The Gift of Slowing Down

It's not complicated.  Faster is better.

I hear this popular line from the ATT commercials several times a week, and each time, I fight the urge to agree.  I resonate with those cute children as they sit at the table making obvious statements about how slow is terrible and multitasking is wonderful, and I live in a culture that shouts much of the same:  Faster is better.

I live for fast.  I demand that my children be fast.

Eat your food faster.
Put on your shoes faster.
Get out the door faster.
Get through the check-out line faster.
Finish the bedtime routine faster.


We hurry through one thing only to rush through the next and at the end of the day we feel tired and productive and effective -- but better?  Is life really better when everything happens fast?

Because one, ten, fifty years from now, I won't remember the fast moments.

I won't care if we got to places on time, or I finished everything on my to-do list for the day.  I won't remember how quickly I finished grocery shopping or how much traffic there was on the freeway.

So much of our energy gets wasted on "fast moments" -- moments quickly forgotten by the day's end.

But I will remember the moments that lingered.

I will remember spending long hours by her hospital crib offering quiet prayers while she struggled to breathe, with nowhere to rush off to because nothing seemed quite as important.

I will remember the nights when I stayed to read her an extra bedtime book and cuddle for "just another minute."

I will remember the lingering kisses before he walked out the door, even though he was late for his 9am with the gas tank on empty.

I will remember the nights when we sat 'round the dinner table with friends until the sun set and yawns emerged from lips, and we repeated "we really should get going" at least 10 times before we finally walked to our car.

I will remember the 2am rocking with a coughing child who needed mama's touch and for once I wasn't in a hurry to climb back under my own covers.

I will remember allowing her to put on her own shoes, knowing it would take twice as long, and seeing her beam with delight as she proudly announced, "I did it myself, mommy!"

I will remember the moments that could have been rushed, but for whatever reason, weren't.  Because sometimes the slow moments speak to us the grace of God.

Perhaps ATT has it backwards.

Perhaps real life happens when we stop rushing around and start looking around.  When we thank God for the right here, right now, gifts that he's given us, rather than racing through life to experience the next one.

Faster isn't better.
Enjoying is better.
Knowing the Creator and His gifts is best.


Slow down.  Thank God for the gift of right now.

A Letter to My Son on His First Birthday

My sweet son,

You are 1 today.

I remember the first time they placed you in my arms, with your fists clenched and eyes shut and vocal chords on display.  I cradled you and whispered again and again, "Mommy's here.  I love you.  And you'll be ok."

And there were nights when you'd scream for food and comfort and clean sheets and I'd rush in and pick you up and hold you to my chest.  And you'd receive nourishment and warmth and love as as I'd whisper these words, "Mommy's here.  I love you.  And you'll be ok." 


And I dropped you off at nursery so I could sit and breathe in the back pew, and you'd be held by someone new and look around for someone familiar.  But after an hour of goldfish and toys and runny noses, I would return and scoop you up, and in between your smiles and giggles I'd reassure you,  "Mommy's here.  I love you.  I told you you'd be ok." 



And you took your first wobbly steps, with brows furrowed and hands outstretched; within just a few days you'd laugh and toddle confidently from couch to chair.  But there were moments when you'd fall down and hit your head hard and cry out.  And I'd run over and pick up your shaking body and hold you tight.  "Mommy's here.  I love you.  And you'll be ok." 


Because right now, little one, we live in a season of Mommy's here moments.  My presence brings healing comfort and my kisses covers the hardest of falls.

But some day, that won't be enough.

Because the day will come when you will lose friends and have your heart broken; you will struggle through friendships and fitting in and making wise choices.  You will wrestle with your faith, your God, your calling, your choices;  you will battle laziness, perfectionism, lust, and lies.  You will question identity and relationships and gifting and dreams.

You'll ask questions that demand more than mommy's here answers. I can't promise you that my presence, or my comfort, will ever be enough.  Because they won't.

But there's a better promise.  Spoken from one Father to one of his children --

Have I not commanded you?  Be strong and courageous.  Do not be afraid, and do not be discouraged. For the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.

Joshua 1:9

Your True Father, your Heavenly Father, promises forever presence.  He gives lasting comfort.  He gives strength to persevere, answers to hard questions, reasons during real pain.

You Great Father is always here.  And He will always love you.  And if those two things are true, then it will always be ok.

The Worship of a Child

My little one loves to sing.  She loves to clap.  And she loves when we worship at church.

She stands on the chair with her hands held high, clapping wildly while the arms of others lay dormant at their sides.  She sings loudly and off-key when she can't even read the words, soliciting the glances of those around her.  And when the song ends and everyone sits, she breaks the still air with her eager inquiries - "mommy, can we sing more?"  And while my heart rejoices to hear her song, my fear of others can quickly take over.

My impulse is to quiet her.  Restrict her.  Sit in the back where we are out of sight from others.  Because what if she's a distraction?  What if others question my parenting? What about those who believe children should be "seen and not heard?"

And in the midst of my wrestling, I need the reminder that God commands our worship, and worship that is most pleasing is worship that delights in Him.   And my daughter delights.  She knows and enjoys the freedom of worship to her Creator that often I forget.

The Scriptures have much to say about orderly, intelligent, thoughtful, Christ-centered worship, which I do not want to forsake in an attempt to mimic my daughter's delight. I DO think we should understand the words we sing; and many times, thoughtful reflection is far more appropriate than boisterous singing.

But as her mother, I must encourage, not quiet, her worship and her delight.  Because when she worships, something significant happens.  Something eternal.  Something cosmic.

Out of the mouth of babies and infants,

you have established strength because of your foes,

    to still the enemy and the avenger.

Psalm 8:2

Because for me, worship can become more about appearances and less about our posture.

More about fitting in than bowing down.

More about going through the motions than going to the Throne.

More about a making a beautiful sound than having a beautiful heart.

More about the people around me than the sole Recipient of my praise.

And these responses are what our Enemy longs for.

Because the Enemy longs for me to love myself, to love my comfort, and to crave the approval of man.  He delights when I take a service of worship to our Creator and turn it into a venue for self-glory and personal "feel good" gratification. He revels in hearts that grow cold, listless praise, self-focused harmonies.   But the songs of children stop Satan in his tracks.  Psalm 8 says that when children declare praise, the ENEMY is silenced.

For when I see hear the melodies of my child, when I see a child dance, as I listen to the babbles of the infant behind me, I am reminded of the glorious purpose of worship -- that God, in His infinite wisdom and glorious splendor, would stoop to rescue His helpless creatures.  And I am convicted of my shallow vision.  I am grieved by my self-focus.  And I am drawn to worship more fully.

The enemy is silenced.

And the King is lifted high.

Longing for Normalcy

I felt the heat creep across my face as I sat in the waiting room, trying to busy myself in my book and avoid all eye contact.  Every time the nurse walked through the doors, I prayed that my name would emerge from her lips.

A scaly, itchy, ugly, poison ivy rash had taken over the left side of my face, causing my eyelid to swell, my eye to droop, my skin to puff out.  Raw, red, blistering bumps had sabotaged my usual creamy complexion.

At first, it wasn't a big deal.  I reminded myself that beauty is fleeting, and my hope is in Christ.  But all "truth" was forgotten, when I sat down in an empty chair the waiting room, and the woman next to me immediately stood up and moved several seats away.  My insecurity started mounting.

Part of me wanted to chase her down, rub my scaly cheek all over her perfect, blemish-free arm, and tell her that it was terribly, terribly contagious.  But most of me just wanted to hide.  Ashamed.  Embarrassed.

Did I stand out that much?  And did my face look that different, that "unclean," that I warranted the retreat of others?  My "abnormality"  was alienating, and more than anything, I just wanted to feel "normal" again.

My mind flashed back to several months prior, when my daughter and I sat in different waiting room. A small girl, 5 years old at most, approached us.  Eyes glazed and speech slurred, she was loud, disruptive, and desperately wanted a hug from my child.  And though I smiled politely and stayed put in my chair, I pulled my daughter closer to me to keep her from this girl that didn't quite fit in.

Only later did I realize that I was teaching my child to favor "normalcy --"  to avoid, retreat even, from that which is different, unpredictable, uncomfortable -- to crave "normal" people, with normal IQ's, normal functionality, similar beliefs, and cling to predictable people and safe relationships.  Was I inadvertently teaching my daughter that she too must BE normal, socially appropriate, and culturally relevant, at all costs?

Because Jesus Christ came for those who were abnormal.  Those who were outcasts.  Different. Sick.

I will seek the lost, bring back the scattered, bind up the broken and strengthen the sick; 

but the fat and the strong I will destroy..."

Ezekiel 34:16 (NASB)

In a culture where the "abnormal" and unclean had to remove themselves beyond the city limits and could intereact with no one, Jesus moves toward them, touches them, takes their place.  He didn't just love the abnormal, He BECAME the abnormal.



Parents, how might you be showing favoritism by celebrating normalcy and avoiding what is different?  How might you be encouraging your child, either intentionally or unintentionally, to pursue "normalcy" rather than godliness?  

Teach your children to praise God in their weaknesses.  Teach them to praise God for their weaknesses.  There is beauty, blessing, hope, and dependence when we rest in the Savior who came for the broken.  

Cleaning Up the Mess We're In

She has been singing so contently in her bed for over an hour -- I eagerly climb the stairs to surprise her with a "post-rest time adventure."

But as I walk into her room and flip on the light, the scene surprises me.

Belly-down on her sheets, still singing, she lies a pool of her own vomit.  Her bed drenched, outfit stained, and face covered, she looks at me and smiles.  "Hi, mommy," she says sweetly, then continues her melody.  She remains unaware, and unmoved, by the filth that covers her.

My heart breaks. I am not surprised by the mess.  This is normal.  But why wouldn't she call?  Why would she lay there for over an hour without once crying for help?

It is possible to get so accustomed to our own habits that we fail to see the mess we sit in?

I lead her to the filled bath and cry as I wipe away the remains of her lunch.  Her breath reeks of acid and her hair is matted down and she remains unaffected.  Playing happily.

I caress her hair and dress her in clean clothes.  I wipe down the stained walls and remove the soiled blankets, and I am reminded that I too was once this way.

Ephesians 2 says that, without Christ, I was just the walking dead.  Walking, yet unaware that there was no real life within me.  I sat in more than just vomit.  I lay in a gravestone. 

The Bible regularly highlights our propensity to blindness, to self-deception:

There are those who are clean in their own eyes, but are not washed of their filth.

Proverbs 30:12 (ESV)

Unaware. Unmoved. Uncaring.  Unaffected. 

But God.

Merciful God.  He sees us in our filth and He intervenes.  He vows to bring us out of it, even while we are content and unaware.  He makes us alive. 


And now, even now -- alive in Christ! -- I can turn a blind eye to my sin.  I can ignore my habits, excuse my pride, brush off my self-absorption, forget my idolatry.   But God, my Faithful Father, has committed Himself to my cleanliness.  To my washing.  To my perfection.  And he promises to see it through.

He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ. 

Philippians 1:6 (ESV)

Then, and still now, I need a Faithful Father who sees my mess and vows to bring me out of it.

And my role as a mother is to see the filth, the mess, the destructive patterns of my children, and intervene.  Show them the filth, then refresh their souls with the gospel.  The better way.  It images a greater Father who has done this for me.

The God of Blessings

Lately, I've been wrestling.

My body and mind feels the weighty effects of wrestling with the God of the Universe.

Are you who You say You are?  Do You really long for my good? Bless me, God.

I'm not the first to do it.  Jacob-- father to the 12 nations of Israel -- was a wrestler.  Just a baby in the womb, and he was already wrestling with his brother.  Years later, he wrestles with his Father.  "I will not let you go until you bless me!" he demands of his God.


I think these thoughts while I drive the long journey home across the state from another specialist visit.  My mind screams that this is not normal, and my heart begins to wrestle.  Jacob's words pour from my lips:  "Bless me, God.  I will not let You go until You bless me."  Why is He holding out?

I sit.  I drive.  I wait for His answer.  I hear it in the silence.  I glance in my rearview mirror to see my daughter fast asleep.  Her tiny finger twirls her soft curls, her eyelids flutter, her breathing soft and rhthymic. My body relaxes and I smile.

I already have blessed you.

The words hit me hard -- how did I miss this?   Have I been so busy demanding more blessing that I failed to notice the one asleep an arms-length away?

But isn't this always the way it is?  We always see the blessings as we stare into the rearview mirror -- when we look behind us at circumstances changed and persons gone.  Stare behind you long enough and you'll see the blessing of even your darkest of days.   But in the moment?  God, bless me more.  Change this.  Do that.  I will not let you go. 

And I've forgotten what I've already been given.  A small child asleep on the long journey home.   A quiet ride with peace, silence, time to reflect.  A God that knows my needs and has always met them in His timing.  A God from whom all blessings flow.

"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

-James 1: 17 (NIV)

He does not change like shifting shadows.  The God who promised blessing to Jacob is the God who blesses me now.

These words shout blessing.  Hope.  Promise.  They shout the character of a faithful God who reigns down blessings on His children -- He always has, and He will continue, because He is changeless.

Wrestle. Plead with the God of the Universe.  Ask for blessing.  He is giver of every good and perfect gift.  Approach boldly.   But don't wait for the rearview mirror.  Look around you.  Our steadfast, changeless God has already blessed you.

A Mother's Response to Abortion

Recently, my eyes have been wet and my heart heavy.   Articles have flooded my computer with abhorrent crimes, graphic images, staggering statics.  Abortion.  My child was born at the same gestational age where many young lives will end.

Are we really in a second, silent, Holocaust?   Whether you're for it or against it, there's no escaping the topic, and it demands a response on so many levels:  intellectual, emotional, spiritual, physical.

And emotionally, I join the outrage and the outcry and plead for the end.  Won't someone do something?

As I consider the realities of abortion clinics and abandoned babies and unwanted pregnancies, my lips verbalize a longing for redemption and change, yet my body is immobilized.  Paralyzed.   I am a single person, with little influence, money, or resources to make a real difference.  Could I actually make a difference?  Where would I even begin?

And don't misunderstand me -- there are many things I CAN do.  Too many to list here.  Pursue adoption.  Consider foster care.  Give money.  Plead that God would change hearts.  Teach my kids.  Pray that Jesus would come soon.  Raise awareness.  Love mothers who have walked this horrific road.


But the end issue is not just abortion.  It didn't start with Roe vs. Wade, and it doesn't stop with Kermit Gosnell.

The issue is larger than that -- we are in a chronic war against the enemy, not just for unborn children, but for ALL children.

We've ALWAYS had to fight for every. single. child.  Consider the words of author Russell Moore:

"We ought to be reminded that Jesus is not born into a snowy winter wonderland of sweetly-singing angels and cute reindeer nuzzling one another at the side of his manger.  He is born into a war zone.  And at the very rumor of his coming, Herod -- the Planned Parenthood of his day -- vows to see him dead, right along with thousands of his brothers.  It's always been that way. The Bible tells us so... children are always hurt.  Human history is always riddled with their corpses."

But why is it that children are perpetually caught in the cross-fire of sin and selfishness?  Why are children the ones who always lose the battle of "rights?"  From divorce, to child slavery, to sex-trafficking and child labor, to domestic abuse, abductions, and playground bullying -- children have always represented what the Enemy longs to destroy:  new life.

"The demonic powers hate babies because they hate Jesus.  When  they destory "the least of these," the most vulnerable among us, they're destroying a picture of Jesus himself...they know the human race is saved -- and they are vanquished -- by a woman giving birth... They are also destroying the very pictures of newness of life and of dependant trust that characterizes life in the kingdom of Christ.  Children also mean blessing -- a perfect target for those who seek only to kill and destroy."

For the God who created each child, knit together each baby, not only delights in children, but says we must become like one of them to enter His Kingdom.  He prizes children.  And because of this, one of the main battle grounds against the enemy will always be with children.

And if this is true, then perhaps there's something even more close-to-home, more obvious, and just as critical that I tend to overlook.

I can love MY children.

I can daily battle for their bodies, their minds, their hearts, their souls.  I can pour myself into care for them, and love them regardless of the cost, the inconvenience.  I can kiss their ouchies, clean their bottoms, fill their bellies.  I can teach them, pray for them, remind them everyday that they are cherished.  I can show up at her "dance recital" in the basement, and stop laundry for just long enough to make a Play-Doh cake.   I can put my to-do list on hold for just a moment to pick him up and hold him close to my chest.  I can plan excursions, educate their minds, surprise them with gifts, read them one more story.

I can love the children I have, with all that I have, because the battle is for ALL of our children.

Perhaps this is not enough.  Perhaps I should be investing more in the large-scale battle against the injustice that plagues the most helpless among us.  And I am certainly not suggesting that we turn a blind eye to the atrocities that are regularly committed in the very cities we reside.  But perhaps our own homes provide the starting point we tend to overlook in pursuit of grander opportunities.


As the Church of Jesus Christ, we are in a battle for children.  And the battle begins in our own homes.


**All quotes are taken from Russell Moore's excellent, and highly recommended book, "Adopted for Life."  Regardless of your stage of life, this book needs to be on your reading list!