Easter.

The living room was dark as we sat, son and I. Staying up to rest in each others company long after daddy and siblings snuck off to bed.

He asks. “Mom? Does God ever talk to you?” Breathing in I gather my meandering thought processes to focus on correct response. I settle on truth.

“Yes.”

silence. I slyly lure out more.

“Does God talk to you?”

“oh sure, all the time.”

Silence.

“Well, what does He say?”

“Mainly, I just hear Him calling my name. Sometimes I hear Him calling for Elijah, but I don't think he hears.”

To not hear when He's calling...

Ultimately, isn't that what I want? To hear my name, to know my Savior and Lord really does know I’m down here? That He knows my frustrations, my sorrow, my unrelenting questions, to be soothed into calm reassurance that there's a concrete reason for all of this!

John 20: 11-16


11 But Mary stood outside by the tomb weeping, and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the tomb. 12 And she saw two angels in white sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. 13 Then they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”
She said to them, “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.”
14 Now when she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, and did not know that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”
She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, “Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.”
16 Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
She turned and said to Him,[a] “Rabboni!” (which is to say, Teacher).

She heard her name. Preceding the tomb, the cross, the scourging and crown of thorns, lies The Lords Supper; On the night in which He was betrayed our Lord, took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is My body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.”
Stop.
Back Up.
On THAT night, He gave thanks! I’m pretty darn quick to give thanks for the friends that can watch a kid at the last minute or my husband to get 'A' day off but when I’m being betrayed? When things hurt? I managed a whole Summer and Fall without saying thanks for ANYTHING!! But this winter, I tasted joy. Now, as I'm folding one unending load of laundry after another, I’m thanking Jesus for arms and legs that fill them.
And I hear Him whisper my name.

As I’m calming heartbroken tears of injustice, defiant siblings standing stoic with jaws set, I'm thanking God for opportunities to teach my children about forgiveness and grace.
Again, I hear my name.

I wash dish, after dish, scorching water sucking life from my hands and I thank my Lord for the tiny pea shoots I can see from my kitchen window, tendrils reaching forever skyward, Thank You Lord for this.
He speaks my name.

It's Spring. New life cracking frosty earth. I am so blessed. I have Hope because Hope lives in me! Lot's of things bring happiness, my new waffle iron made me happy, but waffle irons eventually break. A great buy on yarn makes me really happy, but I knit it, gift it and then it's gone.

True joy is not fleeting.
True joy is a relationship.
True joy cannot be bought.
True joy lives in you, guides you, nourishes you, soothes you , gives you comfort when you don't have the answers to life's circumstances because True Joy, possess understanding that surpasses all others.

I recently read if God answered all of my prayers just how I wanted, wouldn't that make me God?! Wow.

John 20: 11-16, again.


11 But Mary stood outside by the tomb weeping,(she was a faithful follower but in that moment the only thing she knew was that she didn't know what was going on anymore, she was confused, heartbroken, probably pretty angry too!) and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the tomb. (she acted, she stooped down, she didn't just sit there and cry!) 12 And she saw two angels in white sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. 13 Then they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”
She said to them, “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.”
14 Now when she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, and did not know that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”
She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, “Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.” (she's so upset, so hurt, so confused, she doesn't recognize Jesus, the man that cast out her demons, the man that was her whole world standing right in front of her until...)
16 Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
She turned and said to Him,[a] “Rabboni!” (which is to say, Teacher). (Joy!!!!)

When I actively, constantly, seek Him, through prayer, through giving thanks, through picking up my bible and reading just one passage slowly, soaking in each syllable.  He speaks my name.  He's not in that tomb. He IS ALIVE! He's right by my side and He's right by your side too, whispering your name, simply waiting for you to hear.

~ MOPS Tea and Testimony

The Girl...

She's just not a reader.  That's the statement we've lived with for the past few years.  She doesn't want to yet, she simple doesn't care.  Unfortunately, this isn't acceptable at a grade school level and so she's been getting extra help, we've been working with her on the basics and still, she doesn't care.  Or is that, didn't?  Picking up a book this weekend, a book from my childhood carried from tiny apartments to tiny house.  A book I had been saving for my future reader, she sat down and read.  She read in the evening.  She read in the morning.  She read when we got home from church and she read every time she sat to rest from her play.  She read at commercial breaks and she read long after the sun went down.  Hard words, stuck on the tip of her tongue.  Foreign words flowing off cherub lips.  Words holding clues to another world of mystery and intrigue.  Not monosyllabic fluff and filler but real words, ones that take you to another place.  Transporting words.  Have we held her back in our baby steps?  Don't push them, let them be kids?  What if our kids aren't progressing because they crave something harder?  When are the baby steps simply left for babies?   We supposedly learn as adults that the difficult path is often the most rewarding.  I could see in my daughters eyes the thrilling invitation of this road not taken.  The girl once again, becomes the teacher.

kids.

Storms.

I first heard the thunder while separating whites from darks in the quiet depths of the house.  Stopping for a moment to assess the severity of the storm approaching, I shake it off and quickly resume the task at hand.  Screams cut through my musing, twist knob, thick liquid glugs, lid closes, my feet hit the stairs.  I had heard it sounds like a freight train coming before it engulfs all life within it's path, no conscience, the least is destroyed along with the most esteemed.  Reaching the landing I take in the full scope of damage.  Will our insurance be enough?  What can realistically be replaced?   Most importantly, how Lord?!   How, can three kids who were moments ago watching Sponge Bob happily on the floor, HOW can they completely destroy not only the house but themselves in such a seemingly short expanse of time?!  One load, that's all I needed to put in.  Walk away and the gates of Hades open up, demons jump off furniture, one arming the nearest presumed foe.  Heads collide, rug burns sting, tears streak through freckles.  I sigh.   Scooping up the wounded sprites we sit in silence, calm, sssshhhhhhhhh.  I'm counting.  They smell like sausage and play-doh. Small hands pick up.  Cartoons no longer a privilege of the day.  I hear the dryer stop, a plea-prayer lifts up as I'm once again drawn under. Morning.