to the work God has given each of us to do in the world, we’ve got to do just what Ms. Carr says.

          “Ms. [Rosa] Parks turned to me and sweetly asked, ‘Now, Bryan, tell me who you are and what you’re doing.”
          “Yes ma’am. Well, I have a law project called the Equal Justice Initiative, and we’re trying to help people on death row.  We’re trying to stop the death penalty, actually.  We’re trying to do something about prison conditions and excessive punishment.  We want to free people who’ve been wrongly convicted.  We want to end unfair sentences in criminal cases and stop racial bias in criminal justice.  We’re trying to help the poor and do something about indigent defense and the fact that they don’t get the help they need.  We’re trying to help people who are mentally ill.  We’re trying to stop them from putting children in adult jails and prisons.  We’re trying to do something about poverty and the hopelessness that dominates poor communities.  We want to see more diversity in decision-making roles in the justice system.  We’re trying to confront abuse of power by police and prosecutors—” I realized I had gone way too long and stopped abruptly. 
          Ms. Parks leaned back, smiling.  “Ooooh, honey, all that’s going to make you tired, tired, tired.”  We all laughed.  I looked down, a little embarrassed.  Then Ms. Carr leaned forward and put her finger in my face and talked to me just like my grandmother used to talk to me.  She said, “That’s why you’ve got to be brave, brave, brave.”

My favorite reads from 2015
Mom Enough a collection of essays published by the Desiring God organization
Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson
Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee
Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert
Make it Happen by Lara Casey
You and Me Forever by Francis and Lisa Chan
Reclaiming Home by Krista Gilbert
Wild in the Hollow by Amber Haines
Women of the Word by Jen Wilkin
For the Love by Jen Hatmaker
Chasing God by Angie Smith
Home is Where My People Are by Sophie Hudson
Women are Scary by Melanie Dale
Scary Close by Donald Miller

What did you love this year?  I'm always looking for good recommendations!
Happy Reading.

A walk to the donut shop changed everything.

During a visit to my hometown in California, my friend, Trisha, and I were pushing our kids home in strollers, casually talking about motherhood and balance and all the things on our minds about raising babies.  At some point in the conversation, Trisha shared about her sister and the beautiful natural birth experience of her third baby a few months prior.  I had not verbalized it to anyone other than my husband, but I really wanted something like Trisha was describing for my third pregnancy.  It was a desire born from a mix of stories and research and, without a doubt, a sense of pride and accomplishment on my end.  So I asked her what made it all so great for her sister.

“Well, she prayed; not that she wouldn’t feel pain or that everything would go perfectly.  She prayed over her fear.  She spent the months leading up to her baby’s birth asking God to increase her faith, and it showed in every way as she had her baby.” 

She gave her fear to God. 

It was a truth I held on to in my heart, not knowing how much it would change everything a few months later.

____________________

The contractions began on Sunday evening, just as Alex and I were preparing for our small group’s chili feed.  They were not very strong and didn’t last more than a few seconds, and I had already had at least one false start the day before so I was not getting my hopes up that they would turn in to anything.  It was 5:00pm, we had a place to be, and our doula, Sarah, had encouraged me weeks before, even if I thought labor was starting, to keep going on with normal routines as long as I could.  The contractions continued slowly but surely throughout our small group, and they remained consistent as I got in bed.  But they were not that bad, so I really did not think much of anything. 

Until around midnight, when I was finally uncomfortable enough that sleep was difficult.  I woke up and starting timing the contractions, which were anywhere from 5-15 minutes apart for the next three hours.  Still, I was able to breathe through each one without too much strain, and around 3:00am I had the thought that if this was going to turn in to the real thing I had better try to sleep a little bit.  I got back in bed and rode out the night, thinking surely we would be heading to the hospital soon.

By 6:00am… nothing.  Radio silence.  No contractions.  No cramps.  Nada.  I felt totally defeated.  And I was just so tired.

____________________

The weeks leading up to Jordi’s birth were full.  Not merely busy: I don’t mean that we had so much to do or so many commitments to fulfill that I just got too over-scheduled to think about having a baby.  I mean that they were emotionally packed, bringing with them a mental and spiritual load I did not know how to carry. 

First Aylan’s little body washed up on the beach, and for a brief moment the world’s collective heart, mine included, broke for the plight of the refugees.  A few weeks later there was a mass shooting at a community college in Oregon—I should say another one, as these are devastatingly becoming common news.  Then it was terror in Beirut and Paris, events that brought a hovering anxiety that we all feel.  A few days after that a terrible windstorm swept across my state, taking out more than half of the region’s electricity for several days as it did.  And in the midst of all this, I battled some very real anxiety about who I am as a wife, mom, writer, activist, and friend; the kind of anxiety that, mixed with 37 weeks of pregnancy, makes you toss and turn uncomfortably all night until you finally give in at 4:45am and just get out of bed. (Related: I also fought 15 days of a sinus-turned-ear infection, which brought no shortage of drama on my end- like the night I woke Alex up at 2:00am and told him I was dying… from an ear infection.  And I was serious.)

I sat with these things every day.  I wrote about them.  Prayed about them.  Raised money for them.  Lost endless hours of sleep over them.  And as my body was very obviously growing more and more ready by the day to give birth to a baby boy, I no longer knew how to hold the tensions I could not escape, and the feelings that came with them.

____________________

At 6:00am on November 23, I made a cup of coffee and sat down at my desk.  My body was longing for a rest that for all of my effort I could not force to come.  But here is something that is always, always, true, even when the feelings are against us to believe it: God is so good to us.  And in what felt like a bit of a hopeless moment, he led me back to him with eyes more fresh than I had allowed them to be in the weeks leading up to that morning.  I pulled out my Bible, Matthew Henry commentary and sharpie pens (I’m rather particular about the sharpie pens). And as I read and wrote out my reflctions on God’s word that morning, I felt strongly—overwhelmingly— to stop and pray.  Not just for my baby, but for my own heart toward God’s timing and what it really means to become a mom of three littles in a world that feels as scary as this one. Those prayers were from a depth of my heart that the combination of stress, anxiety, and an ever-present need I have to do something about it all had kept me from.  I wrote about this new season I am entering and repented of the ways I had neglected preparing my heart for Jordi.  And in the process, I realized what had happened, and it was the exact thing I needed…

I gave my fear to God.

____________________

I spent that morning playing with my bigger kids, making breakfast, tidying up, all the usual things.  I would have a contraction every now and then, but they were so sporadic I was not even timing then.  I was not thinking at all that labor was imminent, and for the first time in weeks I was not anxious about it.  I felt total peace about God’s timing, and I kissed the cheeks off my other two kids all morning, so very thankful for their lives. 

Then around noon, the contractions began again. But before you think I am a total idiot for not realizing what had clearly been going on for 18 hours at this point, I just have to say again that they were not that bad.  I texted with my doula, who encouraged me to keep timing everything, but to rest as much as I could.  Alex got ready for work, but about 15 minutes before he was supposed to leave I had two strong contractions in a row and asked him to stay home, more to help me with the kids than to get ready to go to the hospital, which I was still not convinced was where we should head.  I tried taking a nap, but by 3:00pm the contractions were… well they were happening.  At 4:00pm, we decided that it had been a long almost-24 hours and this was either a really intense few days of Braxton-Hicks or I was going to have a baby soon.  Alex and I got the kids set up at my mom’s house, and I cried saying goodbye and looking at Cannon, knowing he would only be my baby a little while longer. Then we hemmed and hawed back at our house a bit more because what was the hurry?  THEY WERE NOT THAT BAD! 

Until the drive to the hospital, at which point they were getting a little bit bad.  And three minutes apart.  There was also an unusual amount of traffic even though I live in a city that never, ever has any traffic. Of course there was.  We finally got to the hospital and in to triage at 6:10pm.  Katie, our amazing labor and delivery nurse, was checking the baby’s heart rate and asking me a few questions.  She could tell I was exhausted and her demeanor was encouraging from the very beginning.

Then she checked my progress and her eyes grew both wide and happy.  She smiled at me and said, “Wow, mama!  You’ve been working hard today.  You’re 8 centimeters dilated.  Are you ready to have this baby?”

Surprise. Relief. Motivation.  All those things washed over me.  Alex grabbed my shoulder and kissed my forehead, and just kept saying “Babe, you’re amazing!” and “We’re going to meet Jordi tonight!”  I was totally prepared for them to tell me this was false labor and send me home.  But then to know how far my body had really come gave me a new energy.  8 centimeters, I got this. (But also, how could I have possibly been unsure that I was in labor.  Cannot answer.  I was just so tired.)

And as I walked back to room 2035, I knew what to do above everything else: I gave God my fear once again.

The on call doctor met us in our room.  He was amazing, and immediately started joking with me about why I waited so long to come in. 

“Well, I did not think I was really in labor."

He chuckled, with the slightest bit of hesitancy, because as a third-time mom surely I should have known what a real contraction felt like.

“Well, you are.  And you’re not going to be here long.  Third baby, 8 centimeters, this boy will be here real soon.  You made my job too easy tonight!” And then he gave me a reassuring smile, made sure I did not want an epidural, and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

For the next hour and half, my little team of five in that room labored together—at least that’s how loved I felt.  Alex held me up through the really hard contractions.  Sarah, my doula, was right next to my face breathing with me to help me not lose control.  Katie, world’s greatest L&D nurse, was willing to get on her hands and knees (and did!) with the Doppler to check Jordi’s heart rate—she accommodated me and whatever position was most comfortable every step of the way.  And Sarah G, our friend and photographer, was there to capture the whole experience for us.  Everyone in the room was so encouraging, and they made it easy to laugh and chat between contractions. I couldn’t believe I was really going to have a baby, because, one last time, It just wasn’t that bad.  I mean, it hurt, but then it didn’t.  I had an incredibly supportive husband, our doula was right there helping me keep control through each contraction, and Sarah (the one with the camera) kept telling me I was beautiful.  Believe it or not, you do want to hear that in labor. It was a dream team.  The blessing of their presence is not lost on me.

And then around 7:30pm, it got hard.  Real hard.  I’m told that almost everyone who gives birth naturally has their “Why did I…” moment.  This was mine. A timeline may be most helpful here:

12:00pm-5:00pm: this is not that bad.

5:00-6:00pm (drive to the hospital): well, this is uncomfortable.

6:00pm-7:30pm: rather uncomfortable, but with new energy not terrible.

7:30pm-8:00pm: oh man, I should have gotten the epidural. Absolutely should have.

8:00-8:10pm: worst decision ever.

8:10pm is when things got crazy.  As I lay on my left side on the bed, Katie checked my progress again.  “Sweetheart, you are still about 8-9 centimeters, but the baby’s head has dropped much lower so you are close.  He needs to turn is head to fit out, and I think a few more contractions will do it for you.  You’re close.”

Immediately another contraction came that had me gripping the rail of the bed and letting out a low, steady yell.  Alex, who had been relaxed and encouraging the whole time tried to calm me down, but he could tell I was starting to lose it.  And less than a minute later, another contraction.  This was the one.

8:10-8:12pm: I am dying.  What else could possibly be happening other than my body is being ripped in half from the inside out?

And then I felt a baby.  For real, the baby was coming out and I could do nothing but scream like a wild animal.  Katie, who was still standing at my legs, held up my right leg, yelled, “Get Dr. Pak!” and told me not to push.

Whoever was actually in my body at that moment (because it could not have been me making the sounds coming from that room) screamed, “I can’t stop!  I can’t stop!”  I could feel Katie holding the baby’s head, but I’m telling you, there was nothing I could do.  I felt zero control; my body was pushing this baby boy out on its own.

And then there was Alex, who three minutes before was encouraging and calm, and at this point had wide eyes, no words, and just put his hands on my head in desperate prayer.  He didn’t even know why I was yelling “I can’t stop!” until he stood up and looked at Katie holding the top of a baby’s head in her hand.

The doctor ran in, put gloves on, and seconds later caught my baby boy.

Jordi Daniel Blackburn.
November 23, 2015, 8:13pm.
6 lbs, 10 oz.

8:13pm: total relief, no pain, and an incredible high.

It all happened that fast.  My baby boy was on my chest and making the beautiful sounds of a newborn cry right away.  Grace upon grace, that’s what that moment feels like.

____________________

Now I am a mom of three.  And in his short three weeks of life Jordi has already helped to teach me the most important lesson:

Give God your fear, mama.

Give it to him today.  Give it to him tomorrow.  Give him your fear every day, because if you’ll be brave, then I’ll be brave, too.

Thank you, my sweet Jordi Daniel.  I’m so glad you’re here.

With so many thanks to Trisha (and April!), for just being who you are.
My doula, Sarah Green, for being confident when I wasn't.
My friend, Sarah Graczyk, for being extraordinary with a camera but even more with your heart.
And my husband, for fighting for me on November 23rd... and every day.

I'm so crazy about you, Harper Kristin.

Dear Harper,

It would be impossible to list the ways you have changed me.  We were not planning on you, your Dad and I.  We were thinking about finishing school and building resumes and saving money and then one day two pink lines changed all of that.  But you know, Harper girl, I think that’s just the way God wanted it to be: a lesson in parenting that I needed to learn from the very beginning— because since that day, you have not stopped surprising me.

To tell you the truth, I think I had a lot of expectations about what it would be like to have a daughter.  And I’m sorry about that.  Those darn expectations will get you every time, and they’ll tempt you toward the idea that something is wrong when reality is not just what you thought it would, could, or should be.  We’ve thrown those darn things away in our relationship; they have never really worked for us.  I expected meek and mello, you are strong and decisive.  I expected compliant, you are a natural leader.  And Harper, I think I expected being your mom to be easy.  I really did.  A little discipline now and then, but mostly a journey of smooth-sailing from here to eighteen, on to college and beyond, when we would be best friends forever. 

But sweet girl, being your mom is the hardest job in the world, and let me tell you why: because I love you so much it could break me.  Every single day, I look at you and ache just the tiniest little bit, because the gift of being your mom is just so big, so weighty. And sometimes I fear I might fail you, hurt you, disappoint you, let something happen to you, misdirect you, speak harshly when you need grace, or give grace when your heart needs truth.  And I care so deeply about your heart, Harper girl.  I care about that more than anything else.  And this business of tending to little souls is enough to really weigh a gal down.  But this is motherhood, in all its wonderful, humbling glory.  You gave me this role first, and you are the one who is teaching me how to live it.  It is a journey we both need grace on. 

The thing about you is that for every moment of strong-willed tension, you give me ten moments of unstoppable laughter.  For every disappointing start to the morning, you give me dozens of great afternoons.  For every defiant “no” spoken, you say a hundred times “I love you, too!” and “You’re my best friend, mommy!”  You are what the books might call spirited and I don’t disagree with that.  But I also know a book can’t label you, Harper.  You are just my Harper.  You spoke in full sentences at 18 months and you have not stopped telling fabulous stories since then.  You can already kick a soccer ball with both feet and this gives your mama joy unending!  You certainly know what you want and sometimes we have to slow down and talk about those things, but Harper, you are always quick to apologize and want to put your head on my shoulder when you do.  Never lose that conviction to be repentant, Harper, we need it our entire lives.   You are big sister twice over already, and a great one, I might add.  You love being a doc-trinarian to your stuffed animals and you know your colors in Spanish perfectly.  You run fast, you jump into water without fear, and you know how to hug.  I love your hugs, and I know a good number of people who feel so special when you see them across the room and yell their name as you run toward them for an embrace.  You’re really good at that, Harper.

Today is your third birthday.  That seems both impossible and just right, like we have had you in our home forever but you are still my baby girl at the same time.  Our lives together have been full of paradoxes like that, haven’t they? 

To the girl who made me a mama, the one we named Harper Kristin after a brave writer and a special woman with a genuine love and heart for Jesus, Happiest Birthday, sweet girl.  I just can’t imagine who I would be without you.  Every bit of how God made you is so perfectly crafted to fill a role in the world only you can fill.   I cannot wait to cheer you on every step of the way.  You are so prayed for and so loved— and every day God gives me with you those things will be true.  Thanks for teaching me so much, Harper.  This job of being your mom makes me need Jesus more, and that makes me better.  And truthfully, it is also my very favorite thing in the world.  Love you right up to the moon and back.