How discarded denim can change lives. Sole Hope: An invitation to help.

My chair was comfortable and my coffee was hot. My eyes were still casting dark shadows from my red eye flight the night before, but tired or not, I was ready. Ready to embrace all the writer wisdom, craft encouragement, and soul-sister fellowship this first full conference day had to offer.  

Bring it on, God! I thought.

The large room pulsed with servers bustling and 450 women buzzing with Allume excitement. I swallowed my last bite of egg and sausage as the big screen on stage flickered.

The video rolled.
The whole room stilled.
Silent save for uncontrolled gasps echoing under ballroom chandeliers.



2 minutes and 51 seconds. I was completely undone.

Tears streaming down my freshly made-up cheeks. I could barely swallow the huge lump in my throat. All I could think was: Who am I, God? 

Who am I that I was born in America? 
Who am I that I don't have to watch my babies suffer like this? 
Those could be my boys. This problem could be in my village. 
Those children could be my neighbors. 

They are my neighbors.

The beautiful blonde woman from the video appeared on stage before us and shared more of the Sole Hope story. She told us how we could easily help by hosting a Shoe-Cutting Party: collect old jeans, gather a group of friends, and play a crucial role in providing shoes for kids in Uganda. Kids the same ages of Asher's children. Kids the same ages of mine.

"Nobody can do everything—but everybody can do something."

Her words hung in the air. Took root in my heart.

God moved in incredible ways at Allume. But as I flew away from Greenville, South Carolina back home to Glendora, California, I knew that one of my biggest "takeaways" from this writer's conference had nothing to do with writing.

But everything to do with God's story.

The plight of jiggers is real. Children in Uganda are being robbed of their childhood by sand fleas. And it is totally preventable.

I may feel like my finances are already stretched and my time already has too many demands on it. "I could call it someone else's problem or I could do what I could to help the situation." Asher Collie said it. She lived it. I knew I had to, too.

Nearly five months after Allume, I found myself once again in a crowded room of women, choking back tears while watching the Sole Hope video.

Choking back tears for the 100 women gathered in our church Worship Center, wielding scissors in their hands and conviction in their hearts to do something.

Something to be the hands of Jesus to little ones He loves.
Little ones He sees. Little ones He has not forgotten.

We spend two and a half hours on a Monday night tracing and cutting out simple patterns on discarded denim.

 

Old jeans turned into new hope.

300 pairs prepared!

The unneeded, never-worn extra from the back of dresser drawers becoming the needed, just-enough for the soles of children who have never worn.

New shoes from unused pants.
It's not rocket science but it is revolutionary.
A radical change for the lives it touches.

And it's not just the children who are given a gift—hope through medical relief and new shoes. It's the Ugandan shoemakers who are given skills training and a job—hope of providing for their families. The mothers and caretakers who are given education—hope of preventing future suffering from foot related diseases.

It's me. It's my sisters. We are given the gift of serving—hope that our American-born blessing, our State-side surplus is for a purpose.

There is joy in being part of God's story.

Last Monday I saw it all over their faces. I felt it deep in my heart.

God. is. moving. 

He's letting us be a part. The blessing of it is beyond words.

You, too, can join this story!

Host a Shoe-Cutting Party! $15 buys a party kit with everything you need. Our event was huge and amazing. But gathering a few girlfriends is just as meaningful!

Go to www.solehope.org to learn other ways to get involved.

But what else, God? I ask.

Having a Shoe-Cutting Party, collecting medical supplies, and giving monthly to come alongside Sole Hope in their mission of offering HOPE, healthier lives, and freedom from foot-related diseases through education, jobs, and medical relief are incredible ways to serve.

But I have sensed something more.

Felt another Bring it on, God! bubbling in my heart.

So I must quickly paint the picture of what else I see God doing...

Remember Allume? The conference where I learned about Sole Hope? The week leading up to our church Shoe Cutting Party, Logan Wolfram, Executive Director of Allume was actually in Uganda with Sole Hope. She and other bloggers were loving kids and telling their stories.

The day of our party, Logan wrote about how her heart got wrecked from holding a precious child whose feet were wracked with jiggers. Her emotional pain only outweighed by the writhing physical pain of the one getting parasites dug out of his feet.

My heart was wrecked from just reading it.

Then, the day after our party Allume announced their new ongoing partnership with Sole Hope through their Outreach House. Now known as the Allume Wellness Center, this special place provides medical care from an on-site nurse for kids from remote villages with extreme cases of jiggers. Children whose feet are infested with more than 100 jiggers can not be fully healed in a one-day clinic.

The deeper the disease, the greater the hope needed.

Do you see what's happening? Do you see how the God of the universe is working all things together for the good of those who love Him?

You and I can be a part of providing greater hope!!
A place of joy and healing. Through Pure Charity we can donate to the Allume Wellness Center and impact the lives of children whose futures may otherwise be lost.

Every Yes! helps.

Every dollar counts.

Click here to donate now.

Nobody can do everything—but everybody can. do. something.

The Outreach Center now known as the Allume Wellness Center takes in the kids with the extreme cases of jiggers in hidden villages and cares for them beyond what a day clinic can cover. At the Wellness Center they are cared for by an on-site nurse and given much needed medical attention. They receive continuing education about jiggers, given new pairs of shoes made from your jeans, and returned to their village with a new sense of hope. - See more at: http://allume.com/2014/03/now-proud-owners-outreach-house/#sthash.LGnQxxx9.dpuf

The Outreach Center now known as the Allume Wellness Center takes in the kids with the extreme cases of jiggers in hidden villages and cares for them beyond what a day clinic can cover. At the Wellness Center they are cared for by an on-site nurse and given much needed medical attention. They receive continuing education about jiggers, given new pairs of shoes made from your jeans, and returned to their village with a new sense of hope. - See more at: http://allume.com/2014/03/now-proud-owners-outreach-house/#sthash.LGnQxxx9.dpuf

What something can you do today?

*     *     *

I want give a special thank you to Mindy Rogers, Carolyn Carney, Lee Fischer, Natalie Ensor, and the rest of the amazing women of Cornerstone Bible Church who God raised up to fan the small spark in my heart into a blazing fire for His glory. I love you and am so very grateful for you.


**Original photos, or used with permission from Sole Hope and Rob Lee. Thank you!**

The Great Unexpected Joy Gift

I remember waking up from a groggy half-sleep and seeing the wonder in his eyes.

Peering over the edge of the bassinet. Still practically a baby himself. He saw his brother for the first time. It was a sight to behold.

My usually can't-sit-still toddler was captured frozen in awe of this new life. A newborn baby probably seemed strange, foreign to his 19-month-old mind. Yet, I'm convinced I also saw a look of knowing in his eyes. A gaze of love.

Like,  
I know him. 
We are part the same.
I love him.
We are meant to do this life together.

The pain and fatigue of being 48 hours post-delivery were great. But the joy of that precious moment was greater!

Over the last three and a half years, many of my most-blessed moments have come as I stand witness to the love my children have for one another.

The unprompted, tender kisses. The surprise snuggles and cuddles.
Exploring the world, embracing adventure—together.

 

 

 

 

 

My mama love for my boys is beyond what words can hold. I'd give everything for them. My very life if I had to.

Before ever giving birth I knew this love would change me. What I didn't expect was how much my babies' love for my babies would shake me. There is something different, something deep and magical about watching them shower love and show kindness to one another.

Brother giving his last pretzel to the one who dropped his in the sand.

Grabbing hands to run together in playground glee.

Big brother comforting little one during doctor office trauma.

Freely saying, "I forgive you," to the one who caused the goose egg on his throbbing head.

Yes, my boys fight and bicker and bug each other enough to make me lose my mind!

But their love always wins!! And my mama heart-joy runneth over.

And I see with new eyes...

And I wonder with new conviction...

How must God's heart overflow with joy when He watches His children show kindness, shower love on one another?

A long hug. An honest prayer. A hot meal shared. A hand to hold. A shoulder to lean on. Brothers and sisters loving enough to serve one another, to do life together.

 

 

 

 

I think of the years ahead and of course I want my children to love me. I'm their mother. But I think the greatest gift my boys could give me is to love each other hard and long and real all the days of their life.

I think it's one of the greatest gifts we can give the Father, too.

How Fritos Helped Me Yield to God

I started lunch happily sitting around the table with my boys drinking delicious fruit and veggie smoothies that little hands helped make.

Half way through lunch I shut myself in the laundry room and leaned against the dryer eating Fritos between calm-down deep breaths.

Yep, it's one of those days.

I could still hear the one who bugs, bugging, and the one who screams, screaming, and the one who was "frozen" complain about still being freezing.

But I just needed a time out.

The salty indulgence and satisfying crunch helped a little.
The added oxygen was probably good for my brain.

As I took 30 more seconds to just be a-lone (praying no one was knocking the baby out of the high chair or smearing pink smoothie on the walls) I had to wonder...

Am I crazy that this mothering thing can be so hard?

Am I chemically low on patience or creativity or backbone the way some women are low on estrogen or blood sugar? Because that's seriously how it feels sometimes. Feels like no matter how much I plan or purpose, muster or try to master this thing called motherhood, I just can't get it together sometimes.

Without a clear answer as to whether the root of my struggle was grown in the soil of my own self or if it was just in the DNA of the Parenting Beast, I had to get back to the three small breathing beasts in the dining room (and whatever mess had been made in my absence.)

But as I emerged from my hiding place, a different series of questions rose in my spirit.

Where is the beauty, Becky? Can you see it? Are you willing to look?

I'm no stranger to finding unexpected beauty in expectedly ugly places. In fact, I love the search.

Love how a blossom past its prime can still give witness to the perfection of its Creator.

Love how the detested part of a rose bush can still attest to the skill of its Artist.

But it's easy for me to see beauty in God's handiwork of nature.

Easy to see how a grasshopper stuck on stucco might be called gross by some but is gorgeous to its Maker.

Easy to see how ordinary pathway pebbles usually lost underfoot are beautiful beyond their function.

Oh, but what of His handiwork of my nature?
 

I'd rather brush the ugly parts of my character under the living room rug with the hidden piles of cracker crumbs. I'd rather not focus my macro lens on the sharp or fragile parts of my soul or peer too long at the prickly pieces of my personality that make my own skin crawl.

But God keeps asking, "Becky, where is the beauty in your struggle?"

I answer with more questions:

If there is beauty in the dry and brittle flower,

If there is majesty in the bitter thorns we try to avoid,

Then mustn’t there be value in the dry and thorny moments in my everyday?

If there is wonder in the spindly antenna and spiky insect legs,

If there is goodness in the rocks we oft discard, ignore,

Then mustn't there be purpose in the undesired, not-so-pretty parts of me?

Yes, there must.

If I'm willing to see.
When I'm willing to yield.

We made it through the rest of lunch with chocolate chip granola bars, yelling, apologies, and lots of deep breathing. Noah was the first to finish and got out of his chair (without asking to be excused. sigh.) and came right up to give me a hug. Then he stopped. Sniff. Sniff. Sniffed with his nose right in my face.

 "Mommy, I smell Fritos."

My Problem with Talking

This is Elias. He's three and half. My middle boy.

He's super silly. Cute and coy. He gives the best hugs and has a fiery temper. He's a helper and a cuddler and a curious explorer.

And he likes to talk.

A lot.

Now, I'm not a quiet mouse kind of mama. In fact I love to talk. Give me two cozy chairs, a hot cup of Vanilla Bean coffee with Sweet Cream creamer, and a girlfriend next to me and I can talk for hours. Deep soul bearing. Beautiful mess moments laughter and tears sharing. I talk to process my feelings. Talk to understand the things of God. Talk to encourage the hearts of those I love.

So I never guessed that talking would be a problem for me.

Well, not my talking. His talking.

Because Elias doesn't stop talking. Seriously. Nearly every waking moment this luscious lipped, pouty cheeked, twinkly eyed living piece of my heart talks. And talks and talks and talks.

And usually his raspy-voiced words sputter forth in the form of questions. Oh, the questions.

How come this? And what is that? And why and where and who and how? Every thought that he thinks (or even half formed thoughts) become a never ending litany of questions.

I've never wanted to be a technical writer, but I think, if I so desired, I could be a pretty darn good one. For I have logged hundred of hours explaining the simplest things in intricate detail. And hundreds more breaking down the most complex concepts into layman's terms. (Don't scoff at the keen skill this most definitely requires!)

It's not that I just get weary of answering why that truck is white or where that walking man might be walking to or how that rock got its ragged edges and who did I think put it there. What I struggle with most about my question-shooting shorty is when he doesn't hear the answer.

Eli shouts and whines and laughs out his questions in full-throttle, three-year-old urgency, but he rarely stills his tongue long enough to listen. Sometimes he's on to the next what about or why, but mostly he just keeps repeating the same question. Over and over. And over.

[I would give you an example of one of these stuck-on-repeat conversations, but the repetition may be so mind numbing you'd probably stop reading.]

So let's just say, I'm there explaining the world. I'm unpacking his curiosity, trying to help him make sense of all the puzzles in his head. But, it's as if Eli doesn't even hear me. But, he keeps asking to hear me!

But, why, Mommy? But, WHY, Mommy? But, Whyyyyy, MOM-MY!!!!

Soft or loud, slow or quick, however I try to package my reply so my big-eyed, soft-heart preschooler can soak in what I'm trying to say...it matters NOT!

BECAUSE HE'S NOT LISTENING!!!

And sometimes I just want to scream!

It was in one of these Becky, take a deep breath and model appropriate ways to handle your frustration moments that the Lord brought to mind a verse I had been considering earlier that week. Colossians 4:2 instructs:

"Devote yourself to prayer, being watchful and thankful."

When I first read this in my quiet time I immediately tucked it in my heart as another encouragement to take notice of all of God's gifts and be grateful.

But now, in this I-hate-to-admit-it mothering moment where I'm coveting a pair of noise-canceling headphones, I hear a question in my heart that I know I didn't put there:

"What if Elias isn't the only one who asks the same question without listening for the answer?"

I knew what God was talking about. My prayer life.

The part of my relationship with Him where I feel the freedom--nay, the necessity--to tell God everything I'm thinking and ask Him over and over about specific deep questions on my heart. This is not bad. We have been given the glorious privilege to come directly to God with all of our burdens and cares!

But Paul's wisdom to the Colossians struck a new chord of conviction in me. Devote myself to prayer, yes! But then devote myself to watching for His answer! Not the answer I want in the way that I want it.

Devote myself to waiting on God: ready to perceive His reply. Ready to praise Him for it.

I never guessed that Eli's talking would be a problem for me. Nor that God would use it to point me to a problem of my own.

But then again, as I begin to turn my heart to a posture of watchfulness, I now see that this is all part of the answer to my repeated, prayerful plea,

"Lord, show me how to draw ever closer to you. 
More of you. Less of me."

The "Are You Willing?" Adventure

I peered out the floor to ceiling windows divided by mahogany wood frames at the steady flurry of swirling white flakes. I was cozy in the warmth of a heated classroom, but my bones still felt the deep chill of the cold Chicago winter that was foreign to my Southern California blood.

My body couldn't shake the goosebumps and my ears couldn't shake the echo of 20,000 voices ringing loud in Jesus jumping celebration in the huge arena I had just come from. The hub of Urbana 2000.

But through the cold and the crowds, the incredible worship and inspiring speakers, through the voice of the nice-dressed man presenting a missions opportunity before me now, there was something that rose above it all.

A whisper.

God's whisper to my heart. I heard it first in the massive arena and I heard it again in this moment while taking in winter's beauty: Are you willing to give me your summer?

That was one of the first times in my life I remember hearing the voice of God clearly in my heart. Knowing what he was asking. Choosing to respond. That winter whisper I heard in Illinois led me to Kings Canyon National Park the following summer.

I really didn't have a clear idea what to expect as a 19 year old, driving the 222 miles in my white Honda Civic up the windy mountain road to my first college summer adventure. I knew I would be living and working at the park and doing some kind of ministry.
 
I knew God had asked me to go so I was going.

But I didn't know how that summer would test me. Stretch me. 

I didn't know that God would use 40 hours a week of clearing dirty dishes off red checked vinyl tables in a mountain diner to press me into him, teach me persevere in the mundane tasks for the sake bringing light to his name.

I didn't know about the rat that would share my tiny ramshackle cabin. Or the drinking and drugs that would be consumed by my village-mates each night under the stars. I didn't know how the discomfort of my environment would push me to find deeper comfort in my Creator. 

I didn't know that miles of trails, the huff of my own breath, and the prickly red Manzanitas would become the backdrop of my most treasured moments.

I didn't know God would use what he whispered in the middle of white winter to lead me to a meadow green surrounded by towering Sequoias, a place where I would again hear his voice asking, Are you willing?

It's been thirteen years and in some ways I hardly recognize myself in that teenage girl at Urbana bundled in excessive layers or the girl tromping through the woods in brown REI boots. But I do recognize her spirit of adventure. The spirit God gave her so she could say Yes to His whispers, even when it seemed crazy to others.

But I still recognize all of God. Yes, He is the same.

And again I am hearing that now-familiar question: Are you willing?

Becky, are you willing to still follow me wherever I lead? 
With words? With ministry? With your whole life?

I know my answer will dictate the level of my next adventure.

And again I'm saying, Yes!

*   *   *

Joining Lisa-Jo's community as we all tackle the word "Willing."

Thanks for the Burdened Heart

 

I’ve got a hole in my jeans

And a burden on my heart

But when my path’s uncertain

Giving thanks is where to start

My hot tea is half empty

But my life can be right full

No matter which way I go

If I just give God my whole

My whole heart, my whole will

My whole self in surrender

Then the rips and tears and questions

Won’t be the things I remember

I’ll remember who God is

Who He promises to be

The daily gifts of faithfulness

Will be the landmarks that I see

Thanks for pairs of little hands

Thanks for the road that got me here

Thanks for the One who is enough

Whose love casts out every fear

Thanks for every opportunity

Every chance to trust Him more

For thanks turns into joy

Turns my heart to want Him more

Thanks shows the one I trust

The one whose lead I follow

When my focus stays on Him

There’s no need to waver, wallow

So to you, amazing God,

Whose gifts I hold so dear

I’m giving you this burden

Please make my way quite clear

No matter right or left

No matter valley low or highest peak

I am your listening daughter

I’ll accept your answer. Speak.

When "What If" Isn't the Point

Sometimes my thoughts wander and my desire to be more like Christ makes me wonder...

What if I could choose to do it all differently? (And by it I mean all the bad "its" of my past.)

What if I could be selfless every time I was selfish?

What if I could obey each occasion I chose my own way?

What if I could live in the truth instead of hiding in the lie?

Wouldn't I be a better mom, a better friend, a better difference-maker if I had never made a mistake?

What if I could go back and give grace each time I passed judgement?

What if I could take back every foolish decision, willful sin, and heartbreaking choice?

Wouldn't I be a better wife, a better witness, if I my life was marked only by wisdom? Only by love?

What if I could go back and make right every wrong done by me, every wrong done to me?

What if I could undo the hurt and redo the gift?

Wouldn't I be a better me if I had always walked in the light of Christ, never lurked in the darkness of the world?

But as my thoughts wind through this what-if maze I'm reminded of the biggest problem with my what-if game: Being better isn't the point.

If I could go back and always see better, choose better, be better by myself then I wouldn't need the best of God.

Not only would a walk as perfect as Christ's negate my very need for Him, but if I had always been the "better me" then, it would nullify the best He's redeemed in me now.

Then while I'm pondering the depths of my transformation, sanctification, and purification, I remember something much simpler: a poem. A whimsical poem I wrote for a college creative writing class about the What If game that kids often play.

What If?

Do you ever wonder,

what if…?

What if I had wheels for feet

instead of squishy toes?

I would roll and roll

and wheel around wherever I should go.

What if I had slinkies for legs

instead of knobby knees?

I would boing and boing

and spring about wherever I should please.

What if I had wings for arms

instead of pointy elbows?

I would flap and flap

and whirl about wherever the wind blows.

What if I had a harmonica for lips

instead of a skinny smacker?

I would buzz and buzz

and play aloud and what I said wouldn’t matter.

What if I had a star for a nose

instead of a crooked arch?

I would twinkle and twinkle

and glow around wherever I should march.

What if a wish could change my face,

change everything I see?

What if one more what-if wish

could change every part of me?

What if I had spotlights for eyes

instead of a dirty brown splotch?

I would shine and shine

and flash upon whatever I should watch.

What if I had a motor for brains

instead of a human mind?

I would rumble and rumble

and sputter about wherever my thoughts should wind.

What if I had all these specialty parts

instead of what I actually see?

When I looked and looked

and gazed in the mirror I wouldn’t see special me.

Maybe it's the innocence of a children's poem that my heart needs to stop me in my tracks of this treacherous what-if game.

Maybe the answer to all my grownup what-ifs is the same one I'll give my little boys when they start spouting off their own silly questions.

Because I know...

What if I had a more beautiful past
instead of the bruised up one I see?
When I looked and looked
and gazed int he mirror I wouldn't see special me.

I am who I am because of the road I have traveled. The one marked with my mistakes, yes. But deeper are the prints of God's faithfulness. The prints that point to Him.

Yes, that is the point.

So instead of the What-Ifs I will choose the Grace-Thanks, being thankful to be special me.

How "You don't seem happy anymore" Changed Everything

On Wednesday night I sat in a small circle of moms in mismatched chairs. I was back in my hometown, but I knew none of the faces snacking on chocolate covered rice crispy treats except the one who invited me there to speak. She looked exactly the same as she did in high school.

After the coffee and icebreaker, it was my turn to share the word God had put on my heart. I was excited to tell these ladies about joy! About how giving thanks is the key to the fullest life promised by Christ!  

 But before I got to the full part, I first had to tell them about being empty.

I took a deep breath and told the story of that night at my kitchen sink about a year ago. How in the midst of scrubbing dirty dinner dishes my husband made the comment that changed everything.

"You don't seem happy anymore."

 

It wasn't an accusation or a put-down. He wasn't mad. It was more an observation that made him sad.

I was completely caught off guard. How could he say that? I mean, I was a pretty positive person. I laughed throughout the day at my trifecta of tiny testosteronies. People often told me that I have a great smile. I often told people how my life is so blessed.

And to top it all off, I had spent that year studying the Book of James. Not just studying. Memorizing James. The famous words of the half brother of Jesus were etched on my heart,

"Count it all joy.."

So why would he say that? I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to quickly refute his statement and spew out all the reasons he was wrong. But thankfully, instead of being defensive the Lord allowed me to be reflective.

As I reflected over the days and weeks that followed, I had to admit that Chris was right. I really wasn't happy. More than that...I wasn't living the full life of joy. The root of my problem? Ingratitude. I knew it deep.

I asked God to show me the source of my ungratefulness and he first pointed to my thought life. I started to take note of my inner dialogue. Soon I came to recognize the familiar tape that told me I was a quasi-victim of my own life. 

It was subtle. But it was there. 

The voice that said this life of mine was just too much for anyone to handle. The dishes, the laundry, the three ACTIVE little boys, and the part time job. Time with God and time with friends. Time for my husband and time for myself. Time to scrape that mystery muck off the refrigerator shelf. The dissonant melody in my mind sang there was just never enough time for it all. And how could there ever be enough time to serve my neighbor, celebrate my friend, and remove the green crayon marks marring the white walls when I simply struggled to make dinner while not losing my temper and keeping my monkeys from jumping out of their make-believe trees?! 

But I didn't bemoan these thoughts to everyone. I wasn't an outright complainer. 

But my ingratitude did slip out.

It seeped out in the long sigh that immediately followed whenever someone asked, How are you doing, Becky? It leaked out with every comment about how tired or busy or worn out I was by my crazy boy crew--the precursor to any positive update I might give.

And I started to realize that each wayward sigh I made was a sideways means of seeking affirmation.

I wanted someone to understand, to acknowledge the challenges I faced each day. I wanted someone to see all the unseen effort I put forth to keep three kids and a household thriving, or at least surviving.

I knew I wasn't the only hardworking mom of littles. Yet, I felt...overlooked.

But the tape in my head and sighs slipping out weren't the only indications of my ingratitude. Each day I saved spewing all the poor-me sewage for someone. My husband.

For who on earth did I want affirmation from the most? Oh yes, my husband. Why hadn't I seen it before? Then finally I saw. Finally understood what compelled me to downloaded the grievances of my day just moments after he walked through the door. Every tantrum, backtalk, and timeout. Every less than terrific mothering moment that made me want to pull my hair out, he had to hear. 

No wonder he thought I wasn't happy.

I knew my husband thought I was a great mom. I knew he didn't think motherhood was easy. But still I wanted more. More affirmation. More validation. More shiny gold stars to show that I made it through even when it was hard. And somehow I thought the way to get that was by making sure he knew that it. was. hard.

Yes, my eyes were hard set on the wanting of more.

Around that time I started reading One Thousand Gifts. These words from the opening chapter confirmed what convicted my heart:

“Satan’s sin becomes the first sin of all humanity: the sin of ingratitude: Adam and Eve are, simply, painfully, ungrateful for what God gave.

Isn’t that the catalyst of all my sins?

Our fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren’t satisfied in God and what he gives. We hunger for something more, something other.”

The sin of ingratitude. Yes. Hungry for something more. Yes.

Though I was sincerely thankful for my children, my husband, my home... Honestly grateful for God's provision of work and finances... My focus was still so fixed on my lack (of time, affirmation, space to breathe) and my wanting more of all of it. Ann Voskamp makes it so clear:

"The real problem of life is never a lack of time. The real problem of life--of my life--is a lack of thanksgiving."

 You and me both, Ann!

So I started to give thanks. Day by day, gift by gift. One all the way to one thousand!

So that's where my story of joy--a dare to live fully right where you are--started. The story of what came before I could write the ones about Always Joy and Fighting for Joy and how there's No Check Box for Joy.

 I told those MOPS mamas in the mismatched chairs that if they suffer from the first sin like I did, they don't have to stay stuck in their ingratitude. The full life IS available through thanks. No one has to stay empty.

There have been painful moments. Humbling moments. Moments I still fail miserably in "counting it all joy" and I unleash my ungrateful tongue on my husband. But through it all I am most thankful for the moments God reminds me of what I am really hungry for. More of Him. More joy with Him.

"Thanks is what multiples the joy and makes any life large, and I hunger for it."

*     *     *
One last note, dear friends:

If you read here regularly I'm sure you've noticed that I've been writing a lot about Ann Voskamp. I don't intend for my blog to be a catalogue of her quotes or a sales pitch for purchasing One Thousand Gifts. But I feel compelled to share the words, the wisdom that God has used to revive my heart and draw me closer to His. God is doing a mighty work through this faithful sister.

I have been changed by it. I pray the same blessing for you.

No Check Box for Joy

I'm the kind of girl who likes feeling accomplished.

Even though I vowed almost four years ago to take productivity off her pedestal, checking boxes off a to-do list still may be one of my favorite things. (And I still may be in the practice of adding already completed tasks to a list just for the satisfaction of marking another big X. Maybe.)

So you can imagine my pleasure in counting one thousand gifts! Yes, the daily delight of tangible progress toward a lofty goal. But, oh the joy of actually finishing the task! I never inked a big open box on a folded piece of computer paper or on a long skinny notepad with a black magnet glued to its backside. No, this beautiful box was only written on my heart, seared in my mind.


Choose joy.

Count gifts.

Name God's grace.

Check.

Check.

Check.

Last month I opened my spiral bound journal to record a milestone. For weeks I had wondered what this final gift would be. What could be worthy to hold such a significant marker?  Would it be beautiful enough, poetic enough? Demonstrate that my life had been changed enough?

I didn't want it to be creatively conjured or self made. I didn't want to manipulate my own mind or finagle my own words to make this thousandth gift seem perfect, picturesque, even productive.

As I reached 700, 800, 999 gifts I kept thinking, would the anticipation of this capstone leave me disappointed?

No, not at all disappointed.

For the 1,000th gift was not a premeditated word-picture, but an honest outpouring of praise.

My heart whispered, my hand wrote:

#1,000. Wanting more of Jesus.

I never saw it coming.

But...then I saw.

The counting of each gift was itself the gift. The gift of seeing more of Jesus. The gift of wanting more of Him.

And of course Ann Voskamp knew it. Saw it. Wrote it.

 "I don't need more time to breathe so that I may experience more locales, possess more, accomplish more. Because wonder really could be here--for the seeing eyes."

Every time I scribbled a gift: spring blossom in afternoon sun. nuzzling kisses in my Noah's little warm neck. the perfect cup of coffee. friends who pray for my heart. the best bite of tiramisu. breath... Each gift I scrawled was a God-grace I saw. A moment that didn't slip through time's fingers because it was truly savored.

I completed her joy dare. Do I feel accomplished? Yes.

But more than that. I feel more ALIVE!

Half way through the journey to joy I wondered if once I reached one thousand if that would be enough. If I would have my tidy little journal filled and my dare box checked with a finished red X.

But now I wonder, how could I stop?

The more gifts I see, the more I see my need. My need for more of Jesus. Because I know God is not done with me. My heart is still messy. So messy. My life, my attitude, my actions...far from being His holy perfect.

But I say in one heart with Ann,

"I look for the ugly beautiful, count it as grace, transfigure the mess into joy with thanks and eucharisteo leaves the paper, finds way to the eyes, the lips."