A few weeks ago in church, one of my pastors gave a Bible study about sheep. He said that sheep are three things:

1. They are easily distracted.
2. They are unable to defend themselves.
3. They have very poor vision.

Sheep aren’t able to see what’s coming. And if they could, they couldn’t defend themselves anyway since they are slow and clumsy. What is more, they easily forgot to be afraid, because their attention spans are short. They wander.

Boy, does that sound familiar.

The thing is, sometimes I forget that I am a sheep. Instead, I think I’m a lion: focused and ferocious and fierce. I think I know what’s coming, what’s important, and that I’m strong enough to handle it all. That’s pretty delusional, but it happens to me all the time.

When things are going well, I tend to think down deep it’s because of me. I forget that God is the only reason I’m breathing. I forget to thank him, lean on him, and talk to him. I forget that I’m a sheep, and I wake up one morning wondering how I wandered so far from him.

I need to remember that I need God. I need the One who can keep me focused, who knows where we’re going, and who can defend me from not only what others or evil or danger can do to me, but what I can do to myself.

I am a sheep. Of course I need a Shepherd. How happy I am to know I have him as my Savior.

I’m realizing now that if you have any inkling to write, you should write. If you have any desire to tell stories, tell them. If you need to make art or music or start a club or learn something new or want to lead, now is the time.

For so long, I’ve been held up by fear – of failure, of ridicule, of making the wrong decision, of looking funny or too enthusiastic or too idealistic or like I’m trying too hard. I’ve kept too much inside for much too long. I’m tired of hearing my own excuses, sick of waiting for the perfect timing. It really doesn’t matter what’s going on. Today is the day wherever I am. Everything that keeps me from it is an excuse; even a legitimate excuse is an excuse.

How could I have missed the point? God made us all who we are to do the things on our hearts. Let’s do those things. And let’s stay close to Him so we know the difference between our own sinful desires and His wonderful desires for us.

Let’s encourage each other with our words to do those things. Let’s build each other up, especially those who are just starting out. Let’s set judgement aside and practice generosity (generosity applies to words).

We are a body with many parts. We need all of them to do the things God wants us to do – encourage, support, grow, move forward, teach, spread the Word, love. There is so much to do, so much possibility for our little earthly groups of believers, but so often we are brittle bands of resentment and judgement, selfish groups of whiners and complainers. What a sad state for all the beautiful possibility God has made.

Let’s think positively. Let’s hope. Let’s work hard and test God in his generosity. Let’s do this beautiful thing called ministry together.

One of God’s greatest miracles is that He uses us. He uses us wherever we are when we take him up on his offer, and yes, He sometimes uses us even when we don’t. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done. Some of the most beautiful things I’ve seen are people being who God made them, doing the things on their hearts for His glory.

We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully. Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

Romans 12:6-12

“Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it”

I Corinthians 12:27

This Christmas, my mom bought me a little book called “The Best Moment of the Day.” It’s a journal, with a few lines for every day where you are supposed to write the best moment of your day.

So far, here are a few of my favorite moments this month:

• This year has been busy, with my husband doing his masters in a condensed, one-year program and me starting to work full-time. I usually put the kids down at night, and instead of delegating them to their separate beds, we all have been climbing into the guest bed at night. Me in the middle, one kid under each arm. It’s the best, definitely the best moment of many days. We’ll all drift off together and then I’ll sneak out to do more work or watch a few episodes of Frasier on Netflix.
• A long, hot bath at the end of the work day.
• The second cup of coffee on a Saturday morning.
• My husband reading a devotion to my kids at night.

None of my moments have anything to do with anything that big. None have been connected to money or success or recognition. When I think about my life, so much of my time has been devoted chasing things or accomplishments or goals. This exercise is making me realize that most of what I really want…satisfaction, contentment, joy…I already have, waiting for me in little moments throughout the day.

All of my moments, once hunted down, have made me realize that gratitude is a practice that changes my attitude and my outlook. Focusing on the good makes more good come to light. Focusing on the good chases a lot of the bad away: a sour attitude, discontent, fear. So much of the bad that I think exists actually evaporates when I put my attention on the good.

God tells us to be thankful and grateful again and again, not just because it’s the respect and recognition that he deserves and demands, but because he knows that this practice is good for our lives. He knows how we’re wired. He knows what will satisfy us and heal us and soothe us.

Gratefulness puts me in my place. When I’m saying thank you, I’m acknowledging that God is the giver, I’m the receiver. God is working things out, I’m the one that benefits. God is in control, I am not. God is the father, I am the child.

Life in this world shouts the opposite of all this. I’m going against the grain when I elevate small moments, acknowledge God as the giver, and give over my needs to him. I’m going against the grain when I’m not pushing or controlling or striving.

Giving thanks, nurturing gratefulness, practicing contentment…all of these things turn the world upside down and actually make it right side up. Instead of feeling on the short end all the time, I realize that I’m on the receiving end of grace and bounty and beauty. I realize that there are not enough little books in the world to write down the best moments of my days.

In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.

I Thessalonians 5:18

I’ve been circling around the idea of gentleness for two months now. It’s one of those ideas that just keeps popping up in my head, jumping out in sermons I’ve heard and leaping off the page in books, showing up in conversations and now becoming something that I’m looking for around the corners of my life.

It started in December when this verse got stuck in my head, “Let your gentleness be evident to all” (Philippian 4:5). Who knows why verses get stuck in our heads, circling around in there and then making their way into our lives, but for me, it’s because I’ve felt the opposite of gentle lately.

I know gentle people, and I’ve never considered myself one of them. I don’t think I’ve ever been described as gentle. Type A, goal-oriented, driven, responsible, a woman who knows what she wants, one who chomps at the bit, but not gentle. It’s something I realize that I need for myself, so I’ve tagged it as my New Year’s resolution.

I want evidence of gentleness in my life.

Gentleness to me is an attitude, one that displays a faith that trusts and accepts, that holds things lightly. Gentleness does not grind her teeth, push more than what’s necessary into the day. Gentleness knows that there is enough.

Gentleness is boundaries and balance, the knowledge of the right time. Flexibility, pliability, a search for the long-term answers instead of the short-term fix. Gentleness is not push or pull, but a quiet determination coupled with a steady patience. Gentleness holds out for the right time and the right thing.

Gentleness forgives and leaves the past in the past, the future right where it is. Gentleness does not freak out. Gentleness minds its own business, stays calm, assumes the best. Gentleness handles people with care.

For everything, it seems, there is a gentle approach: slow words, open ears, choosing the path that leads to peace.

You can only have gentleness when you have faith. It doesn’t come from me or my striving. It comes from the Spirit in me, the one that calls out “Father, help me,” the one that falls on knees in front of His grace, that stops to marvel at his timing and knowledge and love.

Gentleness is a lofty goal, but something God wants from us because it’s good for us, so I’ve been laying down with my children each night, praying the prayer my parents taught me to pray, the first prayer I could say all by myself:

Jesus Savior, wash away,

All that I’ve done wrong today.

Help me every day to be,

Good and gentle, more like thee.

 

 

 

 

 

This week has been one of those weeks that I wish I had more time for resolutions, to-do lists, life in general. I want to do everything right now, attack seven different things at the same time. My brain has been buzzing all week, jumping from one thing to another, leaving monstrous to-do lists in its wake.

How am I going to do all the things I want to do? My list from work. My list from home. My list of resolutions. My list of responsibilities. All the people I’d love to spend more time with. And all the things I wish I could do to relax: nap, read, write more.

I want to do a million things, but I only have 24 hours.

 

The problem is I’m not trusting the fact that God has given me enough time, all the time that he knows I need. In response, I haven’t used much of that time with him.

This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten to this place. I’m in familiar territory here with my to-do lists and manic goal-setting, pretending to think it’s possible to stuff a week’s worth of work into one day. I get this way at the beginning of new calendar years, at the start of new school years, around my birthday, after vacation, after I read an inspiring book, when I’ve had an ah-ha moment, when I start a new project. I leap right in and forget that I’m only human.

It’s not that leaping and goal-setting are bad, it’s just that I’ve forgotten how to prioritize (and, along the way, misplaced my sense of reality).

Please tell me I’m not the only one.

Now, more than ever, with the world at our fingertips, opportunity around every corner, and all kinds of glittering entertainment at our beck and call, it’s really hard to focus. It’s hard to pick out the things that are important, to make time for the one thing needful.

I think the only way to do this is to sit down with Jesus every day so that he can teach us what the needful things are. Right now when I hear his words, “come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest,” I think about bringing my armloads of dreams and hopes and resolutions, my crumpled bits of writing notes, my scattered brain full of running to-do lists and laying it all at his feet. Setting it all down.

Every day I need to hear him say, “Your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you” (Matthew 6:32-33).

Every day I need his words to shine into the dark, harried corners of my life, bringing me back to Him, trusting him with the days ahead, keeping me sane and focused at just the hour at hand.

When I do, I find that my path is littered with opportunities, all the ones that he wants me to have for the day: to enjoy the hot shower, to find a missing Lego, to listen to a friend’s story, to pick up a piece of trash, to type out the article, to quietly say no so that I have time to pray, to fall asleep next to my quickly growing children, to walk more gently through the day.

 

 

It’s that time of year.

Christmas is past, the ball has dropped, and now we’re all taking our enthusiastic, wobbly first steps into our New Year’s resolutions. We want to exercise more, eat healthier, be more adventurous, bury the hatchet, try that new sushi place down the street, jump out of a plane. Okay, maybe not jump out of a plane.

My list is lengthy. Some resolutions are fresh, some are repeat offenders. One of those repeat offenders is writing this blog. A few nudges from friends and past readers coupled with this quote I stumbled over made me acknowledge, that yes, writing is still on my mind and it’s not that big of a risk anyway. After a lot of starting and stopping over the past twelve years, it’s okay to start again.

One of the reasons I got hooked on yoga three years ago was the idea that doing yoga isn’t something we accomplish; it’s something we practice. When falling flat on your butt in the middle of a crowded room of lithe, beautiful bodies, this was a particularly comforting thought. Everyone agrees here that we’re all just practicing, and falling is definitely part of practicing. This idea gave me the courage to come back to the mat and to the class of lithe, beautiful bodies again and again.

I realized that this idea of practicing could be applied to many other challenges in my life, especially to writing. I’m practicing. It’s okay to fail or trip or fall off the wagon. The important part is to keep practicing.

We’re all just practicing in so many ways: parenting, directing communications, being a good friend, wife-ing. We try, we fail, we try again.

Perhaps what appeals to me the most about the idea of practicing is that it insists that perfection is not the goal. As a recovering perfectionist, realizing this was, well, a revelation.

Perfectionism is not the goal; practice is the goal.

Practice is something I can do. I can show up. I can try. I can make it a part of my everyday life. I can do that. And I can forgive myself when I don’t, because that’s part of practicing.

Friends, practicing is extending grace to ourselves. It’s about pursuing something we love and forgiving ourselves when we fall down. I can do that. And you can, too.

Whatever you’re facing this new year, whatever your resolution, I hope you face it as a practice. I hope you know that it’s okay to fall on your face in front of all the lithe, beautiful people in the great yoga class of the world. The important part is to extend grace and keep practicing. It’s more about all the days you showed up then about the one day you hit the right number on the scale or hold the galley of your first book or visit the place you finally saved up enough money to visit.

Practicing is so much better than perfection, because it is real. It’s where our lives are enriched. It’s where we learn. And it’s where our hopes become a living, breathing part of our everyday lives.

Happy New Year!

 

I hope that writing here on 31 Feet a few times a week or month becomes a practice for me. As I’ve been thinking about starting again the past two months, I’ve thought about what I’d like to write about here. I’d like to write what I’m practicing in my relationship with God, my husband, my children, my friends, and as a resident of this life. I hope it makes me more thoughtful. I hope it helps me sift through the overwhelming amount of choices and information I face every day to get down to the sometimes rough, but always beautiful simple truths of God and this life. I hope it makes me see clearer, with the eyes of faith, as I originally set out to do on this blog. 

 

 

It’s been a few weeks. Three of them whipped off the calendar page in a big gust of January wind, and I sit here trying to chase them down.

I haven’t been feeling awesome for the last few weeks. January has felt like a hangover compared to December. December was so good. November was so good. And then January hits, and all I want to do is sleep. And, no, as far as I know, I’m not pregnant.

I’m not sure if it’s my diet. Maybe I should quit dairy like I’ve done wheat and oats and caffeine and most processed sugar. Food allergies run rampant in my family.

I’m not sure if it’s my job. I put a lot of pressure on myself there.

I’m not sure if it’s my kids. My son had a rocky start to the second semester and getting him back in the swing of things was definitely stressful.

I’m sure the fact that not practicing yoga like I have for the past two years isn’t helping.

But long story short, I feel like thieves came January 1st and stole all my energy, taking my shitzpa and mojo with them.

I’m feeling low and slow and sleepy and overwhelmed. Sapped.

I haven’t been writing. Haven’t felt like writing. Getting my fingers to move across these keys feels like a chore. It feels like starting over for the 6,658th time in my life.

I haven’t been praying as much as I should either or reading God’s Word, but I started again yesterday. Woke up again early today. And here I am typing away for the first time in three weeks. Huh.

I’ve talked to my husband and my mom, my sister and brother. I’ve cued in some of my friends, “Hey there. I feel like crap.” They’ve been more than obliging to listen to my struggle and offer their support. God bless them. God bless them all.

I don’t know what all this is, this midafternoon desire to curl up on the couch and sleep away the rest of the day. I don’t know what this is, this anxiety that’s pushing against my ribcage. But I know I’ve experienced it before. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows in different seasons in my life. I’m sure you can relate.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait for it to pass. Lace up my exercise shoes. Talk to my doctor. Pray. Be honest with those I can trust. Write. Be shored up by the assurance that life is hard, but God is here…life is hard, but God uses all of it. That’s why he shared all of those stories with us in the Bible, to show us how he works in good and bad things. There is purpose in pain. In Joseph’s. In Paul’s. In Ruth’s. In Esther’s. In Dana’s, too.

Sometimes I get to the end of a hard time, and I can turn around and see where the pain brought me, how all the rocky places sanded down my rough edges. Sometimes, that meaning is hidden away, stored up for a later date when it’s meant to be revealed. Usually those times I have waited for understanding have resulted in the deepest, most satisfying joy.

Until then, the clear, unmuddled part of myself reminds me that God uses it all. He sees me. He hears me. He brings purpose to my pain. There is a reason for all things. This too shall pass.

It’s been a few weeks. It might be a few more, but in these searching times, when my eyes feel cloudy and I can’t see the point or the end, I hang on to the One who’s just beyond my sight. My grip around His hand, a little bit tighter. His grip on me, overwhelming.

The best meal I ever ate was when I was eleven or twelve.

I didn’t even sit at the table. I sat on the floor, on the beige carpet of a middle-class home in Lincoln, Nebraska. My family had been invited to supper by a family who went to our church, by the almost worn-out custom of having the pastor over for dinner. I was a kid, sitting on the floor, eating off the coffee table.

There was nothing special about the home or the house, the neighborhood or the city. We weren’t celebrating an occasion or a holiday. It was just dinner, their family of three, our family of six. Nine people, from toddler to mid-forties. Midwestern people on an ordinary night, probably a Friday, during a time of year that I can’t remember.

It was one of the only meals I have experienced where every speck of food on the table was eaten, from the meat platter to the salad bowl. Every leaf, every crumb, every shred. Prime rib that I can still taste, marinated and grilled and cut in thin slices. Baked potatoes, starchy and buttery. And a Caesar salad with tangy dressing and homemade croutons, served up in an acacia wood bowl. Dinner rolls. I think there were dinner rolls.

But beyond the food was the laughter. I wish I could remember just one story, just one anecdote, but I can’t. I just remember the laughter. From one story to the next, we laughed until we cried. I’m surprised no one choked on their prime rib.

I don’t know now if I found so much humor in the stories that the adults told or if I simply found their laughter contagious: my mother’s head tilted to the side, my father’s shoulders heaving in silent, breathless bursts, glasses removed to wipe his eyes again and again.

That meal is the reason I love having people around my table. That meal is the reason I have always wanted an acacia wood salad bowl. It’s the reason I love simple meals with friends on ordinary Friday nights in the middle of the school year. Because I love people. I love hearing their stories. I love good food and a glass of wine. So simple, but marvelous again and again, the magic that happens around a dinner table.

The older I get and the more years I see fly off the calendar, I realize that there are a few really good things in life. And no matter who you are or how much you have or don’t have, everyone has access to these really good things. I used to think that celebrities and rich people, beautiful people and the insanely accomplished had the edge with their praise and access to all the things money can buy. But I really can’t imagine a meal they have had that I haven’t had: one with good food and good friends. One where we sit around a table or on the floor, with stories and laughter, like humans have done together for thousands of years. Coming together to feed each other.

I think this is why God describes heaven like a big banquet. It’s something we understand. And that’s what heaven’s about: being together with each other, being with God. I wonder what kind of stories we’ll share, how much we’ll laugh, how happy we’ll be. In the meantime, we can practice here on earth.

January, January. The month of starting over. The month of diets, putting away the Christmas tree, re-budgeting. Blech.

At least that’s how I’m feeling. Blech. I’m back to work, back to the routine, back in my house with all the luggage to put away, pine needles to sweep up, bills, and stuff that needs fixing.

Everything on the outside needing to be done feels like a manifestation of my insides. There is stuff to put away (grudges, worries). There is stuff that needs re-budgeting (priorities, how I use my time). There are goals and dreams and hopes I’d like to make happen (write that book, pray more, be a more present mother). I want to read more, travel more, organize those family photos, and learn to express myself eloquently when speaking.

Quite a list, isn’t it? And I gave you the short one. It’s never been hard for me set goals. I’m a natural-born evaluator. It’s always been in me to look for ways to improve. In some ways, this proclivity has helped me. I am always looking ahead and this has helped me in both my personal and professional life.

But constantly straining for the future has also held me back. I rob myself of contentment because I think about all that needs to be done or accomplished. I put off enjoying the present moment, because my to-do list gnaws at me. I set unrealistic expectations and ensure myself of disappointment. And I put off many needful things in favor of immediate needs. This causes conflict inside. And it makes me tired, a lot.

When I was in Wisconsin for Christmas break, my husband and I took a walk around his old neighborhood one night. The moon was just coming up between the bare tree branches. We walked down his lane to the road that runs in front of Lake Sinissippi. The sun was just setting, and everything was quiet, wrapped in dusky light. Gray sky. Gray trees. Gray frozen lake.

Ryan pointed out the hill where he and his buddies would sled down, over the county road and onto the frozen lake. He showed me where he would cut through the field to walk home, where his friends lived, which houses were new, which ones had been there forever. Quite literally, a walk down memory lane.

It was New Year’s Day, and it was nice to look back and be quiet. To think and reflect. To walk slowly around a neighborhood, carefully across a frozen lake.

I don’t want to spend the first four weeks of the new year tearing my life apart. I just don’t. I want to sit here and be quiet. I want to think about everything I have. I want to reflect a bit. I want to look back and figure out the things that have worked and those that haven’t.

Moving on is good. Hopes are good. But I need a foundation. I need the things that are important in place before I plunge into this new year. So I’m going to spend the next few weeks looking back and writing about my past. And I hope that will clear the way for the future.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for this new year. I have so much to be grateful for. Thank you for the chance to start again. Thank you for the hope you give me and for being unchanging, constant, and always full of grace. Please help me to find a little quiet time in every day to pray and to reflect this January. Help me to keep the needful things, prayer and reading your Word, in the forefront of my life. Amen.