For mothers, moms, and mamas:

A SECRET

… I wish I’d known

 “For all who enter God’s rest will find rest from their labors…”

Hebrews 4v10

‘Come to Me all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens,

and I will give you rest…”

Matthew 11v28

“let Me teach you.”

Matthew 11v29

I sit, this morning, in my snug cabin in the woods. It is early, the day just arising—still crisp and cool. I am alone in the quiet, welcoming the day in the presence of the One who bids me come.

I flip the pages of my bible to these words, given me long ago when neither alarm clocks nor discipline were enough to pull me from my bed:

… He awakens me morning by morning,

wakens my ear to listen like one being instructed…

Is 50v4

Here in the silence I quiet my mind and still my soul. I lean in to listen, to wait with the intensity of another seeker from long ago,

I waited intently for the Lord, and He inclined to me, and heard my cry…

David, in Psalm 40v1

And I remember how I got to this place of craving Him so much that neither discipline nor alarm clocks are necessary anymore. How I slipped in the muck of my own ugliness, how I couldn’t find my way out, how I raged and wept bitter tears of despair at the unfairness of life, of my life.

And then I remember how He rescued me, setting my feet on solid rock, washing me clean, inviting me into this place I love. A place of surrender, of satisfaction, of genuine, all-the-way-through-to-my-heart happiness.

This place of Rest. 

I wish I had known about this place when I was a mother of little ones.

I wish I had known how to hide from the chaos and the neediness and the incessant conflict that sucks the life out of a young mama’s world.

But I didn’t. Instead, I tried. All the time, every day, I tried.

I tried to be patient… and failed.

I tried to be happy… and wasn’t.

I tried to be good and kind… and ended up irritated and mad—

and tired, just so tired.

I wanted so badly to be a good mama—the best—but I couldn’t be who I thought I should and wished I would be.

And this, my dear tired out mamas, is what I wish I had known then:

That trying harder is not the solution to your inadequacies and ineptitudes.

That the way to be the woman, the wife, the mother you wish you were is not found in books or podcasts or seminars or blog posts—but in Rest.

His Rest— God’s.

I wish I had understood that discipline is not what gets me there. That I will never deserve it… or Him… or any of His benefits. That being better and trying harder just managed to entangle me hopelessly in great knots of uptightness. And anger, and impatience, and self-pity and… shame.

I wish I had known that the Father is so madly in love with us— with me and with you just-as-you-are-right-now-in-this-flaw-filled moment— that He stands at the door and invites us to enter this place we all crave.

This place of Rest.

The key to this place? Not trying, not striving, not ten steps to a better you, but simply…

Belief.[1] Which is trust, entrusting yourself entirely and without reservation to God.

Entrusting your children to Him.

Entrusting your worries to Him.

Entrusting your failings, your past, your future, your wishes and dreams and happiness— to Him.

And then doing it again. And again. Over and over every day, every hour until your head begins to believe what your soul tells you is the truest truth:

That God is trustworthy… that He is good… that He is able… that He is beautiful and He brings beauty and He makes you—and your children— beautiful.

Just because He loves you that much.

And so my one wish for you this Mother’s Day is this:

That you would cease striving and know… Rest. 

I’ve offered no solutions here, no formulas. Because I have come to see that every single one of us has a different story… a story that urges us inevitably towards this place of rest.

I cannot tell you how (exactly) to get there, but I can and will pray for you if you will leave me a hint of who you are, of what you want and need from Him.

From my heart,

Diane

---

[1] For more, read Hebrews, the end of chapter 3 and all of chapter 4

But you are

a chosen people,

a royal priesthood,

a holy nation,

God’s special possession,

That you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness

into His wonderful light.

I Peter 2v9

I am just now emerging from that fog called jet lag. We arrived home from Albania in the wee hours of last Tuesday filled to the brim with thanksgiving for what God did in our midst.

Phil and I had been invited to come to Albania to teach the Intentional Parents: raising passionate Jesus followers conference to a group of leaders who would determine if our material would effectively cross the barriers of culture, making it applicable to the Church in Albania.

On the last night of the conference, one of the leaders who invited us asked people to come to the front and tell us how our teaching had impacted their lives.

We listened in awe, humbled and energized by their words. What we heard made all the work of preparation and study and speaking through translators and jet lag and fatigue… worth it.

Over and over we saw mothers and fathers who caught the vision of intentionally passing on their faith to the next generation.

Parents who now see their children as the hope for Albania- and as bearers of the Gospel to a side of the world that needs Jesus desperately.

Albania is a nominally Muslim country with open doors and friendly relations with nations that are closed to most westerners. Turkey loves Albanians, Syria welcomes them with open arms. They have the support and sympathy of nearly every Muslim country in the world— countries closed to Americans and most Europeans.

Because of that, we realized together that-

If this generation of Jesus following Albanian parents

make disciples of their own children,

they can quite possibly change our world!

Which is why I am already looking forward to going back next year. Their plan is to have us come back with a team (more about that later) and put on the Intentional Parents conference in the capital, Tirana, and then for a gathering of churches in southern in Albania.

On the long flight home, all I could think about was this idea of God giving us dreams that are too big for us.

How…

He takes our barely there dreams—

the ones we hardly dare voice out loud,

the dreams we know we don’t have what it takes to do—

and He infuses us with more than we are, and does more than we dare dream.

Why aren’t we talking about this every day of our lives?

This great thing, this magnificent work of God… in us and thru us and for us and to us.

I have absolutely loved hearing about your dreams. Not one of them has sounded outlandishly impossible to me… and yet so many of you are just like me… sort of apologetic about the dreams you harbor.

Why is that?

I think it’s because we are afraid: of failure, of mediocrity, of standing out from the crowd, of looking foolish, of our not-enoughness.

We are afraid because we think these God-inspired sparks of compelling desire are our own responsibility… and we know we are not up for the task.

Look at me: A shy introvert who quakes at the very thought of people turning to look at me. A back row kind of girl. Super serious and introverted, born without a funny bone, who rarely grasps the punch line of a joke. Who doesn’t actually like to travel. And on top of all that? Deaf.

That woman— the me that I am in real life— went to Albania, spoke in front of a room full of leaders… who laughed at my unplanned jokes… and learned from my raw stories.

If I can dream, just think what God might do with you?

From a heart still tired but immensely satisfied,

Diane

P.S. Okay, please, I am craving a few more honest, hope-filled possibilities of how you dare dream God may use you and your story. 

Your courage just  might light a fire of desire in those of us who are held back by fears.  

This morning I woke up far away from my cottage in the woods of the Pacific Northwest. Instead of the pungent smells of pine and cedar, I drink in the scent of the sea. And instead of my pot of steaming tea, I sip slowly from a foamy bowl filled with cappuccino served with a spoon. In just a few hours a group of hand-picked parents will make their way from Albania’s capital city, Tirana, to the coastal town of Durres, on the edge of the Adriatic Sea.

These are leaders— in business, in government, in NGO’s, in churches. They are followers of Jesus in a country that is nominally Muslim and predominately atheistic.

And they have kids. Children they love who are being raised in a culture that goes against everything they believe.

Sound familiar?

In just a few hours Phil and I will tell our story. How we met and married with high hopes. And how, when pregnant with our first child, we realized we had no idea how to raise children who want Jesus. And how that scared us.

And I’ll look into the eyes of the mothers and I’ll see that same fear. We’ll know each other in that long look. The camaraderie that comes from a shared passion.

Every parent there wants what we wanted: children who grow into people who are passionate, all-in, wise, fruitful, faithful followers of Jesus.

We will spend hours talking and listening and teaching and delving into the Scriptures and praying and sharing stories and laughing at the ridiculousness of our dreams for our children.

And God will be here, bending down to listen.

I will tell these parents, so like us when we were young, about how we prayed, over and over again, for wisdom. How we held hands and cried out to the Father for what He promised in James 1v5:

If any of you lacks wisdom,

 let him ask of God, who gives to all generously and without reproach,

and it will be given to him. 

And then we’ll share with them the treasures He gave with so much generosity that we’re overwhelmed and overflowing. I’ll watch in wonder as they scramble to write it down, filling the notebooks with letters I cannot read.

And I’ll tell them that He’ll do the same for them, here, on the other side of the world. With Macedonia’s snow capped mountains off in the distance and Greece right behind us, Phil and I will pour ourselves into a new generation of parents in the hope that they will pour into a new generation of Albanians who will, in turn, raise up a new generation of leaders who will bring Jesus to a country that desperately needs Him.

Will you pray for these people? These parents? This generation?

And will you pray for me? For us?

I have relished praying for those of you who dare to dream with God. Keep telling me those stories and I will keep hoping with you and praying for you.

From my heart far from home,

Diane

One day, a while back, I asked a group of friends this question: If someone gave you a million dollars, and told you that you must spend it on yourself within one year or you’d have to give it back… what would you do with it? 

I didn’t leave them much time to think about it lest everyone get too lyrical and logical about the idea. I was after visceral reactions. I wanted to hear dreams.

One by one we went around the circle of fifteen, each woman dream-spending one million dollars on themselves. What the solid majority of my friends (young and old[er}) wanted was….

To travel.

I was stunned. Really? Because, you see, I grew up traveling all over Europe with my family. When we came home from our time of living overseas I was in high school and I promised myself that I would never travel again. Ever.

I am perfectly happy staying in my cute little cottage with occasional forays to the mountains or the seaside.

If I had a million dollars that I just had to spend on me… I’d find a vintage A-frame cabin on a lake and fix it up just so, then host Comer family and friend vacations as often as possible. And sometimes I’d go alone, all that introverted side of me flourishing in the silence.

When I told my daughter, Bekah, (who absolutely loves to travel whenever and wherever possible) about my surprise at my friends’ dreams, she couldn’t stop laughing. “Mom, everyone wants to travel!”

And though she didn’t say it, I could hear her thinking just what you’re thinking now: that I am really, really weird… or odd… or something along those lines.

Do you want to know where I am right now?

On a plane bound for Albania.

I know, I know, I don’t deserve this. Or the two days we’ll explore the rich history in Thessalonica, Greece. And certainly not the weekend we’ll stay in Donnes, an Albanian resort town on the Adriatic Sea.

And I’m asking myself the same question you’re asking: Why me?

In the past couple of years I have traveled to Uganda, Brussels, Haiti, Hawaii, Germany, Austria, Italy, Indonesia and Albania. Plus, on the home front, I’ve spent time in Santa Cruz, L.A., Palm Desert, San Francisco, Vancouver, Eugene, and Newport.

And I don’t (or at least I didn’t) like to travel!

Here’s what I know:

God is a giver of dreams… and God is bigger than our dreams.

Which is why I am drinking coffee at 30,000 feet.

My secret dream was born over thirty years ago when I began to ask God for wisdom I didn’t have. A fairly new follower of Jesus with our first baby in my arms, my asking was pretty desperate.

What do I do? How do I do this? Help! 

I had no idea how to raise children to follow Jesus— I hardly knew how to follow Him myself! And so I prayed and then I introduced myself to the mother of the godliest teenagers I knew and asked if she’d teach me. Laurie Keyes was everything I wanted to be: wise, godly, consistent, joyful, so full of passion for Jesus that just to be in conversation with her was like being at a retreat. And she was (and still is!) strikingly beautiful, with that kind of glow that all the fancy clothes and cosmetics in the world cannot create.

I listened and I learned and wrote notes and read every book I could get my hands on that had anything to do with the spiritual nurturing of children. For decades!

And somewhere in there I started to want to find a way to pass on all this richness to others who, like me, don’t have a clue. 

The wanting led to dreaming. The dreaming led to praying. The praying led to a whole lot of work. The work led to… a dream come true.

This morning as I hustled about tidying up my cottage (because everyone knows that you’ve just got to leave your house absolutely perfectly clean when going on a trip! Which, surprise, surprise, Phil thinks it utter nonsense!!), something dawned on me… something profound… something it’s taking me far too many words to tell you…

God knows the me that I am.

I thought I wanted to stay in my cottage in the woods, to live simple and quiet.

And that is, indeed, a part of who I am. But there’s more, and I didn’t know it. Now I know…

I was made for this.

I love this adventure. I love packing my bags, reading ahead about where we’re going, saving up frequent flyer miles so I can take my now-grown kids with me someday.

I love meeting new people, making new friends, finding soul-sisters all over the world. I relish tasting new foods (Albanian food is the best! All feta cheese and fresh peppers), I love learning how people around the world do life.

Most of all, I love doing this with Phil, whose love of travel and willingness to lead the way makes him the best companion imaginable. (Plus, he gets up every morning no matter where we are and finds the absolutely best coffee to be had and brings it to me so I can drink it in bed. How’s that for the real deal kind of love?)

Today we fly across the world to teach parents in Durres, Albania how to raise children who are passionate followers of Jesus. They are the first generation of Believers in a country that was officially atheist until just over 20 years ago. They don’t know what they’re doing any more than I did. And they want to learn, just like I did.

I can hardly wait to get there! Me, the woman who made that ridiculous promise to myself. Do you think God may have been chuckling?

Do you have a dream? 

Because I think— no, I know— that…

God has tasks for you that combine all of who you are with all of who He is in a dream big enough to change the world. 

There’s probably risk involved and you’ll undoubtedly be way out of your comfort zone at times. You may have to try some things you don’t think you like, and you’ll certainly have to work hard and long.

And oh, the joy! Because…

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, so fun as doing the dreams God has for you.

From my heart, high in the sky,

Diane

P.S. Okay, here’s your open door:

Will you dare to dream right here in black and white? Write it down for all to see, this dream you barely dare. I, for one, will pray for each and every one of you. For courage, for hope, for help— for joy.

The Quiet Series: Too Weak 

“… They were all trying to frighten us, thinking,

“Their hands will get too weak for the work, and it will not be completed.”

But I prayed,

“Now strengthen my hands.”

Nehemiah 6v9

Now… strengthen my hands.

God has given me work to do, of that I have no doubt. That work gets me up early every morning, eager to get to it. It is a vocation that I love, but it’s still work. And sometimes the work wears me out.

Yesterday was one of those worn out days.

And so I slept in, drug myself sluggishly to my cabin in the back where most of my work is done, dinked around, wasted time. I started things, then abandoned them at the slightest hint of resistance, leaving a trail of messes along the path of my day.

It happens to me sometimes. More often than it should.

Yesterday’s malaise had nothing to do with my work… and everything to do with me. Sure, I was tired. I didn’t feel good, hadn’t slept well, needed a bit of rest.

More than anything else, I just lost steam… why is that? 

And so I got up this morning, asking my Father. I came to Him needing to hear, wanting to know so that this day would be different. I asked timidly, like a naughty school-girl expecting a finger in my face.

Instead of reprimand, I heard compassion, grace. I sensed His heart, so much nicer towards me than my own heart is.

I heard Him say… that He knows how that thick wall of opposition sometimes slows us down… to a crawl.

While I was lambasting myself for being lazy… He was seeing the unseen.

He knows what I didn’t even notice— those enemies of my soul, disguised and hidden— who, behind a smokescreen of silence— threaten, defeat, frighten, and discourage me.

And you.

Nehemiah knew them as strength stealers. Paul knew them as conflict conspirators.

Sometimes, as in Nehemiah’s story, the strength-stealers come in the form of a letter… and e-mail… a phone call.

At other times, those joy-zappers come wrapped in guilt. Or comparison. The fiery darts that defeat us before we even begin.

Mamas know those enemies too. The ones that keep you up at night, wrapped in worry.

The voices that scream inadequate! with every mistake you make.

But here’s what woke up my morning: all Nehemiah did, when he realized what was really going on was this—He prayed a simple prayer, with simple words:

Now, strengthen my hands. 

And so as this new day beckons with new lists, new worries, new challenges, I bring these simple words to the Father.

Now, strengthen my hands.

And then I come again and bring these words for you, all the wearied ones, the ones I know and love, whose work sometimes wears them out:

Now, Father, right now, will you strengthen her hands?

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. May I pray for you? If you will let me know in the comments, it would be my honor to bring this simple prayer to the Father who hears.

P.S.S.  Read Nehemiah’s story in Nehemiah 6, and Paul’s story in Acts 9:19-29 because what He did for these men, He offers to you— and me.

(Image by Abi Porter)

 “Does He not see my ways and count my every step?”

Job 31v4

“You are a God who sees me…”

Genesis 16v14

“Every moment You know where I am.”

Psalm 139v3

This morning the woods are awakening. Squirrels have emerged from their winter hiding to scurry and scramble up the trunks of the firs and cedars that surround my cozy cottage. The black spruce right outside my window trembles gleefully, dancing in delight as I watch. Gnarled ash trees unfurl new leaves in incremental waves of life.

Fresh, vibrant, resurrected life.

And I wonder, as I tuck myself into this safe place—my cabin in the back, about you.

As I pray for you, my girls, and as I lean in close to the Father’s heart to listen, I hear stirrings. I wait— still, craning to hear. A watcher in the woods.

What is it, Father? Creator of all this tangled beauty, what are You saying? To me… to the women I love… the ones I write for?

And one phrase won’t leave me alone. A handful of words jingling like change in my pocket.

… your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

Matthew 4v4,6,18

His words warm me through on this chilled morning, because He sees you….

In your giving to those who need you— again and again and again— until you feel turned inside out from the giving…

In your nighttime vigil, pacing the floors, praying for someone in your life who needs more than you have to give…

In the intensity of your fasting, forsaking what you need for that one whose needs overwhelm your soul…

Three times these letters in red dance like squirrels delighting in new-found freedom.

Your Father, who sees in secret… Your Father, who sees in secret… Your Father, who sees in secret… will reward you.

A promise. A pledge.

And I wonder who needs to know this.

Who are the hidden ones— giving, praying, doing without— who need to know, right now, that You see?

I don’t know who you are or what you’re giving.

I can’t see what you’re doing or what you’re doing without.

Yet as I sit in my cabin surrounded by swaying branches and dancing squirrels, I bring my heart for you to the Father who sees and knows— who rewards the secret things.

And I feel Him bring me in close to say…

He is proud of you. 

He knows it’s hard to keep going.

He understands loneliness.

I pause and I pray. I make my way into the house to warm up my now cold coffee, all the while wishing I could hold you close. Feeling the weight of this burden that is yours alone. The burden no one else sees and even if they could, they wouldn’t understand— not really.

I hear more…

He is with you. He is for you.

He wants to feed you and strengthen you.

He, only He, is your rest.

The woods are still now. Just the barest whisper of wind sways the branches above my watching place. They’re working now, those squirrels. Doing what they need to do: gathering food, burrowing holes, feeding young.

My day beckons with work that won’t get done without me, as does yours. And so I leave you with the One who sees and knows and is with you always.

May you know that sweet there-ness of God in your secret place of giving,

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. I am here to pray for you— and would love to hear how He is meeting you in that place no one sees.

(Image by Bethany Small)

Now all glory to God, who is able, through His mighty power at work within us,

to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think.

Glory to Him in the church and in Christ Jesus through all generations forever and ever! Amen.

Ephesians 3v20,21

NLT

Yesterday was an exhilarating day for me. Eleven years ago, on Easter morning, Phil and I saw the dream of starting a church come true.

With more fear than faith, we’d poured ourselves into the task, gaining confidence that God was really in it as He brought others—more gifted than ourselves— to join us. A retired finance guy to handle the administration, a gifted engineer to organize the set up and tear down, wise elders to lead, efficient women to manage and multi-task. So many willing to show up and do what needed doing.

But still we worried. Would it work? Would anyone come? What if they didn’t? What if we’d heard wrong?

So we worked harder than we’d ever worked before and prayed more than we’d ever prayed before. We knew we weren’t enough, but we were learning that God is.

And as the days and weeks passed, we learned deep the lessons of dependency, that…

When we don’t have what it takes to do the task God assigns us, He brings all that He is into the story and does more than we could ever do without Him.

Do you know that too?

This morning as you bathe and dress and feed that baby, wondering how in the world you will help him grow into a man after God’s heart?

When you wave your teenager out the door, wondering how in the world you will help her stay strong and pure and in love with Jesus?

When you sit at your desk and wonder how in the world you will get it all done?

The fact is, without Him you and I— we can do nothing of real value.

But with Him, in Him, following near and listening close, He can do so much more than we are capable of even dreaming!

Which is why yesterday was so exhilarating for me. To drive in and have to slowly follow people to their cars like a parking place stalker, then walk the long way into the jam-packed building, squeezing past lines of people waiting for the Gathering to dismiss so they could make the mad dash to get seats for the next one… then to raise hands in worship, bumping shoulders, hugging friends, hearing more stories of lives rescued, watching baptisms— so many!

This morning I wonder at our little faith. I apologize to this One I am learning to listen to. Again. And I feel Him smile, a little mirth added to our morning together.

He knows the task He’s put in your path is too big for you.

And He’s not worried at all.

But He knows that you are, and I think He wants you to know that…

He’s with you, fully present.

And that…

With Him… in Him… if you will listen and do what He says... learning to trust Him a little more…

He will accomplish what concerns you.

And I think you will be amazed. Astounded, just like I am, at what He is able to do with a man or a woman who is honestly all surrendered. Not perfect. Not super-gifted.

Just all His.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Do you face a daunting task today? I would love to pray for you. If you’ll leave a few lines in the comments I’ll join with you in bringing your worries to the One who answers so willingly and so well.

I woke up this morning haunted by my own inadequacy. All the things I should have done, ought to do, want to accomplish— and haven’t.

Curled up in the corner of my oversized chair I stared into the still-dark woods sipping tea and swallowing poison words.

Words like…

I am not enough

not good enough,

not capable enough,

not motivated enough,

not organized enough. 

True words… and yet not the whole story.  

These are the echoes of the Accuser’s truth-that-is-not-the-whole-truth. The one who writes a convincing biography of me and all my less-than’s.

The one who wants me to believe the lies that resonate somewhere deep in the hidden, hurting depths because if I do believe he wins.

And you hear it too.

I know you do. You’re a subscriber, just like me, to that hellish library where all your mistakes are categorized and catalogued, footnoted and never forgotten.

This morning just as the sun’s emergence began to dissipate the dark, my Savior began to dissipate the lies-that-sound-so-true.

You are who I created you to be. Not like her… nor him.  I did not craft you into the kind of person who is lauded and applauded in today’s version of heroics.

I made you different because I like different. I like you. 

And these words I think you, too, need to hear:

I need you… as you are

because… without you

My Kingdom would be a little less… beautiful.

On the last days of His life, Jesus looked into the faces of His people and He saw their beauty. He saw your beauty. And mine.

And He shuddered at the enemy’s plan to forever uglify us, His created ones. The overarching plan of the one who wants me— and you— to believe that our not-enoughness disqualifies us from usefulness.

And this morning as I wrestled— without even knowing I was— with that enemy whose version of my story shrivels my soul… the Father whispered words of worth to me.

Why?  because…

He sees your beauty.

And mine.

Shocking, isn’t it? And yet it’s true— the truest truth.  The truth that led Him all the way to the Cross.

For this reason, I bow my knees before the Father,

from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name,

that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner man:

so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; and that you, being rooted and grounded in love,

may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth,

and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God.

Ephesians 3v14-19

NASB

Praying that you… and I… would experience the love of Christ in real life this week.

From my heart,

Diane

(image by Bethany Small)

Dear girls, I’m back at my desk after a month of mourning. Not that I’m done with sadness, but I’m sensing the invitation from the Spirit to get back to my calling to write. And so I sit, this morning, at the desk my dad made in this cabin tucked under the scented boughs of an enormous redwood tree. This spot is my refuge, a safe place where I hear God clearer than any place else.

The glimmering candle on my desk reminds me of the beauty of the friend who gave it as a gift of love. My new daughter-in-law’s mother, Natalia, is one of those rare treasures who sparkles with joy in the midst of a story she didn’t want. I am reminded of her as I do the final edits on my own story. Of how the Redeemer we follow weaves texture and color and loveliness into our lives in spite of— or perhaps because of— difficulties.

He is the Beauty-Maker and as He draws us close, we become like Him.

Beautiful.

This morning I thought I’d bring you into my cabin to peer over my shoulder as I smooth and polish and pray and ponder over the words that will soon be put to print.

This is a glimpse of the me-I-was just before I was diagnosed with a progressive hearing loss that would eventually lead to total deafness. I was 26, enveloped in the world of babies and toddlers, homeschooling a first grader who gulped up knowledge like a starving lion.

I loved my life. But something left me empty and longing for more…

I wasn’t happy, not really. And I knew it.

And so I began to do the only thing I knew to do, the only thing a good Christian girl could do—I prayed. Every day, I asked God to do something, anything to change my heart. I prayed when I woke up, while jogging, while shopping, while cooking yet another family meal on yet another day of doing right.

I didn’t pray once. Or even twice. I prayed every chance I got, as if by begging God, I’d get Him to hear me and He’d have to give me what I craved.

I needed more. I wanted more. I had to have more!

God knew I would need all of Him to face the days ahead. He also knew that in order for Him to answer my cries for more, I would first need to let go of the pervasively self-serving idea of my own goodness.

The journey that lay ahead of me was going to be more arduous than all my rule abiding good-girl-ness would be able to handle.

I would face dark days, days of discovering that I was not as good as I’d thought, that my façade wouldn’t hold up under the pressures of life gone wrong, that a desperately “bad” girl lurked in my soul. 

That I was a woman who didn’t know her true colors until she didn’t get her way.

I was about to embark on a journey of facing the worst about myself and finding God in the rubble. In that place of desperation, I would discover that what God wanted more than all of my exhausting efforts to be good was me, just as I am. 

The real me.

And though I would flounder and fail, though I would shake my fist in His face, He couldn’t wait to gather me in close to show me what I’d been wanting all along.

As I edit these words I am praying for all of you who know the hunger that haunted me then. That emptiness, the sense that having everything I ever wanted was not enough.

I am praying that you will hear and know and experience the love of God down deep in the marrow of your bones.

That you will crave Him, longing for the beauty He alone brings. And that you won’t stop seeking until you’ve found all He has for you.

From my heart,

Diane

(image by Abi Porter)

With my dad so recently residing in the presence of God, I’ve been thinking a lot about heaven. Trying to figure out what it means, this “going away” or “falling asleep” or “departing”. All of a sudden I want to know:

What is he doing?

Can he see me?

Who else is there?

What would he say to me if he could?

And then this morning my time set apart for listening in God’s Word took me from Colossians 1v1-6 to I Thessalonians 5v8.

Paul is commending his Colossian friends for their faith in God and for their obvious love for “all God’s people everywhere”. Which, he says, “spring from the hope stored up for you in heaven”…

The words strike me.

Faith springs from hope?  Hope in heaven?

Truth is, my faith seems so shaky as I worry my way through everyday life.

Do we have enough savings? Can I write the Intentional Parents book adequately or will I fail? Do I have time for everything I think I need to do? Is Mom going to be okay? How can I help her? How in the world am I going to find a home for their dog, Barney?!

And my love for “all God’s people everywhere” is more like a love for a few of God’s people right here as long as they’re nice to me.

How, I ask Him, did these people become people of great faith and generous love?

And how can I?

And how does hope in heaven have anything to do with my todays?

I stumble on the answer found tucked at the end of a sentence in I Thessalonians 5v8:

“… let us put on… the hope of salvation as a helmet.”

It dawns on me suddenly, this helmet metaphor: A helmet protects my head.

By purposely putting on hope- not just any hope, but hope in salvation, in forever, in what all of life is leading up to—I actually protect my mind from wrong thinking that leads to worry.

Wrong thinking which creates fertile ground for  fretting and frustration when all of life isn’t neat and tidy, just the way I like it.

Wrong thinking that convinces me God owes me more… more money, more time, more ease.

Wrong thinking that makes me self-protective and prickly with people who poke at me, or who express their disapproval of the way I do life.

I need this helmet! 

Because without one I wind up with a sort of spiritual concussion, with ringing in my ears that drowns out the sound of God in my soul.

And so this morning I purposely put on my helmet of hope.

I imagine the way life will be when a new earth replaces this one and God invites me to take part in life as He meant it to be.

I think beyond the deadline that weighs heavily on my day, to the coming day when my life begins again.

I choose to remember what I’m really about: Jesus and His kingdom, His work, His will, His way.

And suddenly everything changes. Hope fuses me with energy to complete the tasks assigned to this day, to do what needs doing while I look for signs of His coming— for signs of Him.

Those blossoms on the tulip tree out back remind me that He is unfolding this day and that beauty comes not from striving but from resting in His working.

Hope rises to turn my tasks into joyous work, to infuse my day with purpose. It won’t always be this hard, Someday is coming.

And in the meantime I’d better scurry because He’s called me to things that will last forever. And I’d better look closely at my lists lest I waste time on things that don’t matter in light of that Someday.

He beckons me towards giving and serving and worshipping and listening close to His words to me. He invites me to protect my mind by keeping Someday in sight.

And my dad is there. He’s stepped into the Someday that lasts forever.

See you there, Dad! Someday.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. I’ll resume my letters to Matt and Simona about OUR HOUSE soon. For now I’m just letting you in on my mourning. Thank you for your beautiful messages of condolence to me. Your kindness soothes my soul.

For a week now, I have been swimming in the fitful waters of mourning. Sadness surrounds me. Loss weighs so heavily sometimes I find it hard to breathe.

I have been pulled up short—surprised by this unpredictable ebb and flow of tears.

I sit at the desk my dad made for me with his own hands. For a man of few words, the eloquence of his handcrafted message was just the affirmation I needed to gather up courage to write. He approved, and I bask in both the affirmation and approval even as I grieve the fact that he will never run his hands over the cover of my book as I run my hands over the surface of this desk.

Somehow I had convinced myself that I wouldn’t really grieve Dad’s death. After all, he’d been diagnosed with this terrible terminal disease of the lungs four years ago. I’d watched the devastation, prayed for his release, begged God to take him home.

“I’m grieving with Dad,” I’d said, “so that when he’s gone I’ll just be happy for him.”

Mmh.

I’ve heard of people who have a definite sense of their loved one’s presence even after death, but I only feel his gone-ness. He isn’t here, hasn’t been since I held him in my arms frantically searching for signs of life.

I know where he is. I know without even a hint of doubt. But as assuring as that is, I am still reeling with the realization of the separation.

And so I mourn honestly— not the man who was so terribly weak and struggling for air— but the J.H. Waterman who gave me life, whose love never wavered, the man whose steadfast faithfulness informed my view of God.

It is His presence I sense so near in these hours of sadness. As if the Father is nearer or clearer, as if He pulls me closer in my longing for Dad. As if I hear my Father better because my dad is with Him.

There is a strange sweetness in this place of mourning, a deep rest. A togetherness with God.

Because I think He is sad too, that He weeps with me. It wasn’t supposed to be this way and that’s why we mourn.

That’s why tears redden my eyes and sighs escape unbidden. Why grieving and loss of any kind cannot be stuffed into a nice clean package and tied with a tidy bow. Why life screeches to a halt and only resumes at half speed.

Why we dread death.

Life was supposed to be a grand celebration in His presence, a great cooperation with God. Life was planned as an endlessly eternal connection with the One who made us in His image, for His delight.

And Someday it will be again. Because of Jesus. Because He chose to die to make it all right.

While we wait for that Someday, sadness is part of our stories. We cannot will it or wish it away. We dare not pretend or push it from sight.

But we can invite Him in to mourn with us; we can sit in the quiet of loss and hear Him speak. And we can listen to His words in the silence and let Him pour oil on the raw hurt.

I’m listening now, finding joy in the midst of sadness. Relishing His presence here.

From my heart,

Diane

Have you heard Him in the silence of sadness? Have you seen Him at work even when life stops suddenly? Can you tell us how? Remind us what to listen for as we navigate our own stories?

(image by Bethany Small)

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.

There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain,

for the old order of things has passed away.

Revelation 21v4

My dad died yesterday.

And today I am sad. Not despairing, not grief-stricken, not angry that life isn’t what I wish it was. Just sad.

And I feel a little spoiled in my sadness because I am fully aware that what I lost is so much more than most of you have ever had. 

And mind you, I have not lost my father. Because in the early 70’s at a church in California, my dad changed the course of our lives by becoming a follower of Jesus. And now he’s followed Him right up close into His presence, the place I’ll go someday too.

No, I haven’t lost Dad, but I have lost his presence with me.

He’s not here this morning having coffee with cream and two scoops of sugar, talking about what I want to talk about: because that’s what good dad’s do.

And I wish, oh how I wish, that each of you had a dad like mine.

I grieve for you with the Father because He wishes that too. And if you’ll indulge me just a bit, can I tell you about good dads?

Here’s a list:

1.  Good dads fix things. My dad fixed my broken hair dryer, my flat tire, my inadequate study habits, my teenage drama with my mom. He made life right for me when I couldn’t turn myself right side up. And even though I told him over and over, I don’t think he ever thought any of that was a big deal. Just dad stuff.

2.  Good dads get it. My dad certainly did. He got that I was different, would always be different, and that difference was okay by him. A contemplative feeler, ponderer, thinker, reader in a family of highly competitive task oriented doers. He normalized me to my “lets-get-to-it!” mom and paved the way for us to become friends. Because of him we grieve together without tension.

3.  Good dads are present.My father was a brainiac nuclear engineer. Yet he bought cowboy boots when he helped me achieve my dream of having a horse. He learned the lingo: palominos, bits and tie downs, dressage and hoof rot. And I don’t think he actually ever did like that whole equine world, but the truth is, wild horses couldn’t have pulled him from being part of it with me.

4.  Good dads stay faithful. My dad did. In good times and bad, he chose to love my mom and to eschew the “grass is greener” temptation to find happiness elsewhere. As long as I can remember, Dad did his level best to love mom well. Dad would have been appalled at any suggestion otherwise.

5.  Good dads take care of their own. When he married my mom he was a 19 year old with one goal: to never be poor again. With that in mind he put himself through college, poured himself into his career, lived beneath his income always so that he could give us what we needed. At the same time, his aversion to the risk of credit and the flash of status spending kept all of us grounded in fiscal reality. He bought his jeans at Walmart and his cars used even when he could have afforded much more. He was fiddling with his finances the day before he died, just to be sure mom would be well cared for.

6.  Good dads provide safety. My sister’s words to me this morning: “We had a great dad. He made me feel safe…” He did. And I’m not even sure how he did it, though I’m going to think long and hard about that. But mostly I think he was just good and a good man becomes a safe place for his family.

There’s more of course, but this day demands my attention and so I’ll end here for now. Somehow just writing these words helps me to understand why I’m sad today and why that’s okay.

I miss my dad already. I’ll miss him for the rest of my life. And then… my real Father will wipe away every tear and I’ll join my dad in spending the rest of forever in awe of Him.

Waiting with honest eagerness for that Day…

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Thank you to the many of you who have already emailed and texted your heart-felt condolences. I’m relishing every word, drinking in your kindness.

Dear girls,

As you read this I am on my way to California.

I’ll leave my cozy cottage nestled in the woods and spend a few days at my sister’s house in the sunshine.

And since she’s about the best decorator/home creator I know, I will no doubt spend every spare minute oohing and ahhing over beauty. I’ll take pictures and make notes and go home full of ideas for creating loveliness. We’ll stay up too late and she’ll get up too early to go to her job that is really a calling. (remind me to tell you that story some day— for all of you who work hard to help people. But for now, follow her on Pinterest for design inspiration! @darcyscott)

But that’s now why I’m going.

My dad— the one I’ve written stories about is sick. Very sick.

While his brilliant engineer mind is still working at full throttle, his once strong, always-up-for-a-challenge body is failing. And so he is saying good-bye to his beloved Sierra mountains and moving to the Northwest.

A bittersweet journey.

I’ll tuck my parents into their sweet red Lexus (another story about love I’ll need to be sure to tell you soon), load in their luggage and their dog and Dad’s great big oxygen concentrator, and we’ll head north. I’ve got John Mark’s podcasts on heaven loaded and ready for listening. 

And I’ve got myself ready too- for remembering and reminding and reminiscing.

I’ll remember all those stories still vivid in my mind…

Of Dad at the wheel of our Opel sedan, setting off to discover strange and intriguing ands while we lived in Germany. How a poor farm boy choose to succeed by hard work and loyalty. How my mom made every adventure seem magical, green Bedecker guide books always open as she rooted our imaginations in history.

We’ll reminisce about those days of discovering Jesus for the first time. When a traffic jam made us want to go to that church causing the long wait. Why, we wondered, were so many people headed to that warehouse? And how, over the next months, one by one, the five of us each walked down the aisle with “Just As I Am” playing softly in the background. We’ll talk about how Jesus changed everything. How the best stories started then.

I’ll remind them what they know, but need to know again, that Dad is not really dying, though his body will soon. That eternal life is just that- eternal, forever, uninterrupted, ceaseless. That he will step into the presence of the One who changed our lives by His own death. That One we love because He loved us first— that One whose love made it possible for us to love each other even in all the ups and downs of our own brokenness.

And I want to talk and imagine and dream about what life will be like when Jesus comes back to redeem all of creation once again.

Because hope for what’s really ahead brings hope for the hard steps before we get there.

And those hard steps are getting closer now. We won’t have Dad much longer. While we do I want to drink him in, to make more stories, to bring my grandboys and grandgirls to sit by his side as I did as a little girl. I want them to feel the safety of who he is. I want them to know that they belong to him, that his faithful love courses through their veins, giving them a bent towards courage and greatness.

I want my children to remember the kind of man who is their heritage so that when life gets hard they know to put one foot in front of the other just like Papa and then to just keep giving and loving and taking care of their own.

Like Dad.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. I am hoping that some of you who live near me can meet my dad before he goes there. I long to share him with some of the young men I know who’ve never seen his kind of faithfulness up close and I want young women to know the kind of man who loves for a lifetime. I want you to see why I wish everyone had a dad like mine.

(photo by Bethany Small)

Since ancient times

no one has heard,

no ear has perceived,

no eye has seen

any God besides You

who acts on behalf of those who

 wait for Him.

Isaiah 64v4

My listening in the Word this morning took me on a wild ride that started in Matthew chapter 3 at the fascinating moment of Jesus’ baptism. My heart caught at these words:

At that moment, heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” (v16,17) 

It’s that “well pleased” comment that has always drawn me. The idea that now, because I am adopted by His Son, I am included in that phrase. Not because I’m good or I try hard or I somehow stand out—but just because Jesus brought me into Himself.

Will I ever grasp that?

But this morning I heard that softest whisper from the Spirit on this phrase:

At that moment, heaven was opened…

I’ve seen heaven opened.

And the story is longer than I can include here, but it’s true. When the elders of our little church in Santa Cruz circled ‘round me to anoint me with oil and pray that God would heal my broken ears… right when I hit bottom and the blackness in my heart threatened to sink me,

I saw… or felt… or experienced… heaven opened.

Light streaming through, engulfing me, surrounding me, warming me in those frigid recesses of my soul. My rebellious, angry, blasphemous soul.

And ever since then I have been different.

Like Moses when he stumbled down the mountain after meeting with God… Like Peter and John and James when they heard and felt and experienced God on the mountain. Like Paul when he was “caught up” and saw things he could barely describe.

Imperfect, mixed up, broken people who caught a glimpse of… Glory.

This morning as I curled up with tea and a soft blanket out in this cabin in the woods where I meet Him early, I realized something wonderful, something I’d not noticed in all the telling of my story. Just this:

Every time we turn to Him, every time you or I open His Word and ask Him to speak. Every time we ask Him to show us His glory…

He does.

Not normally in a nice zap that would make for good T.V…

Nor usually in grandiose Las Vegas style glitz…

Simply because His glory isn’t mostly like what we think…

His glory is Himself.

When we come messy, needy, desperate.

When we know our own limitations and despair at our ineptitude.

When we get to the place of such poverty that we cannot go on.

And when we wait, hands open, heart yielded, wanting only Him,

That’s when He shows us His glory, Himself.

I want to be that one He finds waiting.

I think you do too.

I want to wait every day, not passively wishing for a zap, but actively waiting on tippy toes for His glory.

Listening, looking, hoping… for Him.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Can you tell us how you hear Him? How you see His glory? Because He speaks in the ways we can hear and shows Himself in ways we can see, sharing His glory with each other opens our ears and eyes to Him in new ways.

(image by Abi Porter)

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)

Dear ones, I woke up this morning wanting to go back to sleep.

Ever have those days?

It’s a rare feeling for me, an inveterate morning person. As I lay there wondering what in the world was wrong with me, I sensed that whispered truth from the One who knows me better than I know myself.

You’re afraid.

I knew His words to be true, though it hadn’t dawned on me all through the restless night. And hearing Him, I felt that instant relief I’ve come to recognize as my soul’s visceral response to His words to me.

The fear had to do with my plans for the morning. After months of writing and years of living my story, I’ve finally got it all on paper. For the past several weeks an editor has been waving her magic wand over my words, asking me questions, filling in gaps, challenging my assertions, making sure I am writing true and getting the story right.

Waiting for me on my desk is the final edit.

And I am scared. Nervous. Worried.

Feeling once again those all too familiar feelings of not-enoughness.

The inadequacy that has haunted every step of writing my story kept me bound to my bed this morning instead of bouncing out to my writing cabin with joy. 

I pulled myself out from under the covers, made a pot of tea, and sat by the fire Phil had made, eyeing my cabin out the window with dread.

Since my Bible was waiting by the backdoor instead of in its usual place by my chair in my cabin under the trees, I settled in to the safety of this place where I never write.

I sat in Phil’s chair. Sipped tea, and waited.

Silence.

No words, more dread.

I’ll just spend this day wrapping. I need to wrap, after all. I’ll get to my book later.

Relief… sort of.

Opening my Bible on my way to where I left off the day before, my eyes caught these title words: Jesus Forgives and Heals a Paralyzed Man.

My heart froze.

That’s me! I am that paralyzed man. Paralyzed by fear, haunted by feelings of inadequacy, knowing deep down that I’m not good enough, smart enough, responsible enough. Convinced that I have failed again to meet my own standards of perfection. I am hog-tied by that knowing that I am not as good as I wish I was— at anything.

I read the story. No, that’s not right...

I inhaled the story.

It’s that story I have been drawn to over and over again. I’ve taught on it, written about it, researched words and deciphered my way through dusty tombs written by men with strings of letters after their names.

But this time I did what I’ve been doing a lot lately; I followed the rabbit trails of references the translators leave behind.

I wanted to know more of what Jesus meant when he said to the man: “Take heart, son, your sins are forgiven.” (Mt. 9v2 NIV)

The trail led me first to these words: “…in this world you will have trouble but take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16v33 NIV)

Take heart. I have overcome your trouble.

Ah… peace chasing fear away.

His peace. Given as a gift through His words…

His words to me, the fear prone daughter of Royalty. The one who forgets that she’s not alone- never alone.

This child of His, whose soul struggles to get it right. To believe. To fully entrust every bit of me to Him.

But it gets better, this listening.

The reference trail led me, strangely enough, to Romans:

“… in all these things you are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.” (Romans 8v37 NIV)

Oh yes! I forgot! Again…

IT’S NOT ABOUT ME!

That’s why I’m afraid, because I’m stuck back in that thinking, that wrong thinking, that my story is about me.

Sure, it’s my story… but the truth is, my story is all about Him— what He did, how He speaks, how He is teaching me to hear.

And, my dear anxious ones…

Your story isn’t about you either.

Your story is all about Jesus engulfing you in His great love and hiding you there.

Your story, and mine too, is about how in all things…

“God works for the good of those who love Him,

who have been called according to His purpose.

For those God foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son…

and those He predestined He also called;

those He called,

He also justified;

those He justified,

He also glorified.”

(Romans 8v28,29 NIV)

He also glorified. 

Once again that heart-halting sense of His speaking to me, through me, for me. 

What? Lord, isn’t it me who is supposed to be glorifying You?

Yes. That’s right.

What am I missing? Why is my heart beating wildly at this thought? Could it be true that You want to glorify me? That’s crazy!

And I’m laughing now because I know it’s true! I feel His smile, that chuckle of the One who so persistently leads us into truth.

And here it is, all unwrapped:

When I tuck myself into Him. Purposely listening, yielding, obeying, wanting His truth to be the truest truth— He actually glorifies me.

Gosh.

In Him I am better than I am.

In Him I am freed to be who He designed me to be.

In Him I am adequate.

Paul’s words in I Corinthians break through to add octane to my wonder:

“Not that we are adequate in ourselves to consider anything as coming from ourselves, but our adequacy is from God.”

(I Corinthians 3v4,5 NASB)

Which means that, Lord…

My adequacy is from You.

Smile. Joy. Wonder. A gift so lavish I cannot get over it.

And then I scurried to write it all down for you, my dear ones. To remind you again, all of you who are haunted by fears, hunted by an enemy whose fiery arrows (“flaming missiles” in the NASB) sting and wound and threaten to relegate you to the injured list, that…

Hid in Him you are enough!

That, in fact, He wants to use you to tell His story to a whole world that doesn’t yet know that it is Him— Jesus— they are craving as they spend their moments and their money accumulating.

This is what I mean when I talk about listening to God.

When I say that He speaks in the silence. He does! He really does!

From one who is learning to hear and wanting you to know,

Diane

P.S. Read it for yourself in Matthew 9v1-8, then again in Mark 2v3-12 and then get the details in Luke 5v18-26.

Christmas at our house is not simple. Or quiet.

A Comer Christmas is loud… everyone talking at once because there’s so much to say and so many questions to ask and so much we didn’t know.

A Comer Christmas is chaotic… Moses making the rounds of laps, Duke wrestling with the cousins, Scarlet telling everyone they’re “gorgeous”, Sunday grinning big, Jude commanding the troupes.

A Comer Christmas is presents, piles and piles of presents.

And I know that’s not in vogue right now. I read about the stoics who don’t do gifts, the unselfish who write checks to charities instead, the ones who give it all away in order to give the season more fully to Jesus.

And I love that, it’s beautiful, inspiring, grand— but that’s not our story.

Instead we have lists flying over cyber world, big brown trucks making deliveries, secret texts with ideas and links and let-me-check-with-so-and-so’s.

And I know right now that my daughters are talking about what to get who and where to get it. My sons are planning their morning-of-Christmas-eve coffee klatch. Phil is managing lists and package arrivals and airport runs and who goes to whose house when.

On this Christmas like every other there will be tears, and meltdowns, raised eyebrows, moodiness, teasing… moments.

Our day will be imperfect and messy.

But in the midst of it all there will be a family full of people who are fully present, passionate about each other, building a heritage for each.

And me? I’ll be savoring every moment. Wishing the whole world could have what I have— a family in love with the Savior… and each other.

I’ll sit in my corner of the sofa,

…wishing every mother could know that all she’s doing now will give her this someday. Not ideal or idyllic, but beautiful and good.

… wishing I could tell her that she won’t be sorry she gave up on order and stillness and perfection and gave in to messy, sticky, crazy love.

… wishing she could see that she won’t be sorry she worked so hard or stayed so present or forgave again or decided to decide.

All day, in the midst of my own family’s way of doing Christmas, I’ll be wishing that every mother could know that all those years of busy will come down to one day of enough.

From a heart bursting,

Diane

(image by Maria Lamb)

“There is a time for everything…”

Ecclesiastes 3:1

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago…I was a mother of little ones.

John Mark—my wild one, incapable of sitting still, coming out of his skin with ideas and interests. He was born to challenge boundaries, encouraged to question, destined to a story of vision and conquest.

Next came Rebekah, overflowing with joy, loving people, born with an insatiable need to fix, to help. She inhaled books, studied anything and everything that interested her inquisitive mind, and met injustice with the ferocity of a warrior-woman.

A boy and a girl, both so high on the intensity scale, they filled this mama’s days with wonder… and weariness.

Then came Elizabeth. Soft and gentle. Slow and easy. Compliant. She turned all that familiar intensity inward, filling up with wisdom, dishing out prophet-like insight. An easy infant, an easy toddler, even an easy teenager— easy on everyone but herself.

We waited a while for Matthew, our delight-filled, drama-prone, willful one— who came out of the womb looking for a party and filled our home with his friends.

All I’d ever wanted was to be a mother, to surround myself with little people, to create a legacy. But somehow I thought I could do all that and still keep my house always tidy, my chore list crossed off, myself looking like a model, my marriage conflict free…

And I couldn’t.

Not even close.

And there’s a whole story I can’t tell right here, the one I’m working to tuck into a book for next fall— about my flailing struggle and miserable failure to measure up to my own impossible dreams of how life ought to be.

On this wind-swept No-Rush-November day, all I can say is this:

For every worn out mother who wonders what happened to her dreams, hold tight, hang on. There is time for everything. Between your time to be born and your time to die, you will have more than enough time to achieve, to make your mark, to create beauty, to excel.

But what you are doing now, in the midst of the messes and the piles and the impossibly long lists of things that must be done— this is your finest hour.

When you hold that infant to your breast… you are nourishing a human who will grow up knowing deep down that she matters, that he is loved, and not just by you, but by God Himself. When you hold those babies close, their hearts sinc to yours… and to His.

Because God says:

Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for a child she has borne? But even if that were possible, I would not forget you! Is 49v15 nlt

When you hold that little one’s hand because he is afraid, because he needs you, because holding onto your hand keeps him safe… you are giving him the deep down security that can only come to one who puts his whole trust in God.

Because God says:

See, I have written your name on My hand. Is. 49v16 nlt

When you do the hard work of discipline— again— and you think that’s all you are, just one big-mean-mama, you are planting within that child the ability to choose. To choose how to act, who to follow, what to do when life gets hard. You are giving him the gift of soul strength, of self-control. Of life.

Because God says:

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. Hebrews 10v11 niv

For just a few short years of your life, you are assigned to fill in for God. You guide with His hands, you speak His words, you guide every child-paced step towards the path that leads to life. You open the door to introduce your child to a Father who welcomes them in.

This, dear mothers who need to know, is…

The time to love:

To embrace sweaty boys while they still hug long and close.

To plant seeds of future dreams by imagining with them what could be.

To laugh over silly jokes with no punch line.

To dance to tunes about building snowmans and being free.

To read stories and give piggyback rides and fix lunch and rummage in the messy closet for socks that match.

This, my dear mothers, is the time to find beauty in the faces right in front of you.

Right now, during these fleeting days of No Rush November, will you redefine your definition of perfection?

Will you choose to live at peace with the imperfection of your body, your abilities, your to-do list?

Will you decide to see that achieving is not the same as doing?

That, indeed you are— in these sometimes disorderly, discouraging, disheartening years— achieving more than you could possibly hope to achieve in all the rest of the days of your life?

May He give you eyes to see.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. if your answer is YES! will you write it in the comments?

(Image by Abi Porter)

We spent our honeymoon holed up in a cozy inn on the edge of the sea. Every day we walked the winding road that led higher into the hills, rambling past the stone house we dreamed of owning someday, along the stream framed by lush ferns, to a bend in the road where we could overlook the whole world. And there we stood, breathing in the greatness.

Then we’d ramble back, filled full from that sight of something bigger than ourselves. As we walked, we talked and listened and discovered and dreamed— about the future, about what might be, about what we might do and where we might go.

In that suspended part of our lives we didn’t stress or strive or write lists or assign tasks. We just walked… and hoped.

And as we tarried in that two week time between the rush of the wedding and the press of what our lives would soon be, we puzzled over a sign tucked into the flowers on the fence:

Restabitfortisarareplacetorestat

The owners of the inn wouldn’t tell us what it meant, just laughed when we asked and told us we’d figure it out. They seemed so sure.

And so we’d cock our heads and sound it out and shrug our shoulders in that way of two lovers on their way to more loving. Probably Latin… or Gaelic… or just a pretty piece of nonsense put together to add a bit of quaint.

Until the day we saw, with opened eyes, that by adding spaces and maybe a comma or two, the mystery was made clear:

Rest a bit, for tis a rare place to rest at.

That refuge overlooking crashing waves and sparkling ocean was indeed a rare place to rest at. A place to love and discover and receive… and now a place to remember— how to rest.

Because real rest is rare.

And being a woman at rest is rarer still.

And I’m asking myself… and asking my Father, how to be this woman at rest. And here is what I’m hearing…

That rest— soul deep rest— is found only in God.

Not in a pretty place, not in an expensive vacation, not even in having all my hopes and dreams realized… but just in Him. Because He is the only safe place. He is the always-faithful One. Only in Him am I really, truly happy and at rest.

But how do I find that place? How do I reach that spot where I can see the whole world at my feet and open my arms to full, unhindered joy?

Here, my dear girls, is the beginning of a list. And I’m hoping you’ll add to it so that we can learn and grow to be women marked by restfulness. But for now—

Four Ways Into Rest

1.  Rest yourself in God

The most rest-filled moment in any day is that set aside time when it’s just me and God. My Bible is open, I’ve a notebook just in case, maybe a book filled with wisdom and insight… and I’m alone with Him.

This is where worry turns to waiting. This is where all that troubles me is laid at His feet. This is where I am at rest.

2.  Set aside a place to rest

While I was writing these words, my sistas were texting messages to each other early in the morning. I think it was Jules who sent the first picture. It was her spot in the window where she waits to hear God, with her Bible wide open and her heart surrendered. Then each of us started texting pictures of the place we find that rest from all that harries us.

Because place is important. Whether it’s a favorite chair or a corner by the window, fill your place with beauty. Make it a place where your soul responds to God.

 3.  Find people who bring you back to rest

In an old book, written to a woman whose life was filled with the unrest that comes from living among people who were conflict driven and unkind, I read these words:

“Do not hesitate to solace yourself with the society of some congenial, pious friends.”

My “congenial, pious” friends bring me back again and again to that place of soul rest. They remind me of what I know and need to hear over and over. And they do it in a way that is congenial. Those are friendships worth cultivating.

 4.  Ramble in a restful place

Getting outside into the place God fills with His created beauty is the surest way to rest that I know. Breathing deeply, opening my eyes to beauty, feeling the rain on my face or the sun on my back, while I ramble in the woods by my house… I hear Him there. To go a day or a week or any length of time without getting outside to purposely pursue His created world makes my soul stressed and leaves my thinking kinked into uselessness.

We need the garden He placed us in.

In a few weeks Phil and I will be returning to that little inn on the edge of the sea where we started our story.  We’ll rest there, and remember. We’ll amble along the road above and pass the stone cottage, the hidden stream, the oaks hung with moss, and we’ll come to that place where all the world lies under our feet.

We’ll breath deep and dream…

From a heart still learning to rest a bit,

Diane

P.S. Okay, can you add to my list? How do you find that place in your soul where rest fills you full of the Father? We learn from each other, “congenial friends”…

(image by Bethany Small)

(source)

Those who are wise will find a time and a way to do what is right.

Ecclesiastes 8v5

All week I have been delighting in the rally cry of women wanting what I want— to catch our breath and choose to “to slow down, to do life better… to intentionally take more time to engage.”

And all week I have been hearing about how you’re doing it, this challenge to “refuse to rush through our days leaving our people neglected and our souls depleted.”

And I’ve been taking notes, learning from women who, like me, find themselves rushing relentlessly through their days yet looking back and wondering what in the world we’ve done with those 16 hours of wakefulness.

Then this morning, as I walked along the gravel path that leads to my cabin in the woods behind Firwood Cottage, I had that uncanny sense that God was about to teach me things. Things about doing life well and wisely, about living a no rush life— on purpose.

And He did. 

Because, girls, God speaks. In fact, I have come to see that He delights in speaking into the dailiness of our lives. As if building nations and stopping epidemics and saving people is not enough… He actually waits to be invited to sit next to us as we plan our days.

He says just that in Psalm 37v 23:

“The steps of the godly are directed by the LORD.

He delights in every details of their lives.”

And when I do, when I invite Him in and  “commit everything I do to the LORD, trusting Him” (v 5), He actually gets involved in those details of my life and starts directing my day.

Can you believe that?!

The crazy thing is how often I don’t bother. I don’t bother Him and I don’t bother me long enough to scoot over while I’m making my lists and ask Him what I’m actually supposed to do. Today.

I remember when Matt was just a little boy of about four. John Mark would have been 16 and rarely home, Bekah about 14, and busy with her horse, Elizabeth 11, and living every spare moment at the barn with Bekah.

The first words out of Matt’s mouth every morning were, Where is everybody? Meaning, of course, John Mark, Bekah, Elizabeth, and Dad because those were the people that mattered most to Matt, the ones who held the happiness of his days. What he really wanted to know was not so much where they were but when they were coming home to play with him. Ah, the spoils of being the baby in a big family!

But then, every morning, Matt asked question # 2:

Mom, what’s the plan for today?

And I wonder if that isn’t how the Father wishes we would start our days.

Abba, what’s the plan for this day? 

I think that’s what Jesus did. I think Jesus woke up every morning and asked His father to plan His days, to direct His steps, to manage every moment of His life.

I suspect this may be why Jesus managed to pack everything that needed doing into a life that ended at the age of 33. And why He managed to say, “I have brought You glory on earth by finishing the work You gave me to do.” John 17v4

Everything You gave me to do…

What might that look like for us— women working hard to get it all done, stretched between the tension of tasks and relationships?

How do we do— everyday— those everythings the Father gives us to do?

How do we live a No Rush Life and still be able to utter those three words Jesus said on the Cross:

It is finished.

And about now you’re thinking I’ll have a list. Because I love lists. Because lists are cross-off-able. Because I live my days guided by my list.

Or you’re thinking I’ll offer you— free!— an app or a program or a sure-fire way to live efficiently and effortlessly for just $9.99 per month.

And I might have done that last week. Except that less than a week ago while I was writing the ideas for No Rush November, a woman I know wasn’t feeling well. Just tired and flu-ish and generally not great, she went to the doctor to see what he might prescribe to perk her up. Vitamins? Exercise? Hormones? Something she could take to feel better quickly so she could get on with the rush of real life with kids at home and a business to help run.

Only the doctor didn’t give her vitamins or tell her to move more. Instead, he  admitted her to the hospital with a diagnosis of acute leukemia.

While we do No Rush November, this mother, wife, business partner, home manager, list maker, will spend the next 30 days in the hospital being blasted with radiation.

Who plans for that?

No time to clean her house first. No chance to stock the freezer with meals for her family. Or get her hair cut or do that errand that didn’t get done, or let her clients know that she’ll be out for a while…

And I wonder. Does any of that matter to her now? The list sitting on her desk that won’t get done— does she care? Or is she so enmeshed in the fight to live to see her children grow up that she’s ceased to fret about all the stuff that keeps the rest of us rushing?

Her story is changing the way I look at today. Her fight to live is reminding me that I have no idea what next month will bring. And I’m not writing bucket lists, nor am I pulling out the bucket to wash my windows lest anyone notice how hard they are to see through… instead, I am doing what Jesus did and I invite you to do it too.

For every day of No Rush November, I will ask God to order my days.

I will pray what Moses prayed when he felt overwhelmed by a list too big to accomplish and a job too fraught with interruptions to get enough done:

“ So teach us to number our days

 that we might present to Thee

a heart of wisdom.”

Psalm 90v12

NASB

I will invite the Father to order every day and every week. Then I will ask Him, “what’s the plan?” as I pull out my calendar to look at next month… and next year.

And while I’m praying and planning, I will remember that The Plan is not all about me… but it is all about Him. And so I will pray along the lines of Jesus too:

“… not my will but Yours be done”. Luke 22v42

And that, am convinced, is the way to live an unrushed life.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. I’ve read your words on Facebook, laughed with you on the @hespeaksinthesilence Instagram, signed deeply at your pictures on #norushnovember. Thank you for those, I am learning from you. Please keep it coming!  And fill up the comments too—we need to learn with each other.

When I asked the Lord what I can do for this woman I barely know, I heard Him again: pray. 

Pray every day. Pray when you wake up at night. Pray one your way to whatever it is you’re rushing off to. Just pray. 

And so I am. I hope you will too, though I’m not sure she’s appreciate her name being blasted all over the internet. You don’t need to know her name to know that she needs us to beseech the Father for healing.