Teach me to order my days

 that I may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90v12 NASB

For far too long I have been confused and conflicted about the messiness of the daily, weekly, and monthly doing of my life. I crave order, spending most of my spare moments tidying up, making sure my home is neat, my world uncluttered, a place for everything and everything in it’s place.

People who know me just a little live with the false assumption that I am organized.

I’m not. Not even close. And it bothers me. Not because I want to be someone I’m not but because I have things I long to accomplish. All too often I feel like a hassled hamster running as fast as I can to nowhere.

The truth is…

I work relentlessly to keep everything neat and tidy because of the disorder that wrecks havoc inside my head.

For years and years I thought something was just wrong with me. My parents are two of the most organized, efficient people I know. Not once did either of them moan about having to clean out the closet or the garage or anything, really. They never had to because they somehow managed to always keep things tidy. Both my parents seemed to walk through their days without the chaotic juggling that too often marks my way.

Why couldn’t I be like them?

On my visits home I'd watch closely to see if I could learn their secrets. When I asked about how they stay so organized they just looked at me with all that left brained logic and said, "Well, we just do it."

After much trial and error (and a crazy but effective book entitled Side Tracked Home Executives)

I did mostly manage to stick to some semblance of a routine when the kids were little. Four children will do that to you, especially if you decide, as did I, to homeschool. I made extensive chore lists for all of us, filled out every square of the monthly teacher’s organizing binder, and probably managed to actually cross off about half of what I thought I should be doing.

As one-by-one, each of my children grew up and left my neat and tidy but inwardly disorderly nest, the structure that had worked sufficiently well for organizing my home and family failed me. I dreamed of writing books, of teaching women, of studying and learning, and finally getting that degree that I wish I’d finished.

But how?

I’ve tried sheer willpower. Raised in a home that valued work, I know how to put my nose to the plow and power through. Some months it seemed that’s all I did: work, work, work.

And yet, it seemed to me that all that busy working wasn’t leading me any closer to accomplishing my dreams— those things I felt God had made me for, that He was asking me to do.

I studied Michael Hyatt’s weekly flow chart but never could figure out how to make my computer obey my wishes. So after a few frustrating attempts, I quit.

I tried reading the New York Times best-seller, Getting Things Done. I underlined and took notes and when I finally came up for air I was more confused than ever— and hadn’t gotten anything done.

Then one day as deadlines threatened to be my undoing and the confusion of my self-made chaos sank me closer to despair, I cried out to God:

What is wrong with me, Father? Why can’t I seem to keep up? Why can’t I get done  what I know You’ve called me to do?

 And I heard the gentlest truth dance across my despair:

Di, I made you just how I wanted. You’re beautiful, just right. I made you as My masterpiece for My purposes. Delight in Me as I delight in you.

 And slowly, step-by-step I have been learning that…

When I fully embrace

how He made me to be,

God enables me to accomplish

what He has assigned me to do.

I am not the logical, left-brained achiever that my parents and so many people I love and admire are. Those who, according to experts, handle the daily decisions first by analysis, then by action, followed finally by the emotions that come with a job well done.  Like this: Analysis—Action—Feelings 

A great way to get things done! But, sigh... not my way.

My way looks more like this: Feelings—Action—Analysis. A typical right-brain way of getting things done that doesn't actually result in a lot of consistent getting things done.

Can you relate? Are you one of those...? You live in your head, you thrive on passion, you drop too many balls that you meant to do but you either forgot or lost steam or just got distracted by a more compelling idea.

Passion awakens us, happiness fuels us, delight drives us to do- 

not because we should or someone said we ought to, but because we must and we want to and we will!

The action I take is always, always, always preceded by the conviction that what I am to do must be done. Now. Only after it is done can I tell you why I had to do it, and if I could have done it better, and how I’ll do it next time.

I dare to think that a whole lot of you are right-brainers like me. (I much prefer the term “creative thinkers”.) And I believe that many of you are as frustrated with your messy way of doing your days and accomplishing your dreams as I am. And maybe you’ve suffered the shame that goes with being different, of approaching love and life and dreams in a way that makes little sense even to you.

With the One who created you I want to tell you that:

God likes you just as you are. He made you that way— on purpose, for a purpose.

He made you for His purposes—all those tasks He made for you alone to do, just as He wrote in Ephesians 2v10:

For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago.

For the month of October I am going to be sharing with you some of the things I have learned and am learning about ordering my days— about doing and being the me He made, on purpose. I am spending this month ordering my days, not so I can please or impress anyone, but so that my world works more smoothly and my days reap the purpose I am made for.

I’ll also be writing for mothers with insight into how to develop your own child’s sense of rightness and the way of order that is unique to them. Can you imagine the gift this could be to a child? To understand and appreciate the way they are wired before they try to stuff themselves into a mold that won’t fit?

And because my way tends leans more toward the random than the regular, may I suggest that you allow me to alert you via email when I post? (simply subscribe below) That way you won’t miss the conversation and the comments as we learn together.

From a heart learning to please Him just as I am,

Diane

P.S. Can you share with us the One Thing that helps you more than any other to free you to efficiency and that lovely rightness that comes from actually doing what you’ve dreamed?

We learn best when we learn together and I crave what I learn in your comments.

Before I had kids I made a vow to myself: I will never, under any circumstances yell at my kids. Ever.

I broke that vow.

A lot.

Way more than I hope they remember.

Looking back, most of my mad had to do with messes.

Our big home on the hill overflowed with messes every day. Every. Single. Day.

Four kids + two cats + two dogs+ two horses + a spontaneously fun husband = MESSY!

I am a woman who craves order. I make my bed every day. Hang my towels perfectly even. Organize my spice drawer alphabetically. The only thing I don’t like about traveling is that it feels messy.

I get a rush from walking into a perfectly clean kitchen, from opening the garage door and seeing matching boxes perfectly labeled, lined up evenly on orderly shelves.

For me, neatness is like a drug, a high. It makes me happy, frees my mind to think.

It has taken me years— decades— to learn these few must-do’s that make my often-messy life a little more realistic. These are things I wish I’d known during all those messy summers when my kids were home. Summers I cannot relive.

1.  Nothing of value gets done without making some messes. People who get a lot done— people who invent and learn and try new things, inevitably have to wade through some messiness. Okay, a lot of messiness.

 2.  Neatness is nice. Everyone functions better when their space is tidy. Teaching my children how to put their things in order could have been fun if I had allowed it to be my gift to them instead of being so uptight about it.

3.  There is a vast difference between neat enough and perfect. To indulge in my propensity for perfectionism will make me weird. And crabby. And mad at a world that cannot ever be perfect.

4.   Consumerism is the enemy of neat. I have spent hundreds of hard earned dollars on plastic containers. What a waste! When I finally learned to keep only a few things in my cupboards, my few things stayed naturally neat. It’s better to have less stuff than to organize more stuff. 

5.   Slow down to order your life. More than anything else, I have found that my pace of life perfectly parallels my sense of order. By adding in one more meeting, one more adventure, one more trip to the store, one more project, one more item on my to-do list… I create a world in which messes reign.

I cannot do it all.

Living now in this cottage in the woods, I relish a degree of neatness that simply wasn’t possible with kids at home. When the Grands come to visit, their messes don’t worry me at all. My whole world stops and I delight in their creativity. I see a bigger picture now and that picture is filled with beauty. How I wish I’d know, all those messy years ago, that…

God creates beauty out of messiness.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Can you give us your best, most workable tips for keeping your place neat? Any mamas want to tell us how you teach your kids to be tidy?

A wisp of cloud brushes the bluff towering imposingly above the silent valley; a filter softening rough edges, like the Spirit softening me. Barely there, gentle, a  cool mist rising. Whispers in the wind. I hear Him here, in this quiet place, His voice as gentle as that cloud. Not telling, not even really saying— just soothing, stilling.

Shhh…

The tightness in my chest loosens. I breathe deep the crisp fragrance of winter’s chill.

I remember.

Shhh…

In the stillness I hear words— His words, from His Word. He paints a picture for me to see.

He tends his flock like a shepherd:

He gathers the lambs in his arms

And carries them close to his heart;

He gently leads…

Isaiah 40v10,11

And I do see! I see Him here, walking hills He Himself formed beneath cliffs carved of His own hands—

tending, gathering, carrying, leading… me.

Shhh…

I see myself too: that wayward, wandering, worry-filled one. The one who rolls in wrong places, wants the wrong things, the one who woke up in the early hours, fretful, fear prone, fussing.

That I am not enough, that I cannot be enough, that my not-enoughness will sink my hopes, my plans, my year ahead.

Because it’s too much and I know it. And I am too little, I know that too.  And all these things I hope to do won’t be done because I cannot and I know it and so does He.

Failure looms and I am, down deep where no one knows, afraid.

That’s when I hear the whispers; words misting, cloud like, calling…

Come, climb up here, follow Me to these heights. See what I see. There is beauty here.

But those cliffs are far away, too far. I don’t know how, don’t have time, cannot go alone.

I am not enough.

And the light dawns, my mind sees, that Spirit seeing, knowing, speaking sureness.

I cannot do, but He can. I dare not try, but He does. I am not enough, but He is.

He can accomplish what concerns me.

He does dare use me— this less-than, unable, worry-prone me— to do my “assigned task” (Mark 13v34)

He is enough, and so am I when I go to Him, listen to Him, hide in Him, abide. (John 15v5)

And now I hear. I know. I pull out that pad of lined paper- yellow because somehow it’s supposed to help me remember. New- because this is a new day, a new year, a new plan.

I ask:

Lord— Abba— Shepherd of this worried one, please—

Plan this year for me.

Write my list.

Assign my tasks.

Fill this record of my days with Your faithfulness.

Not my will— please, never that!

Just Yours.

I’m ready now— not to plan, not to project, not to pretend I can do more than I am able, but to follow.

Like His sheep: gathered close, carried, led. 

Listening,

Diane

Do you feel inadequate for the task you’ve been assigned?

• Babies that keep you up at night and tired all day?
• A job in a place that sinks you?
• School too hard?
• Relationships you can’t figure out?

Have you heard His whispers? We gather hope by knowing…

(image by Bethany Small)

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repost/2012

There is a story tucked inside a bigger story that grabbed my attention this morning and just will not let go. I keep seeing me there, and some of you. Maybe a little of all of us.

And I wonder what the Father means by it.

It is a story of a people who grew up with nothingness. No houses, no pantries full of special treats, no rich memories of a place to come home to.

Their fathers had messed up badly, their moms right there with them. Even though they’d seen the miraculous, been set free from horrendous enslavement, heard the actual voice of God, still they just couldn’t… or wouldn’t believe. Not really.

And they raised a generation who watched all that. These kids saw the suffering caused by unbelief. Experienced the consequences of their parent’s faithlessness. Smelled the scent of fear that caused a generation to turn away from God.

And chose different.

When these men and women grew up they decided to follow hard after God. No compromise, full on faith-filled obedience.

Over their tent doors hung cross-stitched motivations like:

Love the LORD your God,

Walk in all His ways,

Obey His commandments,

Be faithful to Him,

And serve Him with all your heart and with all your soul.

Joshua 22:5

And then these men and women were offered a rich land to live in. A land unlike the dessert they’d known all their lives.

Instead of tattered tents, they’d live in cozy cottages clustered within the walls of friendly villages. The women would gather each day around a well with an endless supply of fresh water. Instead of that tiresome stuff to eat each day that they’d grown up on, they would have fresh vegetables, meat, fruit, maybe even a glass of wine.

Bliss.

I can just imagine their hunger for home.

For hope.

But for a small segment of these young men and women, that hope would have to be put on hold for a while.

They had made a promise, a commitment that they dare not break. They’d seen the consequences when their own parent’s choose to renege on God.

You see, two of the twelve tribes of God-followers were assigned space on the eastern side of the Jordon River. The rest got the west.

The two tribes in minority loved the land they’d been given because it was perfect for them— rich with the grazing land their livestock needed.

But their brothers in the remaining ten tribes needed their help to clear out the western lands before they could occupy it. That meant months and months more of living in those worn out tents…

They feared God more than they feared their own raging wants and so they choose to obey no matter what.

Days and weeks and nights spent being faithful when all they wanted was to go home.

And I wonder this morning how they kept going.

Every day.

Through battles and weariness and boring weeks of waiting.

How did they do that kind of faithfulness?

How do I?

And the answer lies tucked into end the story.

Their leader, Joshua, is old now. His hair is grey, his once strong back bent.

Yet fierce words of challenge and choice boom from his mouth as he looks his people in the eye.  He doesn’t cushion his speech with niceties.

Choose today whom you will serve…

All those alluring idols their parents pursued? So easy, so satisfyingly safe, so undemanding… or

as for me and my family, we will serve the LORD! 

Without the slightest doubt, this new generation of God-followers chose-

We are determined to follow the Lord! We will serve the LORD our God. We will obey Him. Joshua 24:21,24

And they did. Every day. A whole generation

They weren’t perfect. They made mistakes. But they did it.

They chose.

From my heart,

Diane

Can you tell us how you choose? Every day? What helps, what makes it possible when all you want to do is whatever you want to do?

Because I see a whole new generation of Jesus-followers who are choosing to be faithful.

May your tribe increase!

 (source)

God has told his people, “Here is a place of rest; let the weary rest here. This is a place of quiet rest.”

Isaiah 28:12 

Remember the Sabbath…

Exodus 20:18

Fog wraps the morning in magic.  Shimmering like a woman’s gown, sheer as finest silk, it hides the world beyond the trees.

And I sit wrapped in warmth, watching the Artist create. Soaking in His beauty, soul filling with wonder.

What was it I was worried about?

All those frettings seem silly now. Petty, unimportant.

So what if I don’t get it done? Isn’t this more important? This watching, waiting, listening?

And so again this morning He speaks to me.

Hush, Di, I’m working. This is My world, not yours.

Just watch a while.

Listen in the silence.

Learn.

And so I choose rest today instead of striving, peace instead of churning, less instead of more.

I choose to notice God today. All day.

To stop all my fussing and just make space for Him in this cluttered soul of mine.To push aside the messiness of my needing to do more and allow my body and my mind and my imagination to simply stroll today.

I’ll walk through His woods, crunch leaves underfoot, breathe deeply, notice the faintest fragrance He leaves behind.

 I’ll sabbath.

From a heart needing rest,

Diane

repost: december 2013

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Obey God because you are His children…

I Peter 1:14 NLT

I was 14 the first time I stepped through the doors of a real church. Oh I’d tramped through countless cathedrals in my early years growing up in Europe. Taken tours, listened to lectures about commissioned artistry, admired stained glass windows and plunked my pennies in the locked offering box. And I’d occasionally sat through traditional services under a scratchy straw Easter hat swinging my soon to be hopelessly scuffed white patent leather Mary Jane’s.

But those churches seemed set in a different dimension entirely than the church that drew me in, caught my heart, and, if I may be so bold— saved my life.

Los Gatos Christian Church met in a refurbished warehouse nestled in the hills near my home. With its redwood walls, load bearing beams, and exposed aggregate floors, it looked like no other church I’d ever seen.

And it was packed; wall-to-wall people. And decidedly unchurch-like-loud with the voices of genuinely happy people all shoving past each other to lay claim to a cold metal chair to call their own.

From the moment I walked in those doors I knew I wanted whatever these people had. I wanted in. I wanted to be a part of this, to lay claim to my own seat right in the front row.

And this church, according to the new generation of experts in the know— did it all wrong.

It was, in the derogatory terms that make me cringe, a Big Box church. An attractional model.

And that, in case you didn’t know, is bad— very bad.

Not a small group program in sight.

But for me, what happened every week in that big box felt very much like a massive family reunion. With aunts and uncles and second-cousins-once-removed, and a whole cadre of white haired grandparents who thought I was “so cute, and way too thin, and wouldn’t I love to come for dessert?”

Gosh they loved me well.

I vividly remember one of my first weeks there when a bunch of kids way too cool for this still dorky-recent-expatriate, invited me to tumble into their fleet of teenage cast-off cars and meet at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor.

Believe me, no one in my rich suburban high school had ever invited me anywhere in the months since I’d arrived back on American soil. In my brand new J.C. Penny Catalogue clothes (the height of fashion in 1970’s expatriate Europe) I stuck out like a sore thumb— or a geek— or maybe it was a dork back in those days.

But these kids didn’t care. They just swooped me into their happy world and fed me ice cream.

When the pastor of that church strode over to our waitress abusing table and, at the behest of the kids, performed his comedic face shaking, spittle loosening imitation of who-knows-what, I was stunned.

And oh-my-gosh, he wore a suit! No black robe, no choking clerical collar, just the kind of clothes everyone’s dad wore to work every day back then.

And they called him Marvin. Not reverend, not His Holiness, not even Mister.

Nowadays the guy would be lashed in blogs and denigrated in seminars bemoaning his CEO status. This was top down leadership at its peak. But all those leadership faux pas didn’t seem to stop God from using him to change the lives of hundreds— maybe thousands of people.

And me.

Over time I began to learn that the thing that drew these people together and welled up in singing and clapping and laughing and note-taking camaraderie wasn’t a thing at all— but a person.

They told me about Jesus, certain I would want to know. Not in the least bit subtle or seeker friendly.

And I did want to know. And I did want Him. Because if He could create their brand of actual life-giving happiness in me— well, who wouldn’t do anything to have that?

So I signed on, joined up, and started taking notes with everyone else.

Was I genuine? Sincere? Probably not.

Mostly I just wanted to fit in with a fantastic group of new friends. I copied them in every way I could. From the way I held my Bible— a cool new paperback version called The Way— to the sweater I now wore over my skin baring halter-top.

But before long, my craving for these church people’s approval gave way to a craving for more of this Jesus they so obviously loved. And with their help I learned and grew to understand things I’d never known before. I began to change, not just on the outside, but somewhere down deep.

I fell in love with Jesus.

I remember sitting at the end of a dock at a camp called Hume Lake. I’d been roused from my bunk by the sound of each of my friends slipping out into the early morning.  I knew where they were going and felt that subtle pressure to go there to.

It was my first attempt to try this thing they all did called, “a quiet time”.

The words of Matthew drew me in as I underlined, I think, most of the book. I skipped breakfast that day (well, the place was infamous for the glue like oatmeal they served) to power through those words that seemed to come to life.

No wonder most my friends got up at ungodly hours every morning to do “devotions”. I felt my soul fill up as I feasted on the words.

The day I was baptized wearing a funky white robe while every one of my friends and new family swayed to the Old Rugged Cross, was the highlight of my life. I filled that baptistery with salted tears of the purest joy I had ever known.

Just remembering the pastor who taught me… the kids who included me… and all the people who loved me… brings back that rush of well being that comes only rarely in real life.

Why do I love the Church? With all our flaws and failures and inadequacies and ridiculous fads?

Because when I needed what they had—

They gave me Jesus.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Now to be perfectly honest, that church no longer exists. The building is there, occupied by a different church under new leadership. Los Gatos Christian Church slowly died and was buried. May she rest in peace.

But maybe churches are not meant to live forever. Maybe some die and new life emerges from the fertile soil of a once great church. And maybe this church my husband started with my son— the one my son now leads— maybe we’re one of those emerging churches, different, but so much the same as that place that brought me home.