becky-kiefe

Why We Need to Stop Special Ordering Christianity

Mon, 18 Nov 2019 02:46:18 GMT

When surrounded by so much noise, are you forgetting to listen to God’s voice?

My friend Joy and I stood at the Starbucks counter deliberating our orders. We were tired from traveling, but didn’t want too much caffeine late in the afternoon. I finally piped up with my order. “May I have a grande blonde cinnamon dolce latte with almond milk, half-caf, half-pumps, and no foam, please?”

Joy side-eyed me with a smile. Yes, I’m that girl. Specific. Particular.

We were on a work trip together (actually our entire (in)courage staff was there!), so over the next couple of days, Joy, along with Anna and Grace, got to see my special ordering skills in all their glory as we enjoyed several more coffee shop trips and ate meals together. “Why yes, I’d like the carnitas meal, please, with pinto beans instead of refried, no sour cream, no pico de gallo, avocado slices instead of guacamole, a side of limes, and half corn, half flour tortillas. Thanks so much!”

Some people might call me picky (or ridiculous), but I say I’m just a girl who knows what I want!

Yet it occurred to me recently that despite my strong food and drink preferences (Diet Coke, LOTS of ice, lemon slice, with a straw), there are lots of times in life where I’m paralyzed with indecision.

The world is like a giant Starbucks menu with so many options it can be overwhelming to feel like we have to choose the right custom combination of fill-in-the-blank to suit our exact wants or needs. What will fill me up and fuel me on in just the right way? Do you hear this looming question at every turn too?

I hear the constant whisper on social media. I can even feel this way about Christian resources. (Is that okay for me to admit as part of a Christian resource company? Welp, I just did.) Friends, I find myself weary and thirsty for meaning, significance, answers, and truth. There are so many good (and plenty of not-so-good) offerings to choose from, but every promise of deeper understanding and fresh hope can end up sounding like noise. And the thing I’m wrestling with — and I’m wondering if maybe you are too — is this:

When surrounded by so much noise, am I forgetting to listen to God’s voice?

Every day I get notifications about new planners, journals, Bible studies, IG stories, blog posts, podcasts, YouTube videos, books, devotionals, conferences, and rappers preaching revival. ALL these things are good! Yet I can get so caught up in trying to identify the newest thing that could be the most revolutionary for me ( Have you tried a pumpkin cream cold brew? ) that I forget I already know what I really need and where to find it.

What I really need is Jesus, and I can always find Him in the Bible.

God’s Word should be my first, foremost. End of special ordering. End of story.

I feel like this is a safe enough place to admit that God’s Word, Bread of Life, Living Water, is not always what I reach for.

God has given us the power to choose. In modern day America especially, we’ve taken that freedom to the limit – and I’m totally a part of it. While I love the opportunity to custom order my Starbucks latte and Chipotle burrito bowl, I need to quit taking this “what am I in the mood for” mentality into my spirituality.

We need to stop special ordering Christianity.

The most revolutionary thing for me and for you is to revolve our lives around Christ. Let’s orbit our thoughts around Him. Let’s order our steps toward His. Let’s make the most special thing about us that we specialize in the language and love of Jesus.

As believers, we ought to first be followers of Jesus before consumers of content.

Without a doubt, I believe content creators should create! As a writer, I’ll keep writing. Artists should keep painting. Musicians should keep composing and performing. May each daughter and son of the King use their gifts to the glory of God!

But if your soul is parched and your heart is weary like mine, we don’t need to keep scanning the Christian menu of radio stations and bestseller lists to find what best fits our current whim or wish list. Let’s feast first on Jesus. He always satisfies.

He always satisfies.

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

John 6:35 (NIV)

This post first appeared on (in)courage.

Coping When Anxiety Is Like Raw Nerve Pain

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 18 Jul 2019 20:15:13 GMT

It was an ordinary Tuesday, except for the fact that I was on the verge of a breakdown over lemon zest. This sounds ridiculous, and it is, but it is also serious. This is the face of anxiety.

I sat at my desk, nestled under the far windows in my kitchen, and plugged away at a long list of work tasks — emails to write, spreadsheets to analyze, projects to dream up. My list was long but it’s work I love to do, and I was grateful the kids were in school and I had a quiet morning to dive in.

But on this particular morning, it turned out I wasn’t home alone like I expected. My husband was also there. His job demands long hours and lots of travel at times, which other days affords him the flexibility to set his own schedule and work from home. Super great, except on that day – for me.

Chris came into the kitchen and started tinkering, opening cupboards, pressing buttons on the stove. I winced a little and looked up from my computer.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked

“Making those lemon bars,” he said.

It was barely nine a.m., but he was preparing for the evening when we’d both enjoy having a sweet treat compatible with the limited eating plan we were on at the time.

I tried to get back in my work zone. I reread the half-written email I was in the middle of composing. Glass bakeware clinked together as Chris pulled them from the cupboard. I leaned closer to my computer screen and typed the next sentence. Parchment paper ripped across the jagged metal line, ripping my concentration. I tabbed over instead to an article I needed to read. Deep breath. Chris carefully lined the glass dish with the waxy paper. Every crinkle sent a shockwave of irritation up my spine.

I closed my laptop. I got up and started emptying the dishwasher.

“Why are you doing that right now?” my husband asked over his shoulder.

“Oh, you know. It’s just easier for me to concentrate when it’s quiet, so I figured I’d get the dishes done while you’re baking.”

“Ok, can you hand me the grater?”

I stacked bright plastic kid cups and placed spoons and forks in their designated slots in the silverware drawer. Deep breath. Deep breath. Eggs shells cracked. The metal whisk bounced and scratched inside the metal mixing bowl. Whisk, whisk, whisk. Over and over and over.

I tried to fill my heavy lungs with enough breath.

“Wash these lemons for me, will you please?” he asked.

My heart raced. I washed the lemons.

Then he started to zest.

When my anxiety is high, there are some sounds I can tune out: the dishwasher humming behind me, the dryer thud-thrumming behind the thin laundry room door beside me. But other noises are like nails on a chalkboard to my tender wiring. Every time the lemon scraped the length of the metal grater, my insides cringed in pain. My chest tightened.

This is stupid, I told myself. Get a grip.

But I could not get a grip. I was unraveling. I stopped drying the dishes, but I could not stop the stream of tears.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked, bewildered.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re not doing anything wrong,” I said. “The noise is just too much for me right now. I guess I’m having a flare-up of anxiety.”

I walked through the hall into our bedroom, into our bathroom, shut the door, closed the toilet seat, sat down, and cried. I cried hard. I couldn’t not cry hard.

There wasn’t one thing I was upset about. There wasn’t something I was stewing over or especially worried about. This was the most frustrating, shameful thing about anxiety to me — that I couldn’t always name it or explain it. And if I couldn’t explain why I was feeling what I was feeling, then it seemed invalid to feel it.

I heaved air into my tight lungs and prayed for a way to help my husband and myself understand my world of anxiety in which we were both foreign travelers.

My breathing slowed, and my mind filled with a new image. I walked back into the kitchen.

“I want to help us both understand why I’m reacting this way, and I have an idea. Have you ever had a really bad toothache?” I began. “When a tooth nerve is damaged or exposed, things that you normally eat are suddenly extremely painful. Warm things become scalding and cool things become freezing and crunchy things become rock-hard; it’s impossible to eat normally.”

I went on, “Food isn’t the real problem. The way you’re chewing isn’t the problem. There is a raw nerve that when touched produces a visceral, physical reaction you can’t control. This is what anxiety is like. Baking lemon bars is not the issue. My desire to cope with the noise is not the issue. My anxiety is like raw nerve endings and certain noises touch those raw nerves and trigger pain to the point that my system is overwhelmed. My body deals with it through tears.”

I’m not sure if that made things any clearer to my husband, but I know it helped give voice to my experience. Giving voice to our experience can help slowly unravel the tangle of shame we’re living in.

Friend, anxiety is real.

Whether you relate with my experience or not, chances are high that there is someone in your life who does. We all need to understand that anxiety is more than a list of worries and woes that need to be prayed over or surrendered to the Lord. For sure we need to pray, and may we all live surrendered to Jesus! But we’ve got to understand that anxiety is not always synonymous with fear-driven worry. Anxiety can also be a mental health disorder caused by psychological and physiological imbalances with a host of symptoms.

We don’t try to downplay a nerve issue when we’ve got a tooth screaming in pain. We don’t criticize ourselves when our iron levels are out of whack or we need more B12. We acknowledge the deficiency. We take steps to feel better. We seek help.

Five months later and I’m doing better. I’m thankful for lemon zest and the things that force me to cry out to God. I’m thankful for His mercy in helping me understand my brokenness. I’m thankful for the grace that my anxiety has ebbed for now. And I’m thankful that when it flows again, I will be more ready to admit it and be gentle with myself.

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace,

that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

Hebrews 4:16 (ESV)

This post was originally published on (in)courage .

As Long as You’re Still Breathing

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 11 Jun 2019 08:33:37 GMT

There’s this question I’ve been chewing on. I can’t get it out of my mind. It goes like this:

What if the display of God’s power in our lives is directly related to acknowledging our need for Him?

I’ve seen the evidence play out more times than I can count.

For almost a decade I’ve watched a friend desperately try to grow her family. Every avenue explored, every expense exhausted. A child briefly placed in her arms only to be taken. So much heartache. An ongoing surrender to God’s goodness in the shape of suffering and sorrow. Last week she welcomed a child into their forever family. Only God.

Another friend was recently faced with a weighty decision, one without a clear answer and lasting implications no matter which outcome won out. She couldn’t reason through it on her own. In her wrestling, God put an image in her mind, a person she needed to connect with. Yet she didn’t know this woman. Not knowing this at all, I felt compelled to connect my friend who was wrestling with another friend who had walked a similar road. Can you guess? The woman my friend needed to talk to was the one I introduced her to. Only God.

Then there was a couple who sat on our living room couch late at night and asked if they could tell us their story. My husband and I leaned in. I couldn’t have guessed the brand of struggle, sin, and despair their marriage went through – nor could I have imagined the story of hope, healing, and redemption they’re living. “As long as you’re breathing, there is hope,” they said. We weren’t personally in crisis, but I knew these words were true beyond seasons of despair. I tucked them in my heart. Hope in hopeless situations — only with God.

Not one of these friends would have chosen their circumstances or written their own story, but in their greatest need, they experienced God’s great power. That is a gift not one of them would trade.

I wish I could reach through this screen and know the unexpected, undesirable, hanging-on-to-hope circumstances you’re living. We’ve all got something. But in my lack of knowing, God knows. He sees you. He is with you. I’m wondering if He’s prompting all of us to ask:

⁣

What if the display of God’s power in my life is directly related to acknowledging my need for Him?

In other words:⁣

Need Him big = See Him BIG⁣.

If I’m honest, I often don’t want to need God. In my flesh, I want to be competent and self-sufficient. I want life to be easy and comfortable enough that I can keep things rolling smoothly by my own try-hard grit. But that kind of life only yields more of me. And that’s really NOT what I want. ⁣

I want more of God.

I want to see Him work powerfully and move mightily. I want that for my family and friends. I want that for you.

People ask, “Where is God?” and here’s what I’m coming to believe more than ever: He is in our need. He’s in our lack. He’s present and powerful when we’re ready to admit how desperate we are without Him.

Yesterday, I finished reading The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boon, the classic true story of a heroic Dutch watchmaker who served people and shared the light of the gospel through the darkest hours of World War II. I wept at the horror and the hope.

Corrie saw with stark clarity then what I’m just beginning to realize:

“Perhaps only when human effort had done its best and failed, would God’s power alone be free to work.”

Let’s be women who live out of our great need for God so through our lives His greatness can be seen.

How have you seen God’s greatness displayed in your time of need?

Where do you need Him to breathe fresh hope into your present circumstances?

This post was originally published on (in)courage .

The One Thing You Need to Battle Distraction and Fatigue

Sat, 04 May 2019 07:00:00 GMT

I’ve been feeling it again. That low-grade ache of discontentment. That inner restlessness, nagging, gnawing, something softly knocking. That unnamed longing for something more even on the good days when I finally catch my breath, catch up on laundry, or make it to bedtime without being called a mean, mean mommy.

I don’t know why it takes me so long to recognize the source — God’s still small voice, calling yet again to return to Him, spend time with Him.

I’ve been choosing the trap of glowing screens and too many late-night scrolling minutes. Whoa, where did the last hour go? I like to be alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone in my digital bubble, an insulated reprieve from all the demands and needs. I like to be alone, yet I tether myself to the noise of hundreds of friends I don’t know beyond a screen. Cute cat! Sad story. Look who’s pregnant or moving or getting a promotion!

The evidence of my choice to indulge in digital vegging shows up the next morning in dark under eye circles and two more snooze cycles. It’s a chore to drag myself awake.

I’m too tired and distracted to hear God call: Come to me. Connect with me.

Can you relate? Have been you been there? Are you there today?

Now, it’s not like I don’t read my Bible. It’s not like I don’t pray. I’m good with God. We talk throughout the day. I’m okay. But what if doing enough to spiritually get by isn’t the point?

I’m finally listening to my longing and admitting that there’s something in my lived-out priorities that’s outta whack. My soul hungers for more. And more social media, more sleep, more viral videos, more home organization, more activities or mindless TV aren’t going to cut it. You and I were made for more.

We were cut out for divine connection.

Created for intimacy.

Hand-picked for relationship.

Sculpted for surrender.

Wired for worship.

We’ve all got a God-sized gap that no other gods can fill. We’ve got to recognize the ways we’ve been trying to let them — and stop. Say no to what pulls us away from the Gap-Filler and instead press into Him.

I set my alarm earlier than my comfort says to. I remind my kids about our no TV rule before school and to read in bed if they wake up early (Murphy’s Law says if I get up early, someone else will too!). Time protection in preparation: I decide what I’m going to read, place my journal and Bible on top of my laptop lest I autopilot-forget my purpose and fly right into work. Time protection in expectation.

Before I drift off to sleep I remind myself of what is true:

The law of the Lord is perfect, refreshing the soul.

The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple.

Psalm 19:7 (NIV)

In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice;

in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.

Psalm 5:3 (NIV)

Inviting God to fill the place in our lives only He’s made for isn’t a one-size-fits-all formula. There’s no right or wrong way to spend time with Jesus. But for me, I’ve found nothing better than to start my day with Him. In God’s Word. At Jesus’s feet. Pen to paper. Recording and remembering. Listening.

He’s never not shown up to meet with me.

The struggles of our lives, the crises, and daily grind are real. The urgent things that demand immediate doing, the desirous things that draw us to their company, the attention-grabbing things that feel in-the-moment important but lack eternal significance — I get it. I get all of it.

But we don’t have to live consumed by the noise that is not His voice.

Before the sun has yet to run its horizon-rising course, I will come. With gunk in my eyes and a stiff morning back, I will come.

When I reach for my alarm, I remind myself that I’m not getting up for Facebook or Instagram or email. As I pull the chain on my stained glass desk lamp, flooding the darkness with light, I remind myself I’m not rising early for productivity, to check more off my list.

I rise for Him.

Those who know your name trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.

Psalm 9:10 (NIV)

This post was originally published on (in)courage .

Let’s Be Awkward Friends Who Pray

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 03 Mar 2019 08:55:38 GMT

It startled me the first time it happened. It was a Wednesday night my freshman year of college at the musty-smelling YMCA behind my dorm where the collegiate ministry I was involved in met for weekly worship and teaching.

We milled around afterward in small groups, scuffing our feet on the thin, dingy carpet, laughing easy, procrastinating going back to whatever late-night studying or paper-writing awaited us.

I was talking with my friend Kathy. We were probably sharing the highs and lows of the week or commiserating over how the dining hall ran out of chicken crispitos at dinner. I don’t recall the exact details of our conversation — I’m sure it involved me spilling my latest stress-inducing situation with school or the guy I was dating, not dating, or wanting to date again. Through the fog of almost twenty years, I do remember clearly what happened next.

“Let me pray for you about that,” Kathy said.

And then she put her hand on my shoulder and started to pray.

She didn’t say, “I will pray for you about that,” as in, after we leave or tomorrow before class or later in the week if I happen to remember. She just did it — right there under the buzzing fluorescent lights with our friends cracking jokes nearby and the worship band tearing down their equipment. Kathy prayed.

Telling you this story now doesn’t seem so radical. My friend prayed for me. So what?

But at the time? As an eighteen-year-old feeling fresh and stretched in my faith-growing skin, it was the most outrageous, exhilarating thing. I felt so . . . cared for. Seen.

Kathy’s prayer didn’t last long. Standing there with my eyes closed in the middle of a bunch of a college students felt awkward. But maybe simple words and a healthy dose of awkwardness are the very things that can point another person to Jesus. It did for me.

That wouldn’t be the last time a friend gave me the gift of praying in the moment. Just last week at church, I found my friend Margie during the “mingle” time between our singing and the pastor’s preaching. Immediately, her sweet face lit up, and she pulled me into the type of warm hug grandmas give best. Then she took my hand and asked how the book was coming. (The last time we spoke a few months ago I was in the middle of writing.) I told Margie that I had finished my manuscript and would be getting edits back soon, but I needed God to expand my capacity given an extra busy season at work.

There in the middle of a cacophony of chit chat, with friends and strangers shaking hands across rows of chairs, Margie pulled me back in for a hug and prayed. “Lord, increase Becky’s time and energy this week. Use her talents for the good of Your kingdom and to encourage the hearts of women. You are so faithful. We know You will do it. Amen.”

I inhaled my friend’s rose perfume and smiled at the life of faith etched across her face. An extra dose of joy and peace had transferred from her to me in our final squeeze. I felt held up.

Margie could have promised to pray for me that week, and I know she would have been good to her word. But to stop and do it right there was a gift to my heart. Yes, God, You are faithful. Thank You for giving me friends to remind me how true it is.

Something powerful happens when we choose to listen carefully and then enter into someone’s circumstances by taking their concerns straight to God.

In moments like these, I know Jesus’ words to be true:

For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.

Matthew 18:20 (NIV)

Let’s be a friend like Kathy, a friend like Margie. Let’s listen well and pray boldly. And it doesn’t just have to be in a church-like setting. When we run into a friend at the car wash or in the frozen food aisle or at school pick-up, let’s be women who risk feeling awkward for the sake of strengthening a friend’s faith.

Let’s invite the presence of Jesus and the power of the Holy Spirit to invade our lives and move through our circumstances.

I don’t know if it felt like an act of courage to Kathy to pray for her college peer. I don’t know if Margie thought she was being courageous by modeling intercession to a younger Christ-sister. But to me, they are women of courage, and the landscape of my faith is better because of them.

How can we pray for you?

Here at (in)courage one of our greatest privileges is turning to God together in prayer. I wish we could put a physical hand on each other’s shoulder or offer a tight squeeze through our screens. But I believe as we gather here, God is with us. Please leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you.

This post was originally published on (in)courage .

4 Ways to Quiet the Noise

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 22 Dec 2018 18:00:00 GMT

I’ve spent the last many weeks juggling Christmas parties and shopping lists, trying to remember which kid needs a $5 ornament and which one has to bring a traditional holiday dish for his class feast. In the midst of the holiday happiness and chaos, I’ve also been trying hard to listen — straining for the answer to the question my spirit is aching over:

God, what are You saying? Help me to hear. I don’t want to miss it.

I have a case of spiritual angst over hearing God’s voice. Not because I doubt His ability to speak to my heart, but because sometimes I question whether I’ll be able to hear Him above all the noise.

Life is just so loud.

I’m not talking about the constant clamor coming from my three growing boys. (Though the volume they produce is staggering.) I’m talking about the noise of constant information and solicitation. The amplification of confrontation. The perpetual bombardment of breaking news and viral videos. Divisive posts and explosive comment threads. So much fine print and endless must-see lists. My eyes are blurry and my ears are ringing — and it’s not from twinkling lights or jingle bells.

None of it is particularly out of the ordinary. It’s become the white noise to our regular lives. But just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it’s spiritually palatable.

I can’t stand radio commercials or TV commercials. They trigger immediate irritation. Just ask my husband. My senses also feel assaulted by huge billboards flanking the freeway and flashing neon signs groping for my attention. Pop-up ads and email spam, flyers tucked under my windshield wipers and stuffed in my front door handle. It’s all too much for me to handle.

I wonder if I’m the only one who feels this way. Does everyone else know how to tune it all out? Or do they somehow embrace the nonstop petitioning for our attention, our purchase, our opinion? Do others just happily ride the current of hot trends and best deals without any soul nausea from feeling jostled inside?

Anyone else exhausted by it all?

It’s not that I have anything against the blowout sale at Macy’s or the new Chinese restaurant with the coupons for free wontons. I’m sure I’d enjoy reading all the magazines and subscribing to all the podcasts and you bet I’d look better, feel better if I said yes to every workout plan and supplement and oil promoted on Facebook. Business and commerce and blog posts aren’t bad. But if I had one wish this Christmas, it might be for those noise-canceling headphones that I envy every time I’m on an airplane.

Yet the noise entering my ears isn’t as much the issue as the noise clamoring in my soul.

Noise demands to be heard. It’s territorial. It crowds out whatever else is trying to take up space. I think this is why I’m aching for quiet this Christmas. I want to tune out, push back anything that isn’t Jesus. I want to make room for Him not only on the day we celebrate His birth but every day.

Join me over at (in)courage today for four practical ways to quiet the noise this Christmas and into the new year. It’s what I’m #preachingtomyownheart.

I pray it encourages your heart too.

Merry Christmas.

How You Can Spread Light and Mercy TODAY!

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 15 Nov 2018 18:00:00 GMT

I remember as a little girl being bright-eyed with wonder at the candlelight service on Christmas Eve. The dark sanctuary filled with families and neighbors and sweater-clad strangers standing shoulder to shoulder — waiting. A single flame started in one corner. A tiny flicker in the dim expanse. Then the glowing wick from one candle would touch the waxy tip of the next and the flame would pass.

At the same time, the soothing melody of Silent Night rose from one voice. The crowd joined in. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. I waited anxiously, twirling the white candle between my palms. I loved being part of transforming the darkness, of passing on the source of warmth.

One by one, each person dipped their lit candlestick forward to bring light to the next person. The flames quickly multiplied as one became two, and two became four, and four became eight until all five hundred worshipers were reached.

I look back through my mind’s eye and see my six-year-old freckled face aglow with Christmas awe.

Thirty years later and that scene still gets me. How we, the body of Christ, the church, have the joy and privilege of gathering in celebration of the greatest gift ever given because of Christ’s body — the Son of God turned human infant, born to live and die in love and sacrifice. Yet our purpose as believers is not only to gather but to respond, to help spread the Light.

For the past two weeks, the (in)courage community has been linking arms with Mercy House Global to spread God’s mercy and light in tangible ways to women in poverty.

Today is the last day of our #1000mercies campaign and I wanted to invite you to be part of it!

Join me over at (in)courage to read the rest of this story
and find out how you can give the gift of hope this Christmas.

How You Can Change Someone’s Whole Day

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 11 Sep 2018 18:00:00 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

The receptionist with the sparkly blue eyes smiled wide when I came up to the counter to make my follow-up appointment. When several of the next available visits didn’t work with my schedule, I sighed in frustration and offered a weak apology. But she wasn’t irritated or impatient. “Let’s keep looking to find something that will work for you,” she said.

I felt cared for.

The baby was strapped to me in the Bjorn, one toddler was in the top of the shopping cart, and the other one squirmed in the basket with groceries piled around him. All three boys were humming at a low, nerve-grating whine, and I was spying the oatmeal on the top grocery store shelf, calculating if it was worth the climb. “You’ve got your hands full. Let me grab that for you,” said the gentleman with a scruffy beard and long reach who magically appeared.

I felt seen .

I walked into the large sanctuary where women were chatting in small clusters. I scanned the room looking for the cardstock sign with my assigned table number and made a beeline for it. Squeezing past a group of women, someone touched my shoulder from behind. “Hey, Becky!” I turned, surprised that anyone there knew my name. “I’m so glad you joined us again!” the ministry coordinator said.

I felt valued.

These snapshots of intentional kindness only lasted but a moment, but years later, they are still vibrant in my memory. Why? They weren’t lavish or extravagant. They weren’t loud or flashy or done for an audience. They were simple and small.

Kindness doesn’t have to be big to make a big impact.

That’s why I love the new Care Dare from DaySpring — they’re making it easy to be intentional about kindness. When I signed up, I got a printable download with over thirty simple ways to show people in my everyday life that I care. Easy things like, Say Hello First, Send a Card, Give a Compliment, and Thank Someone in Ministry. For the next thirty days, I’m going to join thousands of people in showing others I care. You should join me! Think of the big impact we could make.

Chances are high that those who showed me small kindness in the past wouldn’t even recall the moment. But I remember. In a busy world where people are often preoccupied with their own rushing wants, urgent agendas, and frenzied schedules, an act of compassion stands out.

I’m sharing more about the biblical call to kindness and a

practical way we can put Scripture into practice.

Join me over at (in)courage to read the rest of the article.

Learning to See the Gifts

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 15 Aug 2018 18:00:00 GMT

Big pines stood tall around me bearing witness to the smile stretched across my face. The campground was alive with morning noises — bacon sizzling on outdoor skillets, kids laughing louder than they would at home. I watched a bright blue chested bird perch on a branch heavy with pinecones while two hummingbirds zipped around in a magic dance. I sipped slow on my steamy coffee.

Everything is better in the mountains.

This was my family’s favorite week – when we (mostly) unplug, enjoy nature, and soak up lots of time just being together. It was the perfect way to end summer — connecting and refreshing before my husband begins his busiest season of the year as a college volleyball coach and our three boys start back to school and all the activity and responsibility that brings.

With fresh air in my lungs and no alarm to wake me up (save for the loud whispers of excited kids), it was easy to start each day with gratitude in my heart. I thanked God for crackling campfires, family corn hole tournaments, and sunny trails just waiting for the happy thud of hiking boots.

Thank You, God, for seeing our need for a break from ordinary routine.

One afternoon I sat on a huge log at the far end of our campsite. My husband was on a jog, and the boys were building an epic fort. In the stillness of the moment — no one needing me, no task demanding to be done — I answered the still small voice. Pour it all out to Me.

So I began to pray. For my husband and for each of our boys. For friends by name as they came to mind. I prayed for the young women my husband coaches and their upcoming season. For my book writing and other projects in the making. For you, our beloved (in)courage readers, for each contributor, and my staff-mates. For all that God has done and will yet do.

I talk to God every day. But it’s often in the whirl of fixing meals or the rush of driving here and there. It had honestly been a while since I just sat with Jesus without some pressing next. Given the space to think, feel, share all that was on my heart, I found myself overflowing with thanks. For every request I had, my praise was doubled. Not because I’m extra pious or righteous but because of God’s profound goodness.

With the sun on my back and the gift of time, I was flooded with awareness for all the ways God had answered so many prayers. So I was a little surprised by what the Spirit whispered to my heart next: Give thanks for the gifts you didn’t ask for . Praise Me for answers you never prayed.

Join me over at (in)courage for the rest of this story and the simple

prayer that can change the way we see.

For When God Asks You to Be the Answer

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 02 Jul 2018 18:00:00 GMT

The smell of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls wafted through the crowded terminal. Passengers congregated like impatient sardines near the gate waiting for the airline employee to announce their boarding group. The flight was assigned seating so I was happy to wait till the last minute to start breathing recycled air. I was thrilled to be heading to the (in)courage retreat, but airplanes are not my favorite. At best, I feel squeezed and queasy; at worst, clear the aisle ‘cause I’m sprinting for the lavatory.

I was already starting to feel anticipatory nausea (it’s a thing), and the loud shrieking nearby wasn’t helping. I looked over and saw a mom and toddler in front of a vending machine. The little boy stomped his feet until his mom handed him a blue bag of Chips Ahoy. Cookies at 9 am aren’t going to help anyone! I thought.

Immediately, a pang of conviction trumped my judgment. Surely, I have not been above dolling out sugary snacks to buy myself a couple minutes of peace and quiet.

Lord, forgive me for being quick to judge. Please bless this mama with someone kind and loving to sit next to on the plane. Help her to see You in her day. Amen.

The traveling sardines eventually filed down the jetbridge. I followed to 17E. It was a full flight so I was surprised to find my entire row empty. As I shoved my backpack under the seat, I had a glorious vision: three hours of uninterrupted rest and productivity. With extra space, I’d be able to concentrate on finalizing my notes for the retreat and then catch a little snooze. I’d land ready and refreshed for all God had planned!

I adjusted the air vent and closed the shutter. Deep breath. This might actually be a great flight.

Then there they were. The little boy with chocolate chip crumbs on his chin crawling into the seat next to me. The mom settled in and took off her son’s shoes. He wiggled and shrieked and wedged himself on the floor between the seats.

“I just want to apologize in advance,” she said.

And I knew. I knew God was answering my prayer. Be the blessing.
. . . . .

Join me over at (in)courage today for the rest of the story and

find out how an unexpected plane ride taught me how to pray!

Pulling More Chairs Up to the Table

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 17 Apr 2018 18:00:00 GMT

Wow, what a week it has been — and it’s only Wednesday!

On Monday, I shared some words over at (in)courage about the vision and direction I have sensed God leading in this new season.

Here’s a snippet:

    Friends, we have no greater purpose as God’s daughters than to point others to the love of our Father, which has been poured out for us through the life, death, and resurrection of His Son, our Savior. I’ve got a fire in my bones because He’s calling us all into deeper relationship with Him so that we can make a greater impact for His kingdom. I believe (in)courage is a tool He wants to use to accomplish this. But God doesn’t expand our territory to make us more comfortable. He expands our reach so we can offer His comfort, hope, and peace to others!

    Yet, we can’t do this by ourselves or by our own strength. We were made for community — to commune, link arms, and walk life out with both God and His family. “Better together” isn’t just a catchy hashtag; it’s God’s very plan hashed out through humanity when we give our best to and for one another . When we bend low, listen long, offer what we have, mourn, celebrate, ask forgiveness, and extend grace upon grace upon grace.

    This is what it means to serve, unite, and be empowered by Christ.

    It’s our desire to lean in even harder to authentic community. We want to be a fuller, more beautiful representation of the body of Christ. We want (in)courage to be a place where we hear reflections of our own stories, as well as learn from stories unlike our own in order to grow in compassion, understanding, and unity as God’s daughters.

This is what it means to mature as life-linking sisters, empowering each other to do our part to proclaim Christ and grow the reach of the gospel.

Read the rest of my State of (in)courage Address here .

Then today, I had the crazy joy of helping to welcome ten new contributors to (in)courage! (Well, I guess nine, because I have the honor of being one of them.)

It’s always a great day when we get to pull more chairs up to the table!

Each of the new contributors is introducing herself in her own words — these women are wise and winsome and as real-deal as they come. I know you’ll love them all right out of that gates as much as I do!

Whether you’ve read (in)courage for years or have never heard of it, today is a great day to see what this beautiful community is all about!New Paragraph

Big Things from Small Offerings [And a GIVEAWAY!]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 06 Mar 2018 18:00:00 GMT

It’s been two months since I stepped into the role of Community Manager for (in)courage. People often ask me how the new job is going. What this new season looks like for me personally and for the community I love and serve.

To be honest, I have a hard time knowing what to say. Because it looks both like sprinting a marathon and stumbling baby steps. It looks like wild productivity and painfully slow progress. Not a whole lot seems different yet at incourage.me , but behind the scenes, things are shifting, changing, stretching, maintaining.

I’m equal parts elated at what God is doing and unsure how the next step will be accomplished. It’s exhilarating and stressful. My feet get wet in my own inadequacy but I am happily drenched in God’s faithful strength.

I share this so that you might know that doing the work God gave you to do doesn’t always bring clear evidence and easy answers. It can be the best hardest thing. It can fill you with both fear and confidence. It can make you tremble with what-ifs and stand firm with deep assurance.

It looks like one step at a time obedience even when you don’t know where the path will go.

If you resonate with this, you might enjoy the interview I did recently with Mimika Cooney for the Purpose Power Summit about what it looks like to transform your personal lack into kingdom impact.

You can check out the entire Purpose Power Summit lineup here and sign up for FREE to gain access to content from more than 20 fantastic authors, speakers, and leaders with encouraging words and biblical insight that will help you uncover your God-given purpose so you can impact the world with your gifts, talents, and story.

Or go straight to my 20-minute interview — How to Transform Lack into Impact to hear me talk about the hard spot we all face when what you have to give is not enough for what is needed. There’s this one story that has made all the difference in my walk with God and how I live out my purpose, one small step at a time. I know it will encourage you too!

Speaking of encouragement . . .

I’m giving away two of my favorite DaySpring products that remind me to lean into my

purpose, one step at a time, and trust God to do big things with my small offerings: the Wake

Pray Love (repeat) Mug and the Wow God Necklace

To be entered to win:

    1.Subscribe to beckykeife.com
    2.Leave a comment sharing one small step of faith you’re taking today
    3.For additional entries: Share this post on social media tagging me @beckykeife and leave a comment here telling me you did!

Contest open until Friday, March 9, 2018 at Midnight PST. Must be a resident of the

continental U.S. to win.

Big News

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 07 Jan 2018 18:00:00 GMT

Two months ago, I sat at my kitchen desk nestled under the corner windows and had a conversation through the wonders of Google Hangout with a friend on the opposite side of the country. With one heal balanced on the edge of my chair, knee tucked up against my chest, l leaned in close to my computer screen so I could see the deep blue of my coworker’s eyes and not miss a word of her awesome jumbled accent. I leaned in because that’s what I would do if we were sitting across from each other with caramel lattes in real life.

I leaned in because I knew that what she was saying was life-changing. For both of us.

One month ago, I sat on my living room couch facing the twinkling Christmas tree and through the wonders of Facebook Live watched and listened to that friend share the news with a private group of friends. With feet propped on the ottoman and laptop balancing on my cozy-blanket-covered lap, I took deep breath after deep breath, savoring each word. Taking in the fullness of the moment.

I wanted to breathe in the meaning. Lean in to the gift of this unexpected page of the story.

Today, I’m sitting on my back porch. Outside is always the place I best breathe in, lean in to God. Today that friend on the Google Hangout and Facebook Live wrote a blog post.

Today, Lisa-Jo Baker is sharing with the online world that God has called her to step out of

her role as community manager of (in)courage and He has called me to step into it — to

help lead and serve and cast new vision for my favorite community of women.

You can read Lisa-Jo’s beautiful words today at (in)courage — and a few of mine too — to learn more what this means and how it all came about. (I really hope you will.)

Tomorrow, I will get on an airplane and fly to Arkansas to meet at DaySpring’s headquarters with the (in)courage staff team to dream and pray and plan for this new season ahead. Will you join us in prayer?

My pastor often reminds us that God is always the hero of the story . Even if other major

characters are present, the hero role always belongs to Him.

I am deeply humbled and honored. I am overwhelmed with great joy for the privilege of being

invited to play this key role in the work at (in)courage . But as deep as my assurance is that God

has prepared the way and opened this door, even deeper is my conviction that He is the sole

hero of this story.

Because changing lives, loving His daughters, bringing messages of hope, truth, and grace has the Author’s signature all over it.

What wild grace that I get to be a part .

Purposeful Parenting in the Thick of It

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 26 Nov 2017 18:00:00 GMT

I holler over my shoulder again to stop wrestling right now! then turn back to the customized

sandwich assembly line. Gluten free bread for Elias, no crust for Jude, creamy peanut butter

(NOT chunky) for Noah. I press hard and twist the new jelly lid until it offers that satisfying pop

and releases a fresh burst of blackberry perfume.

A fresh torrent of screams bursts from the back bedroom.

I don’t want to be a referee today. Help me, Jesus. Help them , I sigh.

Brotherly fun turned bitter bickering yet again.

“He kicked me” and “He started it” and “He cheated” and “No, you’re a liar” shoot back and forth

like arrows of accusation. The middle one is using that voice; I stuff my hands in pockets’ safety

lest I slam a door.

“Eyes on me,” I say loud and stern to cut through the chaos. “I am trying to make lunch so we can

go meet friends at the park. You guys need to figure out how to play together nicely or don’t

play together at all. I am sick of your fighting!”

I walk out before they launch into another round of “but it’s not my fault” justification. I turn at

the doorframe to throw a final pair of laser-eye darts of the you better behave variety.

I return to my picnic preparations. Click on Pandora for some soothing George Winston.

Breathe. If we can just get out the door . . . if we can just make it to the park and the promise of

reprieve that fresh air and good friends will surely bring. I slice a few apples and fill up water

bottles.

Thank you for this day, I pray. Please help us . . .

A soul-piercing scream interrupts my prayer.

The bedroom door crashes hard against the wall and three boys explode down the hall like a

stomping, hollering, angry mob. Mean words fly between them as they put their hot read

cheeks and wild eyes close to mine, clamoring to be the first to download his grievances.

I put my hand up. “Three boys on the couch right now,” I say.

They huff to the living room.

I want to shout back at them. Tell them I am fed up, that I’ve had enough. That I want to go to

the park—or anywhere—by myself! Will they ever quit using the same out-of-control, self-

centered script?

Script. Oh, I almost forgot about my script. I collect my thoughts with another deep breath and

join my sons.

They’re scrunched sulky together on the sofa. I kneel down on the living room rug so we can

see eye-to-eye. I fill my lungs with air and instead of laying into my boys, I use the script I

prepared in advance.

“Boys, it hurts my heart when I hear you say mean words to one another. It hurts my heart

when you choose to disobey the rules, when you choose to roughhouse when I’ve told you not

to. I want to go to the park like we planned. But if you cannot behave appropriately and treat

one another kindly when we’re home, then I cannot trust you to behave appropriately and treat

others kindly when we’re somewhere else. The bottom line is this, guys: How we treat each

other at home is practice for how we treat people anywhere else.”

They fidget like 8, 7, and 5-year-old boys do and one starts to stand up in his wind-up of protest.

I put my hand up.

“Please sit back down and listen,” I say. “You’re going to want to hear this.”

He sits.

“In order for us to still go to the park today, two things need to happen: First, you need to

apologize to each other and to me for being disrespectful. Second, you need to get along with

each other and use kind words until I say it’s time to go. If you can show self-control for the next

twenty minutes, we will go to the park. If your words or actions are unloving, I will call our

friends and cancel the playdate. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

They all nod yes and say sorry, some with more sincerity than others. I count the attempt a

victory.

After I hug each boy they all run off to play. I hear the clickety-clank of a Lego avalanche

overtaking the bedroom. I hear the ka-chung ka-chung of a bouncy ball against the closet

door—another game of indoor handball.

My heart exhales.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you that even when I get it all wrong, you walk beside me. Thank you

that you’re continually growing not only my boys, but me. Shaping me, training me, guiding me

in your ways so that my own words and actions may better reflect your lovingkindness. Thank

you for helping me be mindful of how I talk to my children. Help us get through these next

twenty minutes so we can go to the park. Amen.

Twenty minutes come and go without incident and we make it to the park. We soak in the

blessings of sunshine and swings and grass to run free. As I watch Elias fling his wild body from

monkey bar to bar, crazy legs flailing, I can’t help but smile at God’s faithfulness to keep watch

over me as I flail through this crazy journey of motherhood.

I never knew being a mom would be so hard. That I would feel stretched so thin. That I would

care so deeply. That my buttons would be pushed so often, pushed to my core to the point of

feeling cored out, empty, depleted, some days completely defeated. I also didn’t know that

every challenge with my kids would push me to see my deeper need for Jesus. That He would

graciously pull me through the grit to Him. That He would use the behavior battles and messy

meltdowns to teach me how to press in—to Him.

Without exception, God’s Word is my first and greatest lifeline for getting through the

crazy chaos days of raising kids. It is living bread and water, it is life and hope, the source of

every treasure of wisdom and knowledge.

Read the book of James , precious mamas, and let the renewing work of Scripture transform

your mind and your life:

“ If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke

you for asking .” ( James 1:5 )

“ Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to

speak, and slow to get angry. Human anger does not produce the righteousness God

desires.”

( James 1:19-20 )

Another lifeline God has given me again and again is the tried and trusted experience of godly

women. Others moms who have been through the ringer with their kids and through the

process of being right wrung out, they have learned a thing or twenty about walking with Jesus

in the thick of motherhood. Wendy Speake and Amber Lia are two such women. Their new

book, Parenting Scripts: When What You’re Saying to Your Kids Isn’t Working, Say Something

New , is a parenting book meets workbook that helps weary parents figure out what they mean

to say before they say something mean.

" If you decide in the calm moments of life how to deal with conflict, there is a

chance to respond the right way, each and every time. ~ Parenting Scripts

Through Wendy and Amber’s writing and online Gentle Parenting community, I have learned

firsthand the power of the parenting script. It wasn’t without some initial skepticism and

awkward first tries—anything new can feel wooden and will my kids even listen ?! But the thing

we all know to be true is that we never do our best thinking or our best parenting when that

vein in our neck is pulsing mad from being disobeyed or disrespected or just plain ol’ irritated

for the hundredth time in a day.

There is hope in prayerful preparation.

When I decided in advance what I really wanted to tell my kids in those push-my-buttons, out-

of-control behavior moments, I felt less overwhelmed and better able to respond with purpose

while in the thick of it.

The idea of using a script was instrumental in helping shift my parenting strategy.

A thoughtful script helps buoy parents out of their unproductive communication habits and

equips them with life-giving words. Even the most seasoned parents can feel adrift in the wild

waters of raising spirited kids. More stable ground is possible! Parenting Scripts can be our

trusted guide to get there.

The Struggle Is Real . . . But So Is God

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 06 Nov 2017 18:00:00 GMT

I’ve been feeling it again. That low-grade ache of discontentment. That inner restlessness,

nagging, gnawing, something softly knocking. That unnamed longing for something more even

on days I finally catch my breath, catch up on laundry, or make it to bedtime without being

called a mean mean mommy .

I don’t know why it takes me so long to recognize the source — God’s still small voice. Calling

yet again to return to Him, spend time with Him.

I’ve been choosing the trap of glowing screens and too many late-night scrolling minutes.

( Whoa, where did the last hour go? ) I like to be alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone in my

uninterrupted bubble, an insulated reprieve from all the demands and needs. I like to be alone

— yet tethered to a gazillion disconnected friends. ( Cute cat! Sad story. Hey, she’s pregnant

again! ) Is vegging out such a sin?

The evidence of my choice shows up the next morning in dark undereye circles and two more

snooze cycles. Do I have to drag myself awake?

I’m too tired and distracted to hear Him call: Come to me. Connect with me.

( Can you relate? Have been you been there? Are you there today? )

It’s not like a don’t read my Bible. It’s not like I don’t pray. I’m good with God. We talk

throughout the day. I’m okay.

But what if doing enough to spiritually get by isn’t the point?

I’m finally listening to my longing and admitting that there’s something in my lived-out priorities

that’s outta whack. My soul hungers for more. And more social media, more sleep, more viral

videos, more home organization, more activities or mindless TV isn’t going to cut it. You and I

were made for more.

We were cut out for divine connection.

Join me today at (in)courage for the rest of this story !

When Easter Feels Hard and Hope Out of Reach

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 14 Apr 2017 18:00:00 GMT

He shuffled up the walkway in his worn argyle sweater and brown corduroys. We came out to

meet him so he wouldn’t have to climb the two concrete steps to the front door.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, with our usual awkward hug.

I loaded my toddler in the backseat and climbed in beside him. Dad eased himself in the front

next to my husband. Mumbling over his shoulder we made small talk on the short drive to

church. It was Easter Sunday Eve.

I chatted about Noah’s newest word and the picnic we had planned.

I dreaded the next inevitable question. The answer in recent years was never good. But I

had to ask it anyway .

“So, how are you doing, Dad?”

He cleared his throat and looked out the window.

“I’m okay.” Long pause.

My husband shot a look in the rearview mirror that begged me to keep the conversation light.

“I, umm,” Dad continued, “I went to church three times this week. I plan to go again tomorrow at

least once. Maybe twice.”

“That’s great,” I said and asked which churches he attended and what each service was like. We pulled

into the crowded parking lot and made our way into the worship center.

White lilies lined the stage. Classic hymns recomposed with modern beats pulsed from the

speakers. The pastor got up and preached a resurrection message. But all I could think about

was my dad’s week. I pictured him sitting off to the side in unfamiliar pews, stranger faces

glancing back at him each time he rattle-cough-hacked or blew his nose too loudly. I pictured

him surrounded by crowds, but all alone.

It was a sobering glimpse of my dad’s grim reality . The truth was, he didn’t go to church six

times during Holy Week because he was super spiritual; he went because he was utterly

desperate . . .

Join me over at (in)courage
where I’m sharing the rest of this story
of God reaching into my dad’s darkest pit.

When You’ve Got Dry Bones

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 12 Jan 2017 18:00:00 GMT

It’s a mad dash between trying to get the rebellious four-year-old to nap and dabbing on

enough under-eye concealer to look presentable while finishing the imminently due assignment

before dashing out the door. The crowded campus parking lot with narrow spots is easy to

navigate compared to the skill it takes to delegate kids’ schedules in order to pull away from the

fray and actually go to class.

I climb the final flight of stairs slightly huffing and make it to my seat with but a breath of time to

spare. I look west out the picture windows that span the length of the classroom — foothills and

trees and a bustling street, reminders of life and all that keeps breathing.

We do introductions, then go over the course syllabus for English 510: Literature and the Bible.

“Now let’s dive into our first class activity,” the professor says. “Turn with me to Ezekiel chapter

37.”

He reads from The Message version a story about dry bones. God grabbed me. God’s Spirit

took me up and set me down in the middle of an open plain strewn with bones.

I follow along on my Bible app, taking in the story to the cadence of the professor’s voice.

He stammers a bit but my eyes stay locked on the words. So I prophesied, just as he

commanded me. Then breath entered them and they came alive!

I glance up and understand the cause of the professor’s pause . . .

I’m delighted to be posting at (in)courage today!

Please join me there for the rest of the story.

When You Feel Swallowed by Sadness

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 08 Aug 2016 18:00:00 GMT

I made it two houses down before the mighty wave’s shadow overwhelmed me. I could feel it

ready to break. Tears started to leak out in anticipation of the pummeling to come.

My boys jumped and giggled loudly, straining their necks to see daddy’s iPhone, guessing where

the next Pokemon might be. The sun peaked thorough bows thick with summer green on its

slow decent toward the horizon. Everything glowed golden.

I still couldn’t fake a smile.

“Go home if you need to,” my husband offered. I turned back around ashamed I couldn’t squelch

the sadness. I reached the front door and was swallowed.

* * *

I don’t know exactly why the tears fall so fat and fast.

I miss Dad . I ache for Alyssa . I feel anxious over a looming unknown.

I told Chris that my sadness is like the kind of wave that crashes hard upon the shore right

after a long period of calm. Then as quick as it came and turned you upside down in its harsh,

unexpected fury—it is gone.

Sometimes this grief thing makes me feel crazy. Beyond myself. Outside of myself. Out of

control of myself. I so desperately want to control it. To stuff the sad, achy parts into boxes

marked Happy, Content, Normal . I want to understand it away, explain the grief away.

I want my mind to bulldoze over for the mighty swells. Squash them into submission.

Call it grief, sweeping sadness, cyclical depression: whatever name I give it, treating it with a

harsh, shoving hand doesn’t change it.

Stuffing it only has a jack-in-the-box effect. Eventually life will turn the crank of emotions

enough times and that jack of sadness won’t have any choice but to spring forth in a torrent of

tears

or irritability

or anger

or detachment.

Same root. Different leaves.

I’ve mingled metaphors, but who’s judging? Writing is cathartic. Weaving words helps me find

may way, catch my breath, through the swirling. The ocean has power to pummel with waves,

yet it also has power to calm—its rhythmic song lulling me toward quiet grace.

This swell of sadness has receded. I don’t know how soon it will be back. But for now I am okay.

Chris and the boys will be back soon from playing Pokemon Go, excited to divulge their stash of

animated creatures.

Yes, for now I am okay.

* * *

That’s what I penned in my journal a few days ago in a moment of flooded despair.

Reading my own words now makes me feel a little crazy. Being fine, then not fine, and fine again.

Reliving the helpless tumble in the unforgiving surf of sadness. I worry a little that in sharing

this glimpse of my struggle, crazy will be your main takeaway about me. But I’ve decided, even if

that’s the case, it’s okay.

Because I believe for at least one person these words will be a

lifeline of hope.

A sign of understanding, a small assurance. If that one person is you— friend —lean in close. Hear

me clearly:

I see you. You are not alone.

I am a blessed woman whose faith is built on solid rock, but that truth doesn’t stop the waves

from crashing. My life is good. My God is great. Yet, be it due to current circumstances, past

loss, heritage, or chemistry, I still go through moments, sometimes seasons, of feeling

pummeled by pain I can’t always explain.

So this is what I want to say in case you need to hear it as much as I do:

Feeling pain does not negate your faith or good fortune. Being swept by sadness is not

contrary to your stability or capacity. Your struggle does not trump your strength, or more

aptly, God’s strength in you .

It is okay to weep.

A gracious friend recently told me it was brave to cry. To feel. To not stuff it. (In those sweeping

moments it’s hard for me to believe her, but I’m usually up for a challenge.) She also said our

tears usher in peace like a river. I cried hard and ugly across those journal pages, trying to get

the sadness out, trying to feel whatever it was that needed feeling so the current of grief could

ebb away.

My friend was right: through the tears…peace.

If you need someone to give you freedom today to cry for that bottled up pain or

unnameable angst, consider yourself free, my friend.

Release each tear to Jesus.

Your circumstances might not change but I trust your heart will. Washed over by peace like a

river.

Maybe like me, you fear that sadness is somehow un-Christian. That your tears reflect a lack

of trust, your struggle a lack of faith-based strength.

When that fear and sadness mingle, I remind myself of this:

The brokenness of this world manifests in many ways. My life is not measured by my immunity

to such brokenness, but by my surrender to the Savior whom I need because of it. Yes, I am

measured by His grace.

You are measured by God’s boundless grace.

What I Learned from Our Botched Camping Trip

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 16 May 2016 18:00:00 GMT

The smell of pine and earth and sticky sweet marshmallows roasting golden over an open fire.

The scurry of lizards and God’s fury creatures, birds with brightly colored feathers calling to

one another in chirps and song. Steep rocky peaks and lush meadow greens, winding waters

babbling over smooth river stones. Crisp air deep to breathe. Space to move. New things to see.

This was the adventure we had planned. Ten days of open road taking our crew of boys to

exciting wilderness locations—embracing the gift of family time away in God’s great

creation.

Our hope was to start our expedition heading 1,000 miles north to Yellowstone National Park.

But seeing that overnight temps were still dipping well below freezing in mid May and most of

the campgrounds were closed till later in the season, we decided to relinquish our dream of elk

and buffalo and hot springs for another time.

Surely it was best to take a less uncertain route.

Before we left on our Camping Extravaganza, as I was calling it, I asked a friend to pray that I

would be lighthearted . A day into the trip another friend texted me and asked how she could

pray— a flexible spirit , I said.

These weren’t my usual requests. More typically I would ask for protection prayers—you know,

Lord, please don’t let anyone fall off a cliff or into the fire pit. Jesus, don’t let my kids pick up a

poisonous snake or puke all over the van coming down the mountain.

I enjoy safety and sanitation. Stitches and vomit should be avoided at all costs. (Can I get a

mama, amen?!)

I believe God not only has the power to answer our prayers, but the power to prompt

them . He knew I would need a light heart and flexible spirit for this epic adventure with my

husband and three young sons. He was preparing me before we even pulled out of the

driveway, a day and several hours behind schedule, in our silver minivan packed to the gills with

camping paraphernalia and, let me just be honest, a ton of unnecessary crap.

With Noah, Elias, and Jude squeezed in the backseat like booster-buckled sardines and our

own small mountain of stuff, we headed off across the California dessert, through Vegas traffic,

a corner of Arizona, and finally to our first destination: the beautiful red rocks of Zion, Utah.

Except we couldn’t see the breathtaking vistas and awe-inspiring stone formations. Because we

arrived at 9 pm. Because we left late.

Lighthearted. Flexible.

We spent our first night in a $200 hotel room. Everything cheaper was booked. The boys

thought the tiny bottle of bright green mouthwash was the best thing ever .

At daybreak, Chris—faithful husband and superhero daddy—wrenched himself from the satiny

hotel sheets (where little sleep was had because a certain middle son apparently grinds his

teeth at a soul-piercing decibel) to drive into the Park and wait in line for a campsite. He made it

to the tired attendant as the sun was lighting the mountains on morning fire, just before all the

spots were filled. She handed him a card for site #77.

Chris retrieved the boys and I from the hotel and chauffeured us to our new outdoor residence.

Number 77 was the worst site in the campground. Probably the worst in all of Zion. One dead

tree stump. No shade. Sandwiched between busy entry and exit roads. A lovely view of several

worn out trailers. Not the lush, spacious, private nature escape we envisioned.

Lighthearted. Flexible. Please, Jesus.

We ate stale bagels grabbed from the hotel buffet and set up camp. Now it was time to see the

glory of Zion. The boys thrilled over riding in a tram for the first time, which took us through the

Park’s inner ravine. Magnificent views of sheer faced cliffs painted in sandstone of every

crimson, amber, and amethyst hue never ceased as we traveled ever higher.

By the time we reached the last stop, our intended hiking launch, we realized it was nearly

noon, the trek back to camp would take at least two hours, and we had overlooked packing

lunch or even a snack. We road the tram back down.

When we walked up to our site we noticed a small open gap in the tent flap. Slightly concerning.

It was more concerning when we discovered that a barely undone zipper had given way to a

naughty squirrel that weaseled into a food box with hot dog buns, granola bars, and the most

delicious loaf of cinnamon swirl bread.

Nothing says bon appetit like plastic bags gnarled by varmint teeth.

Friends, are you getting the picture? From day one, this trip was not at all what we expected. In

many ways it was a disaster. Yet, if you have been following our journey via Instagram or

Facebook , my hunch is that you’d say it looked pretty picture perfect.

Both are true.

We could have let things like snoring kids, high winds, and a crappy campground ruin our time.

We could have let sticking to a preconceived plan or rigid definition of a fun and successful

vacation ruin us. But instead we chose to be lighthearted. Flexible. I know this was a gift from

the Spirit because this is not my normal bent. (Structure and fulfilled expectations are dear

friends I prefer keeping close.)

We ended up spending less than 48 hours in Zion’s glorious shadow. We didn’t head northeast

to Bryce Canyon or northwest to the great Sequoias like we planned. We went home. Took

showers. Got a decent night’s sleep in our own comfy beds. And ditched half the crud we didn’t

need.

Being flexible lightened our load.

We spent the last three days of our trip just an hour and a half from home in our local San

Bernardino Mountains. South Fork campground in Big Bear had the perfect spot. Its skyscraper

evergreens, big boulders, and swift stream taught me that making memories isn’t hinged to a

specific location. Growing in gratitude for God’s creation and love for one another isn’t tied to a

certain set of circumstances.

It’s all connected to our perspective.

The boys had a blast. Building secret hideouts with fallen branches, shooting arrows like ninja

spies, and playing catch with Daddy. Self-planned quests involving buckets of water, mud, rock

jumping, and thorny bush weaving.

Imaginations soar in the fertile soil of temporary boredom and nature’s playground. All

they really needed was a sling shot, 99 Cent Store toolbox, a patch of dirt, and freedom to

explore.

We started our trip late and ended early, but we certainly weren’t shortchanged. We were rich

in laughter and fireside snuggles, rich in learning to be patient, adaptable, and grateful. It wasn’t

all yellow butterflies and rock-skipping wonder. Brothers still bickered and kids earned time-

outs. Adults still used harsh tones and forgot to be humble.

Still there was a constant thread of grace woven in our overall lightheartedness and

willingness to flex.

This wasn’t the epic Camping Extravaganza I had imagined.

But it was everything we needed it to be.

the answer to every predicament

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 02 May 2016 18:00:00 GMT

" He says, “Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I
will be exalted in the earth.” –Psalm 46:10

In the calamity of divisive politics
In the devastation of a diagnoses

Be still and know that I am God.

In the uncertainty of financial distress
In the tension of relational unrest

Be still and know that I am God.

When you’re at the end of your parenting rope
When your dream is dying and you see no hope

Be still and know.

When the needs are too many and resources too few
When you’re falling apart but need to be the glue

Be still and know.

If the days drag on in a mundane mess
If you long to see God and feel His nearness

Be still.

If your peace and trust are trampled by worry
If your life is a blur of hurt and hurry

Be still.

In every moment of every day
When skies are clear, when clouds hang gray
When hope is easy and burdens light
When too many knockdowns sap your fight
When you wonder about purpose, if you matter at all
When you want to crumble but you’ve got to stand tall
When the world is heavy, tainted, and dark
When you long for more love, just one little spark
When you need the fierce lion and the merciful lamb
Be still and know the Great I AM.

* * *

Sharing in community with Jennifer Dukes Lee #TellHisStory and Holley Gerth

#CoffeeForYourHeart.

Mommy Naps on Sundays

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 10 Apr 2016 18:00:00 GMT

My children like to fight about ridiculous things. They go round and round in circles with their

unique little-kid logic, wielding augmentative skills like tiny lawyers.

Mostly this is completely irritating.

Like when they go to blows over who gets the last banana or why one brother should share his

new Legos but the asserting brother certainly doesn’t have to for reasons x, y, and z.

Sometimes this sibling banter moves past a mother’s annoyance to fascination and

entertainment. Like when my boys debate about whether zombies are stronger than ninjas or

how animals will behave in heaven. I get a peek into their amazing minds and wild imaginations.

Then there is the sweet occasion when their arguing becomes a window of insight. A

glimpse at deeper truths being soaked up.

A couple months ago I overheard one such conversation between my two oldest boys that went something like this…

                 Noah (6): Grownups don’t take naps.
                 Elias: (5): Yeah, they do!
                 Noah: No, they don’t. Only kids do .
                 Elias: But, some grownups take naps.
                 Noah: Nu-uh! Taking naps is just for little kids.
                 Elias: Well, Mommy takes a nap on Sundays and she’s a grownup!

To most this probably doesn’t sound like an extraordinary interaction. But to me, it was

astounding. Because I learned that my kids are watching. Closely.

Elias was right. I do usually take a nap on Sundays. His statement indicates he made two

observations: 1) This was a predictable pattern in my life, and 2) Sunday was different than the

other days of the week.

There was a time not too long ago when this is not what Elias would have noticed.

I was given the crazy blessing of having three sons in just three and a half years. While I’m still

very much in the thick of motherhood (my boys are now 7, 5, and 3), those earliest years with

lots of littles were uniquely special and utterly exhausting.

The days stretched long, held together by a mother’s glue of spit up, breast milk, and

crushed Cheerios. It was a season when getting the preschooler, toddler, and baby to nap at

the same time felt like a divine gift FROM THE LORD. Should such grace strike our small, blue,

two-bedroom house like a lightening bolt from heaven around one in the afternoon, it was all I

could do to offer up a Halleluiah! Thank you, Jesus! followed by a quick and desperate plea of

And please don’t let them wake up soon! Then I heaved myself on the couch in a weary heap

and fell asleep.

This was my afternoon pattern for a long time. It’s how I survived.

But once I emerged from the fog of middle-of-the-night nursings and toddler-Houdini crib-

climbing, and began to get a reasonable amount of overnight rest, the boys’ naptime shifted to

my time.

My time to be productive!

Instead of waking up to find me drooling on the couch, my boys emerged from their mid-day

slumber to find me hard at work. Washing dishes or fixing dinner. Often sitting at my computer,

feverishly trying to finish a batch of payments for my part-time job as a medical biller. Perhaps

tapping out a blog post or composing emails regarding the moms ministry at church.

Whatever the activity, my boys knew that while they rested, Mommy worked.

Until something shifted. Almost two years ago God called me to surrender a piece of my heart I

didn’t even know I was holding back. Things changed when I started to Sabbath.

It actually began when I wrote a post about how I didn’t think keeping the Sabbath was possible

for a busy mom in the throes of raising spirited boys. Through connections made from that

post, I discovered a group of people who had made an “all in” commitment to Sabbath keeping,

led by a wonderful writer named Shelly Miller —she called it the Sabbath Society.

I quickly recognized that I had actually met Shelly at a conference the year prior. So I happily

subscribed to her weekly Sabbath newsletter, thinking it would at least be interesting to learn

about this archaic faith practice I didn’t have time for, and fun to reconnect with the sweet

woman who had prayed for me in a South Carolina hotel.

Oh, were my expectations small.

Instead of an obligatory list of seventh day dos and don’ts, I discovered an invitation—from

God’s heart to mine steeped in love and grace—an invitation to rest.

I have struggled with finding identity and security in my ability to produce and perform.

Choosing to Sabbath was the next step on my journey to relinquish these self-reliant

tendencies for greater reliance on the Lord: His provision in place of my perfectionism.

For me, learning to Sabbath has meant learning to take productivity off the exquisite pedestal

I’d placed it on in favor of practicing God’s presence. Surprisingly, I discovered that this

exchange doesn’t always feel super spiritual. Sometimes it looks plain and practical. Like taking

a nap.

Now when my sons wake from their afternoon snooze on Sundays, they don’t find my hands

deep in sudsy dishwater or typing fervently at my computer. They find my hands—and my

heart—at rest.

I trust that God is using my example to shape their young minds. I trust that in my rhythm of

rest they are learning about God’s good gifts.

Mommy Anger, Cracked Eggs, and Real Hope for Change [UPDATED: NEW TRIGGERS STUDY GUIDE!]]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 28 Feb 2016 18:00:00 GMT

I pulled treasures out of a high cupboard and set up Noah and Elias for a few minutes of

independent play. (Strategic stashing of forgotten toys was one of my favorite mommy tricks to

occupy toddlers with the novelty of “new” and buy myself a little time.) Content with their red

monster trucks and ABC blocks, I left my two and three year old on the living room rug, picked

up the baby in his bouncy seat, and hurried to my bedroom.

Today, I was going to get dressed.

Pants without an elastic waistband, a shirt without spit-up. This was big stuff.

I looked through every pair of jeans in my drawer and every shirt in my closet and they all

screamed awkward! I was still in that uncomfortable postpartum stage where neither

maternity clothes nor my old skinny jeans were an appropriate fit.

I glanced at Jude drooling happily and swatting at the fuzzy monkeys hanging from his mobile.

Cheerful noises drifted from the living room. “Brudder, do you want to race me?” Followed by

the zoom of toy wheels racing over hardwood and the familiar crash of plastic against

baseboards.

“Boys,” I called, “I’m so glad you’re playing nicely! Keep up the good work.”

After a second peruse through every piece of clothing, I decided a fresh pair of yoga pants was

probably the best choice after all. I pulled on the comforting black stretchy fabric and reached

for a flowy top.

Then I noticed it was very quiet.

I love quiet. But it’s rarely a good sign with young boys. I peeked my head out the door and

peered into the living room. No little bodies to be found.

I heard a giggle.

I took a few steps and spied spindly legs crouching under the dining room table.

“Whatchya doing under there?” I asked.

“Umm, nothing?” my oldest replied in a tone dripping with guilt.

I stooped down to look in the faces of my mischievous children. I was not prepared for what I

saw. Wedged between their little feet lay an open carton of eggs. Cracked shells. Yokes

everywhere. STICKY SALMONELLA SLIME SLIDING DOWN THEIR ARMS!

My moment of peace, attempting the tiniest bit of self-care, was instantly transformed

into a disastrous mess. I instantly transformed into Monster Mommy.

Red faced, raging blood pressure pounding in my ears, I roared angry disapproval at my boys at

a decibel my hard-of-hearing neighbor probably heard. With white knuckles I clenched the arm

of each eggy offender and carried them to the bathtub.

“Sit down and don’t you dare move!”

I seethed picking fragments of jagged shell out of the looped carpet. Then I scrubbed my boys

vigorously in their pre-8 am bath.

Just as I was beginning to regain my composure, I found egg smeared on my clean outfit. A

fresh bout of rage awakened my beastliness again.

———-

Three years later and I can finally laugh over the ridiculousness of this event. How my boys

were just being inquisitive kids and I was just being an exhausted mom reacting to an

unfortunate episode of childhood curiosity.

But for days, maybe even weeks after, I beat myself up over how I had completely lost it.

I carried a thick blanket of guilt over the way I had scary screamed at my small children. I

felt shame over the hot tears we all cried—tears springing more from my volatile response than

their poor choice.

I know most would offer comfort and consolation that I was normal. That anyone would react

that way to food being wasted and a good rug being ruined by children who obviously knew

their actions were naughty. Yet, calling it “normal” didn’t bring relief to my wounded heart.

Because this wasn’t an isolated incident. I was angry a lot. And not just about big stuff like

children crunching raw eggs into my dining room rug.

If a boy fussed about buckling his car seat or asked for a second bedtime drink. If brothers

bickered over whose turn it was to use the blue crayon or someone dropped a bowl of Cheerios

on a freshly swept floor. If a little one wanting attention tapped my shoulder or tugged my shirt

just one more time—I was like a time bomb waiting to go off.

From calm and clear-minded to triggered. Boom! Explosive.

I was a young mom with three kids under four who was rocked raw that the very people

I loved the most could bring out my very worst. I adored my children but I detested my anger.

Most of the time I loved them well. But my increasing pattern of reactionary parenting in the

gritty moments of the day made me feel like all the good stuff had been totally erased.

I feel the throb of tears welling behind my eyes as I write.

I want to go back in time and hug that worn and weary mama who felt like there was no

hope for her brokenness. I want to assure her that though the journey is long, she doesn’t stay

stuck in that angry place. I want to encourage her that God’s grace is greater than her sin and

new patterns of gentler parenting are possible! Love wins.

I write this today as a testament to God’s redeeming grace. I am not the same mom I was then.

Do I never get triggered? Is all my anger gone? Not by a long shot. I am still very much in

process. But I have made meaningful progress.

Looking back, I recognize three main things the Lord used to help me break through my sin of

anger toward my kids:

    1.Being rooted in the Word and prayer.
    2.Getting honest with and accountable to friends.
    3.Inviting my kids into the process of forgiveness and fresh starts.

Recently, my friends Wendy Speake and Amber Lia wrote a fantastic book about this very topic,

aptly called, Triggers: Exchanging Parents’ Angry Reactions for Gentle Biblical Responses.

I wish I would have had this book three years ago.

Anger can be a shameful, shackling reality for so many moms—but it doesn’t have to be!

Triggers brings the darkness of anger into the light of shared experiences, and offers parents

practical tools to identify what sets them off and then develop strategies for anger prevention

and wiser reactions.

It covers 31 of the most common triggers, including disobedience, backtalk, whining and

complaining, exhaustion, running late, and no personal space (just to name a few of my personal

“favorites.”)

But more than parenting tips and self-help tricks, Triggers offers a call to deeper intimacy

with and reliance on Jesus. It is life-changing support for every mom and family wherever they

are on the journey.

I recently shared with The MOB Society (Mothers of Boys) about the impact Triggers has had

on my life. You can read that interview here to learn more about my personal story and

Triggers. You’ll also find other encouraging stories about the incredible ways God has used this

book to transform hearts and homes.

I am thrilled to be giving away a copy of the book here!

Whether you feel totally controlled by the Mommy Monster inside of you like I did, or you just

need some fresh ideas on how to respond well to the regular frustrations that arise as a parent,

I highly recommend Triggers!

To be entered to win, just leave a comment below.

> Feel free to share a prayer request for the struggle that weighs most heavily on you, or a

praise for how you have found hope and growth.

> For extra entries, share this blog post on social media. Then hop back over and leave a

separate comment letting me know where you shared.

> Giveaway will be open until Friday, March 4th at noon (PST). If you don’t want to wait for

the giveaway, get your copy of Triggers today , available on Amazon in paperback and for

Kindle.

***UPDATE: And the winner is…SABRINA JOHNSTON! ***

Congratulations, Sabrina! Email me with your address and I will send you a copy of Triggers! I

honestly wish I could give this book to every precious mom who s post. But I can encourage you

with the fullness of my mama heart to buy Triggers as a gift to yourself and your family so you

can start experiencing greater freedom in your parenting.

Guess what, mamas?
Now even more hope and help is on the way!

Introducing the NEW Triggers Study Guide

The authors of Triggers got such incredible feedback about the ways homes and hearts are

being changed by the biblical wisdom and practical tools put forth in their book, that they

decided to provide another resource to help moms apply the material in an even deeper way.

The Trigger Study Guide is now available! It’s perfect for going through on your own, with a

small group, or you can join authors Wendy Speake and Amber Lia as they lead an online book

club study with the MOB Society beginning September 6th.

How to Show Up for the Grieving

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 11 Feb 2016 18:00:00 GMT

My dad’s high school yearbook told the story of a popular teen with the world at his fingertips
— track star, editor of the school paper, class council president. Countless black and white
photos of the handsome young man surrounded by smiling peers in matching horn-rimmed
glasses. An athlete and academic full of promise and potential.

But that’s not the story I knew. Nor the one reflected at his memorial the day we gathered to
mourn my father.

Had someone asked my dad’s friends back then what Ralph’s funeral would someday be like, I’m
sure they would have described an auditorium packed to the gills with old classmates and
friends eager to pay their respects. Surely there would be stories of his impressive professional
success and anecdotes from loved ones about the dynamic, devoted man he was. The line to
greet the family would be long, but everyone would wait because that’s what you do to honor
an extraordinary man.

But when we gathered on that somber morning five years ago to pay tribute to my father, I
think I could count on one hand the people that were there just for him.

The successful high school senior’s life didn’t turn out the way everyone expected. Yes, he had
worked his way into a high-paying management position. He got married and had three
beautiful daughters. But the majority of his adulthood was marked by pain and broken dreams.
Two divorces, depression, and addiction marred his body and soul. He cut himself off from
everyone, save for my sisters and me, who worked hard to continue a relationship with him.

But the church sanctuary was not empty that cold February morning. Not by a long shot.

I’m blessed to be sharing today at (in)courage . Please join me there to read the rest of this story .

The body content of your post goes here. To edit this text, click on it and delete this default text and start typing your own or paste your own from a different source.

The Power of Conviction and Where You Can Find Delight This Year

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 15 Jan 2016 18:00:00 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

For three weeks I’ve been trying to write this blog post. I’ve sat down half a dozen times using

half as many methods: typing at my laptop, scribbling in my journal, musing in my mind. And—

nothing.

Well, writer’s block didn’t plague me completely. I did a fair amount of research and reflecting,

compiled several pages of relevant information. And, sure, each writing attempt produced a

decent smattering of words.

But then— stuck.

So funky stuck that I began to wonder if I should just trash it all and instead write a funny

limerick about the time my son tried to “clean” my contact lenses in his little potty full of pee.

While that might be worth doing for pure entertainment’s sake, this stuck-in-me post felt

weighty—worthy of coming out.

I just couldn’t let it go.

Then last night while I spent some time in my sacred thinking box (aka quiet shower after

my kids are asleep), I had this awakening:

Conviction is empty without action.
Conviction is trite without change.

I knew exactly what it meant. For me. For getting my post unstuck.

But before I tell you why, let me back up.

The post I’d been trying to write was about my *one word* for 2016: DELIGHT.

I wanted to write first about how God used my one word for 2015 in amazing ways to guide me,

stretch me, and bless me as I purposed to continue in Him and trust Him to continue in me. ( You

can read about the beginnings of that here. )

I wanted to tell you how God was faithful twelve-months-strong in ways big and small and how

as December crept to an end, I longed for Him to speak to me clearly again. I longed for a new

word to shine a light on the path God had set for the year ahead.

Then I hoped to wrap it all up in a pretty, word-art bow and tell you with poetic grandeur how

He did it! How God whispered a new word right to my heart and now I can take flight on

another great adventure of pursuing this God-given theme!

But each time I tried to do this writing I wanted I got stuck. Not because what I’ve said isn’t

true. God did work in significant ways in my life last year that are worth sharing. And He did

answer my prayer for a specific word to guide me in 2016.

What my shower epiphany made clear is that I couldn’t fully write about a new conviction

until I was ready to fully live it.

My One Word for 2016 is DELIGHT, which was birthed through this Spirit-whispered

question:

Where do you find your delight?

This led to a humbling confession: I had been finding my delight in meaningless junk of this

world instead of in the Holy Word of God. Not junk that would make this post gossip-worthy

or shocking. But junk nonetheless.

This is what I confessed to the Lord on the last day of 2015:

God, you are with us, yet I have missed you. I miss you. I know you are always here—I have

thought of you and called to you—but lately I have not purposed to draw near to you.

I’ve been filling the holes in my time and holes in my heart with meaningless gods: Sudoku,

Facebook, sleep. I’ve been looking there first for comfort, connection, peace. But you are

the only true source of any of it. You are the source of all.

Please forgive me, Father. Forgive me for making idols out of being idle. Forgive me for

putting you behind unimportant things. Forgive me for ignoring your voice when you call.

It was that confession that sparked a renewed conviction to give God my best in 2016 by

allowing Him to be the source of my delight.

On the first of the year I made a stake out of the first Psalm. I planted these words firmly in

the soil of my soul, claiming this is what I want my year, my life, to be about:

“Oh, the joys of those who do not follow the wicked, or stand around with sinners, or

join with the mockers. But they delight in the Law of the Lord, meditating on it day

and night. They are like trees planted along the riverbank, bearing fruit each season.

Their leaves never whither, and they prosper in all they do.” (Psalm 1:1-3)

Delighting in the Law of the Lord. Yes.
Meditating on it day and night. Yes.
These pursuits lead to godly obedience and blessing, but more than that they lead to joy!

This connection between finding delight in the Word and experiencing joy propelled me on

a hunt to see where else this correlation might be found. I landed in Psalm 119 and the evidence

of a profound relationship between the two was beautifully overwhelming.

This is a taste of what I found:

Psalm 119

JOY
Joyful are people of integrity,
who follow the instructions of the LORD. -1

Joyful are those who obey his laws
and search for him with all their hearts. -2

As pressure and stress bear down on me,
I find joy in your commands . -143

DELIGHT
I will study your commandments and reflect on your ways.
I will delight in your decrees and not forget your word . -15-16

How I delight in your commands !
How I love them! -47

Your laws are my treasure ;
they are my heart’s delight . -111

Do you see? Do you see how significant and encouraging this is? What an invitation to life this is?

As I poured over these verses, I not only felt the heartache for my past sin of putting

mindless iPhone scrolling and number game clicking above the Lord, but I felt the comfort

of being called with love and grace to something greater! Called to partake in the treasure

hunt of finding my delight in the Word of God.

The riches are here! I’ve given you full access! the Lord says. Put aside that imitation

wealth and come experience the riches of my wisdom, love, and joy! It’s all waiting for

you here in my Word.

I hip-hip-hoorayed in my spirit with an enthusiastic YES!

I recommitted to making it a priority to read Scripture, study passages, and meditate on verses.

January is always a great time to do this because lots of online Bible studies and devotional

groups are starting up. I eagerly joined my friends at Deeper Waters to walk through the Word

together. I haven’t skipped a day yet and even wrote some of the devotions .

So, I’m good, right?

Not so much. Because I couldn’t manage to authentically share it. The words stayed stuck

because, though I was delighting in the Word, I was also still looking to those old bad-habit idols

for some sort of satisfaction.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with keeping up with friends or posting a Facebook status. There’s

nothing wrong with enjoying a little brain exercise via a quick numbers game. But there is

something wrong with those things being my default. There’s something wrong when first thing

in the morning or last thing late in bed, my fingers flick and my mind mushes to the glowing

screen of addiction.

I had added in more of God’s Word, but I hadn’t subtracted more of the world.

Back in my sacred thinking box, hot water pounded on my neck and this awakening thrummed

in my chest

Convictions are empty without action. Convictions are trite without change.

Becky, do you want your year to be marked by delight? the Spirit breathed through the

mist. Do you want my Word to transform you? Do you want the full life of joy I have

offered you?

Then be willing to act. Be willing to change. Fully.

That night I deleted Sudoku from my phone and established some boundaries about time on

social media to help me be more disciplined in this area. Is that the secret to a life of deep

delight? Of course not. It was the small but personal sacrifice God was asking me to make in

order to lean more fully into His will.

My heart echoed the Psalmist again:

“Turn my eyes from worthless things, and give me life through your word.”

(Psalm 119:37)

Lord, I choose You as my source of delight! May it ever be so.

If you are looking for a place to find encouragement in God’s Word in community, I

invite you to check out the 2016 Bible Reading Plan at Deeper Waters .

Another resource that has been invaluable to my walk with the Lord is the Sabbath

Society . Join Shelly Miller and hundreds of others on the journey of accepting God’s

invitation to rest.

Linking with the beautiful communities of storytellers hosted by Jennifer Dukes Lee and Holley

Gerth .

The Art of Motherhood and the View from My Windows

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 12 Oct 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I carry a wadded up turquoise tablecloth out the back door and shake breakfast crumbs over

the porch railing. I turn to go back inside to set the dinner table, but light catches the corner of

my eye. Green leaves dancing in early evening breeze light up like thin paper lanterns. I drop the

tablecloth on a dusty chair and grab my phone from its back pocket home, then tiptoe down

three stairs for a closer look. Quiet as to not disturb nature’s artistry at work.

Click. I capture five-pointed leaves made more alive by the day’s last light. I breathe.

* * *

I snap pictures of browning banana peels on my kitchen counter, left haphazard by my husband .

I frame the scene in pixels, not because discarded fruit skins are a thing of beauty, but because

God uses the commonplace to teach my heart uncommon truths. To teach me that sacrificial

love is not just a fancy term in some archaic book; it’s the saving grace Gospel in the one Good

Book. The message we’re called to live.

The Creator of bananas, marriage, and forgiveness chose to make me a writer. I write to learn

the lesson full. So I sit down at my curb-rescued desk and type out the message He’s writing in

me. The post title reads, “Banana Peels and a Lesson in Perspective,” and by the end I know I’m

tasked with throwing yellow and brown breakfast trash away every day along with any

irritation for the sake of practical love. Readers leave comments that say, “ Me, too ” and “Thanks

for being real.”

All I’ve done is the heart-searching, word-plucking work the Spirit led me through.

* * *

I walk into an Orthodox church for the first time and marvel at the colorful displays. My senses

overwhelm me and I feel a little faint—not sure if it’s my blood pressure dropping or the

stuffiness despite the spacious place. I sip from the water bottle I hope it’s okay to have inside

and purpose to make the most of this special grad class field trip.

I shuffle my way around the perimeter then weave through every aisle. No matter where I turn

there is art. There is story. Intricate paintings and stained glass masterpieces. Carved wood,

marble pillars, silk flowers, and crystal chandeliers. And gold. Oh, the gold. Golden paint in

stylized halos hover above every saint. Shimmer. Illuminate.

But these are not just artistic exhibits. These are icons. Written records of Christianity’s most

prominent figures and poignant moments in history. I’m witnessing the inspired telling of the

Gospel—iconographers the skilled vessel for the Storyteller.

The wooziness won’t leave me so I make my way to a lonely pew. I try to take in every angle. Try

to translate the reading I’ve done for my masters class into meaning of what I’m seeing. But the

analytical mind won’t work here.

I’m compelled to offer a response from the heart. I pull out pen and paper and scribble the

words flowing fast.

     This is a house of worship,
     A place the soul is fed,
     A place the spirit meets the Spirit.
     This is a sacred place
     Of Beauty. Honor. Sacrifice.
     Who could gaze upon these displays
     And not experience reverence for Christ?
     I do not understand the Greek words
     Inscribed on every surface.
     But my heart knows the language
     Of truth and beauty.
     Yes, we all speak beauty—
     Or at least we’re made to listen.

* * *

I sit crisscross-applesauce on carpet that begs to be vacuumed and deal our 15th round of Uno.

Brown eyes gleam excitement when Noah plays another draw four wild. “Gotcha, Mommy!” my

six year old squeals.

He calls blue and slaps down his last card, and before he can ask I’m shuffling again because I

know “Just one more?” is coming.

The sun beats on our backs as we walk home from school, Eli’s fingers intertwined with mine,

our shared hands swinging.

“Did you know we have a marble jar? Did you know there are more than 3,000 kinds of apples?

When can you buy me some yellow ones? How long would it take to dig a hole and find lava?

Like a billion hours or a trillion hours? When can I have a slingshot like David or a sword like the

zombie we saw hanging on the green house?”

My five year old’s questions pulse like tiny swords on my light-induced headache, but I

keep taking deep breaths and answer each one with as much joy as I can muster.

Because, oh, the curiosity! The wonder!

*

My knees creak from an old sports injury as I crouch down eye to eye with my three year old.

Tears run hot mad down his satiny cheeks. “I won’t listen to you ever,” Jude huffs, then collapses

in my arms in the same breathy puff.

I pray the Spirit’s help in tempering my blood prone to boil . I speak affirming words of love

and tell him in toddler terms how it makes mommy’s heart sad when he hits me.

The moment ends with soft lips pressed in my neck and “I’m sorry, Princess Mommy” whispers.

*

Pasta sauce sputters on the stove, tiny splatters escaping their stainless steel confines. Black

burners now covered with red dots. I ignore the mess to referee a brother brawl erupting over

whose turn it is for the blue marker. In the midst of “Use your words” and “What’s the Golden

Rule?” reminders, one boy asks, “Hey, Mom, what’s for dinner?” My ravioli reply is met with

groans and disgruntled bemoans, but before I can say it, another kid chimes in with my favorite

phrase: “Let’s give thanks for what we have and don’t complain!”

Easy for him to say it snarky as a ravioli lover—but bless my heart, at least it’s sinking in.

*

These: my ordinary mama moments. The joys and challenges

that mark the mundane canvas of daily life with strokes of

beauty.

Few eyes, if any at all, will see the countless hours of dinner fixing, homework helping, character

training, and card game playing. The prayers for wisdom, grace, and strength lifted up with

intention and desperation both won’t be heard, applauded, or understood by anyone, but the

One.

Yet, it’s the grit and grace of motherhood, of raising three young boys into mighty men, that is

perhaps my greatest Icon. My loudest testimony, clearest window to who God is and how He

made me.

It’s with dish hands and soft tummy, wrinkled brow and growing heart that I make the art

of motherhood.

I teach gratitude as I learn to be grateful. I model forgiveness as I learn to forgive. I proclaim the

Father’s unconditional love for my three sons as I learn to accept it fully for myself.

There’s rarely glitter or first time precision in this type of masterpiece making. Never

perfection. But there is golden light, which is true of every true icon. Because that’s the product

of reflecting God. That’s the beauty that no man or mother can fabricate or replicate. That’s the

genuine, precious metal expression from creating in rhythm with the Creator the precise piece

He’s set before you.

It’s Him shining through you.

Weary mama apt for impatience with rough-and-tumble children prone not to listen,

transformed into a glorious picture of the Spirit’s fruit: love, joy, peace, unto self-control.

For Him . Because of Him .

It’s a window for me. A window for them.

To see the One who sees us.

* * *

These are micro-snapshots of my callings.

I’m a noticer. A capturer. I’m a reflector and creator. A word-art maker. I’m a writer.

I am a mother, which means I’m a teacher, a trainer, a nurturing caretaker.

This is the artistry I’ve been commissioned for.

Even as I’ve entered a new life season as a graduate student, with much of my time spent at the

window of scholarship instead of creating a view for you here, I am still creating art. Art on lined

pages of scribbled notes. Art through soothing hugs to calm little hearts with big night terrors.

Art in capturing neighborhood beauty one iPhone click at a time.

We are all made to create because we’ve been made in the image of the Creator.

This is my art. My windows.

What are yours?

* * *
Linking with Jennifer and Holley and their beautiful story-telling communtiies.

Faith Steps and Friendship (Feathers Podcast Guest)

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 14 Sep 2015 18:00:00 GMT

Often when I’m thick in the daily grit, it’s difficult to step back and see the bigger picture of

what God is doing in my life.

I see small strokes of His faithfulness and provision through personalized blessings: dinner

delivered from a friend while my husband is traveling, an improved attitude with one of my

kiddos, a mechanic’s second opinion and car crisis averted. But I’m not always able to envision

the full masterpiece the Creator is painting, can’t always grasp that there is a larger story He is

writing.

When I’m in the middle of living, I only have narrowed eyes to see the moment right in front of

me.

But there is a blessing waiting…

The blessing of perspective.

The blessing of looking back over a series of seemingly disjointed events and coming to a

deeper understanding of God’s fluid, continuous work in my life.

I recently was afforded this blessing when Amy J. Bennett asked me to be a guest on her

podcast. Feathers: Faith in Flight is a podcast focused on telling stories of faith steps and how

God uses life’s often unexpected circumstances to turn our hearts toward Him.

In our episode , I share about my journey over the last five years from a lonely mom

desperate for one do-life-with friend to a mom thriving in community and living out my

calling to encourage other women.

I love telling this story because through it I get to cast a light on the bigger picture God was

painting in my life. In a season when I just needed to know I wasn’t alone, God was actually

laying a foundation not only for deep friendships, but for ministry, writing, and ultimately

learning to trust and follow Him into many unknowns.

After listening back to the interview with Amy, I was slightly embarrassed to discover that in my

excitement of sharing this story I revert back to my junior high self and overusde the word “like”

a few too many times. But I’m using it as just another reminder that God uses imperfect people

to point to His perfect goodness.

So I hope you will carve out a pocket of time (while you’re folding laundry, running on the

treadmill, or waiting in the carpool line) to listen through my flawed delivery and find

encouragement wherever you are in your own story that God hears your cries, He sees your

needs, and He has a greater plan for your life than you could ask or imagine.

Find the podcast here or go to iTunes and search for “Feathers: Faith in Flight”.

* * *

Also sharing with Jennifer and Holley and their beautiful communities of storytellers.

The Power of Rest

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 14 Aug 2015 18:00:00 GMT

What if you just rested?

What if you closed the computer and powered down the phone? What if you turned off the

music or the podcast or the great preacher on TV? What if you put away the iPad and hid the

remote control?

What if you didn’t post, tweet, share, favorite, comment, like, or link up?

What if you exchanged the noise out, noise in, for quiet? More of Him?

What if you just stopped?

Chose rest.

Breath.

What if you laughed over little boys in backyard buckets or ran wild through the sprinklers?

What if you walked with family in a place with no wires and looked for signs that Yahweh is

looking for you?

What if you stepped outside to capture the day’s last light and marvel slow over heaven’s

masterpiece?

Would the world whiz on without you? Would the busy buzz on beyond you? Would you be

lost, passed up, or forgotten?

Would you miss out on God’s best because you chose to rest?

Or would you find new life, new meaning, a new way of connecting over jigsaw puzzles and

white lacquered dominoes?

Would you discover that you can actually find refreshment for your soul without

refreshing your browser? That you can hear the message your heart needs without receiving

another text?

Would you uncover that you’re not overlooked or left out when you unplug your devices, but

that you’re actually seen and known best when you plug into relationship? Plug into living

present?

Your blog and Facebook, Twitter feed and Pinterest board all serve a purpose. But do they

sometimes keep you from living life on purpose? Do the voices there sometimes drown out

the Voice you need to hear in here?

What if doing more wasn’t the answer? What if being still was.

Listening.

To Him.

Resting.

In Him.

What if your longing for the bigger picture, the larger story, could be fulfilled by slowing down

enough to notice the smallest of creation?

What if it’s in the still and quiet, unproductive rest that actually you gain the wisdom to see, gain

the strength to believe, gain the power to power it all back up for a greater purpose?

* * *
Linking up with Jennifer and Holley and their beautiful communities of storytellers.

When You Feel Like You Failed Summer

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 05 Aug 2015 18:00:00 GMT

Somehow the long of summer has melted fast like a bright red Popsicle abandoned in the sun.

The sweet, refreshing treat morphed into a sticky, concrete-staining puddle.

Somehow the adventure-seeking, marshmallow-roasting days of summer have faded like

smoke trails after Fourth of July fireworks. Rainbow bursts of color and light an instant image

turned faint memory. The sky left muddied gray.

In seven days my boys start back to school.

And I feel like I failed summer.

Yes, I said boys with an “s” which means plural. I’m launching the second born piece of my heart

and can hardly believe that in one short week I’ll turn the corner from Mom-Home-with-Lots-

of-Littles to Mom-of-School-Age-Kids and the bulk of my days will be spent with just my Jude.

So this hallmark summer closing a hallmark season was suppose to be Hallmark perfect. The

movie reels played in my mind with a Celtic/Taylor Swift/Jack Johnson soundtrack. (I have a

vibrant imagination of what an outdoorsy/fun/laid back summer sounds like.)

The scenes flashed with cinematic flair from boys curled in cozy library nooks pouring ove

r books to new swimmers stroking long and confident across a glimmering pool. I pictured

productive mornings at the dining room table practicing letters followed by happy park play

dates reconnecting with old friends.

I say “Hallmark perfect” in jest because if you know me you know I’m actually all about the real,

gritty mess of motherhood, which is always full of beauty but rarely picturesque. I honestly

don’t think I set my expectations too high or my hopes too lofty. But I did set a few key

Summer To-Dos as a guide to help make the most of these precious, time-flying days .

Nothing on that list got done.

My kids did not learn how to swim.

They did not complete a summer reading program at the library. (Okay, for the sake of full

disclosure, let’s go the distance and confess that we actually did not even step foot in a library.

Not. One. Time.)

We did not work on proper letter formation or reinforce the new reading skills my oldest

learned in kindergarten.

I don’t recall deep cleaning a single thing and that big basket full of who-knows-what on the side

of my bed was not properly dealt with but rather strategically shifted week after week so as not

to be tripped over or viewed through a door crack when company came to visit.

And there’s a long list of friends I genuinely wanted to connect with, to share hearts over iced

coffee while watching tiny tanned limbs flail through backyard sprinklers— but good intentions

fell short without timely initiation.

As I look back on these fast-flying summer months I see the glare of not enough learning,

cleaning, connecting, or reading, and too much glowing TV, blasting AC, yelling, rebelling, and

close-quarter dwelling.

The reflection makes me feel pretty much defeated. Our whole summer withered like that

sad red Popsicle. Wasted away before fulfilling its full potential.

But before I drown in a sticky pool of red dye self pity, I remember the power of

perspective. I open my journal and read through hundreds of God gifts scribbled down as

thanks. I scroll through my camera roll and see countless moments meaningful enough to

capture in pixels.

And I remember this:

Focusing on my shortcomings crowds out

memories of all the blessings.

And oh, friends, there were so many blessings.

Not fancy or expensive. Simple blessings so ordinary I almost forgot.

Like painting rocks.

One glorious morning my little explorers set out on a backyard expedition to uncover earthen

treasure. We set up a washing station to carefully clean their stone discoveries. Once the

earthen beauties were baked dry by the summer sun, we laid paper bags over cracked concrete

—high-tech painting stations. And budding artists in superman pajamas were joy-full to create.

Forgotten moments now remembered. Savored. Wouldn’t dare to trade.

I keep on mind-and-photo scrolling, determined to recall what other buried blessings

made up our summer days and nights.

Soon the memories come streaming back…

Lego building extravaganzas that covered the dining room table for days. Little boys’

imaginations soaring free and wild. Plastic masterpieces zooming through space, shooting

galactic bad guys. Blessing.

Back porch dinners, all five of us crowding around one tiny bistro table. Watermelon juice

dripping from lips. Noah slipping from his chair to catch a cricket meal for Baxter, his backyard-

caught pet lizard. Blessing.

Evening walks instead of early bedtimes. Savoring a soft summer breeze. Leaves catching

golden light. Boyhood treasures—rubberbands and bottle caps—discovered at every turn.

Blessing.

Summer storms breaking through the heat. Boys catching raindrops on outstretched tongues.

Digging race tracks in freshly made mud. Watching the parched land drink in the unexpected

blessing.

Homemade pizza making. Little hands gripping tight the mighty rolling pin, pushing hard and

long to make dough stretch long and thin. Excited fingers sprinkling cheese, carefully placing

pineapple pieces, sneaking bites when nobody was thought to be looking. Three mini chefs in

floured aprons watching their creations cook through one smeared oven window. Blessing.

And how did I discount the three mountain days of our first family-of-five tent camping

adventure? S’mores around a glowing fire. Hunting for lizards with Daddy’s handmade lassos.

Looking up and crouching down—God’s fingerprints at every turn. Blessings abound.

Sure we were massacred by mosquitoes, two kids got a bloody nose, and the other puked

on the windy road home. But the trip was not a failure.

Not by a long shot.

Could I dare say the same thing about summer?

Because dare I not forget the gazillion grains of sand dug and molded into castles, the 487

rounds of Candy Land played, or 98 hours of VBS songs sung. Dare I not minimize the countless

stories read, three brothers crowded on one bed. Or family movie nights and french toast

dinners. Brothers battling in bedroom soccer (stuffed penguin as the ball), Daddy-Ref with the

scoreboard app teaching sons to be good losers and winners.

Could I have done summer better? Absolutely.

But if I were reading this recap on your blog or listening to you retell it in a coffee shop corner

on a sacred friend date, I would never say you failed.

I would say you showed up, lived real, loved well, did your

best or at least good enough.

And that is good. That is enough.

So I’ll muster the courage to whisper the same words to myself.

I’ll take stock of each blessing. Count every gift. Not to convince myself that I measure up as a

mom. But to remember that God was with us. In us.

Remember that summer doesn’t come with a pass/fail grade. It isn’t judged on a rubric of

productivity or graded on a bell curve of comparison to all the Facebook Jones’s.

Summer is a season. A time to break. To breathe.

To let little boys jump like ninjas through wormy sprinklers.

And that’s exactly what we did.

* * *

Sharing with Jennifer and Holley and their beautiful communities of storytellers.

How to Savor the Long and Trying, Precious, Time-Flying Days

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 19 Jul 2015 18:00:00 GMT

These are the days so long it’s hard to understand why some say the years fly by.

These are the diaper days and bedtime battle nights.

These days that blur together because the nursings and nightmares leave but moments

chopped together to make up a mama’s sleep.

These are the shouting days when you scream right back and then cry in pained shame

because you know two wrongs don’t teach what’s right.

These days filled with too many “No’s” and “Don’t touch that’s” to keep track.

These are the days where you need two extra eyes and four extra arms so you can feed the

baby while you make spaghetti and fix the Lego masterpiece that the Evil Emperor Zurg just

destroyed.

These are the days of endless snack fixing, spill-proof sippy cup spill cleaning, crumb sweeping,

and exhausted weeping.

These days when getting sick feels cosmically unfair because kids aren’t a file that can wait on

your desk or a project you can pass off. Because somehow you signed the 24/7 contract with no

time off allotted as the CEO of your kids who need to run, play, eat, bathe, every day, round the

clock whether you’re throwing up or not.

These are the days where your body is not your own. It’s the baby’s nourishment and the

toddler’s comfort and the preschooler’s jungle gym, but it’s still soft and squishy because

there’s no time to entertain actually going to a real gym.

These are the days.

These days where going to the grocery store or the bathroom alone feels like a luxury.

These days where all the wants and needs, whining and training make you feel like you can

barely breathe.

Yes, these are those days.

But, they are also these days…

These are the days where you are a little person’s world. The prettiest, smartest, grandest thing

they’ve ever seen and every day dream to be.

These are the days where they fight over who gets to sit next to you in the restaurant booth

and want to show you twenty times the empty spot from their first lost tooth.

These are the days of tickle wars and endless kisses, of hugs tight around your neck and “I

miss you, Mommy!” wishes.

These are the days that they actually want to hear you sing, to hold your hand, and gently twirl

your diamond ring.

These are the days where hot chocolate and mini marshmallows make you the all time greatest

hero. You, the Princess, the Mommy Queen.

These days where their eyes light up over dragonflies and kitty cats, bubblegum treats and

cheesy goldfishes.

These are the days where you can squeeze their tiny buns and stroke their satin pillow cheeks,

where you can learn the curve of their eyelashes by heart and watch their chest rise and fall

while they sleep.

These are the days where your kisses have magic healing powers and little faces plaster

mesmerized out the window at God’s drip-drop showers.

These are the days where finding worms and spotting rainbows are amazing feats to be

applauded.

These days where you are the only one they want when they get teased, or poked, or prodded.

These are the long and trying, precious, time-flying days.

These days I far too often want to wish away.

But then I STOP.

And see.

SEE THE GIFTS ALL AROUND ME. And I want to unwrap them slowly and savor each sweet

and sticky, salty nape neck, summer buzz cut moment before it slips away.

I want to laugh over lips dripping with watermelon juice. Memorize each sun-kissed freckle and

coconut smell of sunscreen on skin ready to jump out, run free.

I don’t want to dread the long of these days that I miss out on

the delight.

I don’t want to stay stuck in the haze that I miss out on being amazed.

I don’t want the pain and drain to be my main refrain.

I don’t want to erase these days when I could embrace these days.

These are the days that won’t last forever. (No days ever do.)

And I don’t think we’re meant to throw them away. Bemoan them away.

Yes, they are hard. I’m the first to raise my hand and say it!

But can we savor them anyway? Choose joy? Count gifts?

Let our children know that they are JOY? They are GIFT!

Let’s make sure that these days don’t pass slow or fast without our children knowing that

in them their mama takes great delight.

The Song I Had to Write in a Trader Joe’s Parking Lot

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 08 Jul 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I imagine painters see, feel, breathe bursts of color. That pigments of every hue run through

their veins, pulse in their chests. I imagine there are days they can’t not paint. Moments when

their minds are a blur of brushstrokes waiting to break free, yearning to pour out a message

through paint and canvas. That there is an image or emotion, landscape or lesson that must leak

out in artistic expression before it is lost.

I imagine musicians see, feel, breathe chords and melodies. That notes and lyrics course

through their bodies, syncopated rhythms dictate their hearts’ very beat. I imagine there are

days they can’t not sing, compose, or play. Moments when their minds buzz with musical

phrases, magical verses, harmonies, interludes, or stylistic attitudes. That there is a song that

must be birthed through voice or instrument, inspiration that must move from conceptual

feeling to tangible expression lest something in them be lost.

I don’t know these things to be true. I’m not a painter or composer. I’m not singer, songwriter,

print maker, or piano player.

But if I had to put my money where my imagination is, I wouldn’t hesitate because of what I

do know as an artist.

Yes, I am an artist.

I’m a writer.

My medium isn’t soft pastels or rhythmic runs; I don’t create with acrylics or arching melodies.

My art is made of words. Nouns, adjectives, and verbs strung together to tell the stories that

vibrate across my heartstrings. I see the world not through color or song, but through description

and analysis.

My mind begins to craft the retelling even as I’m in the middle of the living. It’s not contrived—

it’s how I’m wired. It makes me come alive.

Surely writing, like all artistry, requires discipline and intentional focus. It’s not all creative

inspiration just floating by. But one way I know I’m an artist is when I’m not trying to make

art, but art is trying to make me.

The art I can’t not create.

The words can’t not write.

(The technical writer in me cringes at my repeated use of a double negative, but sometimes the

incorrect is just plain right. There’s no truer way to say it.)

It was this kind of soul-need to create, to let out the convictions dressed up as descriptions that

overwhelmed me last Friday as I pulled into a Trader Joe’s parking lot.

The need to exhale the art was so strong I wished in that moment I was a musician who could

belt it out in song, strum it loud over nylon strings, or pound out the poetry through ivory keys. I

longed for the joy satisfaction of swabbing a brush across a pallet and bringing to life the scene

stored in my heart.

But that’s not the art God gave me, at least not last Friday as I parked my silver minivan

between white painted lines.

But there was an invitation to art I couldn’t ignore.

Before I dashed into the store on this rare kid-free shopping trip, I dug into the depths of my

mama purse, between the baby wipes and melted crayons, and retrieved my artist’s tools.

With pen and paper in hand, I scribbled out my heart song, my art song, my

poem to Jesus on a busy Friday afternoon I couldn’t not write.

I don’t want to rush my time with you
I don’t want to hurry up, hurry through
I don’t want to rush my time with you
So I can rush on to the next
There should be no next when I’m with you now

I don’t want to say hold on a sec
I don’t want to say hold on
I don’t want to say hold on a sec
When you call my name
I don’t want to say hold on
Make you wait
While I make up my mind to answer your call

I don’t want to put you on the back burner, bottom rung
I don’t want to put you in the last box on my list
No, you’re not a thing to check off
First in my life should never be pushed to the back, bottom, last
So why do I keep putting you there?

First things should be first, top, foremost,
Utmost importance, utmost in my life.

How can I make the most of you
When I don’t give you the most of me?
Most of my time, most of my mind?
How can I show others I know you
If I don’t take the time to know you
Be known by you?

You mean more to me than a last place, misplaced priority
Yes, you mean more to me
Yeah, we don’t rush the most important
We don’t rush through, hurry up what we truly savor

Let me savor my Savior

Let my time with you be like sipping my morning joe
Delighting in each sweet, creamy, awakening drink
Let me drink you in like my eyes soak up the setting sun
Ablaze with electric orange and fiery pink
Let me linger long with you like I do
As the sky fades to lightest lavender and steely gray

Let me look intently in your eyes, your heart
Hanging onto every word like I do
When it’s my best friend, favorite speaker, hero writer
—the ones I love or love to put on pedestals
—the ones I want to be like and with and for
Let me gaze long at you before I ever look to them

Yes, may my looking be deliberate
Slow with decision and delight
No rushing here
No rushing here
No putting off till tomorrow the beauty
That could be mine today

The beauty of sitting at your feet and holding on to you
My Jesus

My pen came to a stop and I exhaled deep the satisfaction of doing the thing God gave me to do.

To make art. Not perfect masterpieces—no, this poem was a scribbled mess—but to get to know

Him through the messy, mundane, beautiful process of making it.

God calls to me through my art.

Through my art I respond, and invite others to join with me.

* * *
How has God used art in your life?
What does making art mean to you?

* * *
Linking with Jennifer , Holley , and the The High Calling for their special series called Art Matters.

Remembering Your Cornerstone Stories

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 16 Jun 2015 18:00:00 GMT

Clouds of white smoke billowed high, glowing orange against the black night sky.

Mom pulled my hand in a frenzied dash across the street. I looked over my shoulder and saw

Dad at the end of the driveway in his blue-checkered bathrobe wielding a green garden hose

against the monstrous flames.

Safe inside the neighbor’s house, I clung to my favorite stuffed monkey that Mom raced back

upstairs to save upon my desperate pleas. It was way past midnight but Mrs. Peterson brought

us cups of hot chocolate. I sat between my sisters, searched my mug for mini marshmallows,

and tried to count the staggering number of Scotty dog decorations instead of thinking about

the fire.

Days later after the coals stopped smoldering, we walked through the scorched backyard

where the garage used to stand—my great grandfather’s old workshop— ashes of memories.

The wood fence was obliterated and I could see straight through to the yard next door. A yellow

bucket lay 50 feet away in the driveway, melted from the inferno’s heat in wonky disarray.

I looked up and saw into my second story bedroom. Not through a window—straight

through the wall that was no longer there. Back of the house burned right off.

Join me at Share The Brew to read the rest of this story—a stroll

down memory lane of the must-not-forget stones of my faith .

Click here to find the post.

The Measure of Wealth

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 16 Jun 2015 18:00:00 GMT

If you can blast up the music and rock out to your favorite tune
If you can gently sway to Mozart and feel the music fill the room

If you can pause and bend down low to smell the sweetness of a rose
If you can spy six shades of pink in the garden where it grows

If you have a friend who knows you and loves you as you are
If you have three meals a day or four wheels on a car

If you have someone to call when you’ve had an awful day
If you have someone to hold when the clouds won’t go away

If you can walk around the block and wave hello to your neighbors
If you can count on a friend to help who never counts the favors

If you can stroke across a pool or feel the sun on your face
If you can spy a passing butterfly or call a dandelion grace

If you have a house to call your home or a place to rest your head
If you have shoes on your feet or a place your soul is fed

If you have a favorite hobby that grows delight in your heart
If you have a dream you’re dreaming and taken a step to start

If you have a skill you’re good at or a subject you love to study
If you have a goal to reach and an accountability buddy

If you have someone to hug and squeeze and whisper, I love you, to
If you can look upon the sky or sea and get lost in endless blue

If you can dip your spoon in ice cream and savor the frozen sweet
If you can call a friend past midnight and say you need to meet

If you can begin a new adventure by opening a book
If you can soothe a hurting child with a caring look

If you can help someone in need without a second thought
If you can be grateful for who you are instead of who you’re not

If you can look past numbers on a scale or in your bank account
If you can count all your gifts, good fortune easily recount

If you can say Yes to just one thing on this simple “If you” list
Then you are wealthier than most, so give thanks.

You are blessed.

The Soil of Friendship: An (in)courage Post

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 01 Jun 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I pull my hands from the water and wipe them soapy straight on my jeans. I crouch down to see

eye to eye with my four-year-old, breathe deep, and listen to his most urgent cry:

“Mommy, my brudders are not being kind and caring for me at all! They aren’t playing with me

or helping me fight the lava monsters! And that is RUDE!”

We talk again about using our words and how sometimes we need to join what someone else is

doing or play alone. Elias swipes his runny nose along his sleeve and dinosaur stomps back to

his room, big tears holding fast in the corners of his eyes.

I turn back to the dishes and let my gaze rest on the sunflower-filled mason jar sitting on the

windowsill. Deep yellow petals encircle mocha centers like golden crowns. Blooms of sunshine

resting on sturdy, green stems.

Flowers from a friend.

I understand how my middle boy feels. He wants to be with. He longs to be seen. Known.

Valued and included.

I get it.

Suddenly I well with tears of my own.

Join me at (in)courage today , where I’m sharing more. Click here

to find the post.

A Letter to My Sons (What I Need to Own and Must Not Forget)

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 26 May 2015 18:00:00 GMT

Dear Oldest Son of Mine,

I don’t want to forget the way we hold hands and jump over sidewalk cracks on our morning

walks to school. I don’t want to forget how you stoop low to find another rollie pollie friend, how

you make me halt my brisk pace to smell the sweet star jasmine together—two noses inhaling

deep into tiny white blossoms of Spring.

I don’t want to forget the way you beg me to sit next to you in the back seat when Daddy drives

or how every night you ask for extra back scratchies. I don’t want to forget the sweat on your

brow and satisfaction in your smile when you finally learned to jump rope like a pro. Is your

record still 157?

Dear Oldest Son, I don’t want to forget anything about the gift of you being six. The way you

write I’m sorry notes to Daddy after you make a bad choice. The way you swing your heart out,

knocking tennis balls over the roof and out of our front-yard ball park.The way you build epic

Lego ships, devour food like you’re already a teenager, and solve dinner-table math problems

like a number wiz. You are the best couch cuddler, vegetable eater, and Noah Christopher I

could ever ask for.

I love being your mama. I’m so proud of you. I will always love you.

* * *

Dear Middle Son of Mine,

I don’t want to forget the way you scooter up and down the driveway in your blue shark helmet

until your cheeks are pink as roses and your neck as salty as your favorite Fritos. I don’t want to

forget the way you insist on sleeping in just your superhero chonies and how you’re convinced

if you keep digging you’ll find that backyard buried treasure.

I don’t want to forget the way you say mowlawner when you really mean lawnmower or the

way you whisper-shout “I love you” in my ear ’till I can’t stand the tickle. I don’t want to forget a

single freckle or chin dimple.

Dearest Middle Son, I don’t want to forget the way encouragement spills from your four-year-

old heart. The way you cheer, “You can do it, Daddy!” as he jogs up hill, and “Good job, Noah,” as

he places the last puzzle piece, and “Keep trying, Buddy,” as the little one sits on his Mickey

potty.

I don’t want to forget how you always volunteer to pray at dinner and say thank you for your

Trader Joe’s stickers. How you promise to always defend the Princess and are the first to share

your snacks. You have the most sparkly eyes and tender heart of any Elias Michael the world

over.

I love being your mama. I’m so proud of you. I will always love you.

* * *

Dear Youngest Son of Mine,

I don’t want to forget the way you nuzzle in the crook of my neck and say, face buried, “Mommy,

I love your nook.” I don’t want to forget the way you run joyful abandon, bounce in your step

without looking back.

I don’t want to forget the way you call me Flower and Daddy Stinky, or the way one curl falls in

the middle of your forehead. I don’t want to forget how you take my hand and lead me away

from dirty dishes to a living room picnic. How you lovingly wrap your brown bunny in a blanket

and put him down for a nap.

Dear Youngest Son, I don’t want to forget the way you beg me to tickle you with kisses and then

laugh your two-year-old cackle loud and long before gasping for breath and asking for more.

I don’t want to forget how you melt into my chest as we rock before bed, how you always

request “Angels We Have Heard on High” even though it’s almost summer, chime in every third

word, and at the end proclaim, “We sing it together!” You are the sweetest, silliest, most fun

Jude Patrick there ever was.

I love being your mama. I’m so proud of you. I will always love you.

* * *

Oh, Dear Sons of Mine,

I’m writing this because some days I do forget.

Some days I forget it all.

Some days I let the struggles trump the beauty. I let the stresses drown out the blessings.

Some days I forget every sweet, “I love you, Mommy” because all I hear are brothers bickering.

Some days I forget to give thanks for your curious questions and tender smiles because there’s

a barrage of complaints, non-stop needs, and grumbles of ingratitude.

Today is one of those forgetting days.

I gotta be honest, precious sons, some days all I see is the sea of unsorted Legos strewn across

my dining room table and the mountains of laundry erupting like volcanoes in the corner of

every bedroom.

Some days all I hear is the soul-piercing, blood-curdling decibel of your No way, Not fair,

and It’s mine! shrieks and whines. (I didn’t really know what the expressions “On my last

nerve” and “My nerves are shot” meant until I experienced their RE-AL-I-TY as your mother.)

Some days I just want to curl up in a ball and cry because the bathroom still smells like a truck

stop even after I scrub IN, UNDER, and AROUND the toilet with half a bottle of Fabuloso for

more than half an hour.

Yes, today is one of those days.

But it doesn’t have to stay that way.

I don’t have to fixate on the sibling wars or battle cries, the urine stench (please tell me one day

you’ll learn how to aim!) or endless How come’s? and Why’s?

I don’t have to focus on the number of times you blatantly disobey, pick your boogers, or

belch at the table. My dirty clothes woes don’t have to be the definition of my days.

We’re one flawed mama and three tiny testosteronies doing life together under a single

suburban roof.

The struggles are real.

The messes, missed marks, falterings, and failures are part oflife. Part of you and part of

me.

But they do not have to define us if we let them refine us.

No doubt I’m praying you won’t only remember the way I huff in frustration, use “that tone,” or

refuse to listen when you’re talking. No, I don’t want you to remember the phone in my hand as

the first thing you see or “Just a sec!” as the first thing you hear.

There are plenty of poor choices to go around.

You are great boys with a few bad habits. And I’m a good mom with some bad habits of my own.

Let’s own up, but not let them own us.

The only thing I want to be owned by is the JOY of being your mom. The PRIVILEGE of

raising three fine young gentlemen. The DELIGHT of having a front row seat to God’s daily

miracle of growing bodies, spirits, minds.

The one thing I must not forget is the GIFT of each of you, my Noah, my Elias, my Jude.

And the best way I know to remember the good is to be owned by GRATITUDE.

Today and every some day.

The Debt We Owe Our Sisters: an Urgent Call to Respond to the Appalling Truth of ISIS

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 19 May 2015 18:00:00 GMT

It’s hard to know how to carry on with my day, how to keep on with the lunch making, light

saber duel refereeing, loads of laundry changing…

It’s hard to know how to even breathe when precious daughters are being stripped and

sold, families forced to flee up mountains in the middle of the night, when mothers are

abandoned in shipping containers, sons shot, babies dying for lack of food and water.

It’s hard to know how to move from this spot in front of my laptop after reading this post about

the very real atrocities ISIS is waging and the atrocious conditions the mamas who barely

escaped are living in —mamas like me, like you, like my neighbor, like your best friend (yeah,

people, women, SISTERS , just living somewhere else).

My biggest worry today is whether we should sink another four grand into our old minivan to

fix the shot transmission or invest in a newer model. It feels like a major decision for our family.

But is it a matter of survival? An issue of innocence or freedom? Am I being hounded and

hunted by in-the-flesh evil? Am I being forced to choose which of my children to save?

I can’t stop asking these questions, can’t stop seeing their haunted eyes—mothers like me and

children like mine, just “unlucky” to be born on the other side of the world.

Illustrative photo of a refugee in Iraq. (Photo: © Reuters)

It feels cruel. It is cruel.

It’s not the story Ann Voskamp wanted to tell . It’s certainly not the story thousands of

Iraqi families want to live. But it’s happening.

It is real.

And I’m reeling.

…the breath sucked right out of my chest.

Maybe that’s the one right response. To feel so moved that you can barely move. But when

you do, to move toward an answer. To reach out in love.

To resolve not to stay paralyzed by the weight of the problem but to let that weight catapult

your arms, your heart, to offer up whatever you have.

To say to the nine year old girls ripped open in rape, to the

widowed mothers and orphaned brothers and babies with

pneumonia, I see you.

I see you. And I won’t look away. You are valuable. You are precious. Your pain is worth my

discomfort in looking, reading, giving.

My money. My voice. Shares. Likes. Words. Service. Whatever I have I will offer it up in the

name of Love and Hope, which is never trite, but always right.

But what does that mean when I am here in my three bedroom house on a safe and quiet

suburban cul-de-sac where we complain about the taxes and gas prices and lack of better

restaurants? How do I wrap my mind around the pain and brokenness forged by ISIS and

their savage executions and little girl slave auctions in the midst of my tiny, privileged

American life?

Do I leave my four guys and our weekend lizard catching and little boy disciplining and little

blog writing to go to Iraq and sit on the floor of shipping containers and listen and cry with the

broken hearts, broken lives like Ann did ?

Maybe. Maybe that’s what God will ask me to do.

But for many of us He won’t.

For many of us He will ask us to keep on keeping on right where we are. But that doesn’t

mean we are off the hook. That doesn’t mean we can just go back to our favorite episodes

on Netflix, Costco shopping trips, and broken transmissions and not have to give an

account for how we did or did not pay into the continuing debt to love .

If you follow Jesus, you are called to love.

There are a million ways to do so.

I love by answering my four year old’s endless litany of questions. I love by bringing dinner to a

family with a new foster baby. I love by cleaning up my husband’s banana peels and praying for a

friend and smiling at the school crossing guard.

Yes, love the people right where you’re at!

But what about the people with no one to love them where they are? What about the

mamas and daughters and babies left helpless and alone in ISIS’ wretched wake?

I don’t know the faces I see in Ann’s post or on TV. But they are more than faces.

They are sisters.

Today I am also choosing to love them.

You can, too.

* * *

My friend Jennifer also wrote a compelling post in response to Ann’s article. She offers these

practical ways that each of us can help from right where we are. I’m in full agreement.

How to Respond

Christians are deeply moved and saddened by stories like the ones that Ann tells. We

naturally ask: “But what can we do?”

We are called to action. We are not powerless. Here are tangible ways you can help.

1 – Harness social media.

If you have a Facebook account, you have more power than you know to effect change. Share

Ann’s post on Twitter and Facebook. Feel free to share this post and our ideas on how to

respond. Or, write your own response on your blog or Facebook. Carry these atrocities out into

the light. Don’t underestimate your ability.

2 – Give to the Preemptive Love Coalition .

This nonprofit is on the ground, in the trenches, with the very people being tormented by ISIS.

Donate by clicking her e . $25 can provide emergency relief. $100 can put 10 displaced kids

back to school. $1,000 can empower a woman to start her new business.

3 – Donate through Samaritan’s Purse .

The organization is helping victims of ISIS by providing clothing and shelter, implementing

water programs, and ministering to persecuted Christians. Donate by clicking here .

4 – Tell your church.

Ask your church mission board if they’d be willing to donate. Ask your denomination what they

are doing to support relief efforts of those being persecuted by ISIS.

5 – Call or write your Senators and Representatives .

Let them know this issue is important to you. And let them know you’re praying for them as

they make decisions that affect real souls.

6 – Pray.

We feel so powerless, and sometimes we say, “I don’t know else what I can do but pray.” Don’t

underestimate the power of your prayers. You are unleashing the power of God.

7 – Pay attention.

Keep informed. When we are informed, we are better equipped to act. When we turn away

from the hard stories, we die of ignorance.

When Jesus Points Out a Different Mess

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 12 May 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I sprayed the bathroom mirror with Windex and watched the light blue mist trickle down in

icicle drips over white toothpaste splatters.

Come be with m e, I heard God whisper.

But, but . . . my heart immediately stammered.

But my desk is a mess and I didn’t dust. But I haven’t changed the sheets or chopped the veggies

or hung the Happy Birthday sign. But there are crusties on the highchair and crumbs in every

corner. But . . .

Come BE. With ME, He called.

I suddenly saw Mary at the Lord’s feet and Martha reflecting back at me in the streaky

mirror.

…

I’m over at Deeper Waters today sharing about how Jesus gently interrupted my frantic pre-

party cleaning to reveal the mess that mattered most—the one in my heart.

Banana Peels and a Lesson in Perspective

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 11 May 2015 18:00:00 GMT

The toilet seat left up doesn’t bug me that much. Socks and underwear discarded directly in

front of the hamper aren’t my favorite, but no big deal. And for being an athletic guy, my

husband smells quite nice most of the time.

It’s the banana peels that get me.

Strewn about on the counter, browning in forgotten, floppy disarray.

It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.

I don’t mind that he likes the potassium-rich fruit thinly sliced over his cold cereal or hot

morning oatmeal. I applaud his choice of a healthy breakfast accompaniment.

But, oh. my. word.—How difficult is it to stride three short steps from the counter to the

trashcan and properly dispose of your fruit’s inedible outer?

I’ve clearly expressed my frustration with this (almost) daily habit of peeling, slicing, eating, and

LEAVING his bare banana skin straight on the granite counter. I’ve pointed out the courtesy

and ease of discarding said peels in the appropriate and conveniently located receptacle.

But still, my smart, talented, funny, honest, handsome husband of nearly a decade does the

very thing that makes me cringe.

Today was no different.

He left for work and I started to wipe high chair trays and rinse colorful Ikea kid bowls. Then

from the corner of my eye I spied the thing I loathe.

He did it again.

The peels.

I started to under-my-breath mumble my justified grumbles of inconvenience and bitter

disbelief…until another thought interrupted my complaining.

It was the voice of my friend’s husband—the words Randy spoke at Alyssa’s memorial service.

He told stories of how his beloved wife would always leave her shoes in the middle of the

doorway. How he would wake up early for work to find empty teacups filled with snotty tissues

on the couch or coffee table. How he repeatedly asked her to put her shoes away and carry her

cup and saucer to the sink, throw her Kleenex in the trash for goodness sakes.

Then Randy said the words that seven months later came flooding back to me:

" The things that used to annoy me most are the things I

will now miss the most.

I let his words sink in.

And my heart started to see more than the icky trash in front of me.

I started to see that what irritates us about someone is also what allows us to know them.

And be known.

When Randy saw shoes kicked off in the doorway, he knew Alyssa was home from work. An

empty teacup and pile of tissues signaled his beautiful bride had stayed up late, sipping her

favorite beverage and wiping tears over another romance novel. These were signs that her

husband could read.

He didn’t always like the way the signs looked, but he loved the one who sent them.

What Randy wouldn’t give to see his wife’s discarded shoes and dirty teacups again.

So instead of bemoaning the leftover banana peels, I’m now giving thanks for them.

Thank you, God, for the man who ate the fruit.

Thank you for providing nourishment for his day.

Thanks for allowing me to be home and able to clean up the small mess.

Thanks that I get to love and be loved by someone who’s flawed just like me. (Thank you that

our flaws don’t define us—but your loving forgiveness does.)

Thank you, God, that our journey of knowing each other and growing together as husband and

wife gets to continue for another day.

Thank you for banana peels and a much needed lesson in perspective.

* * *

Randy, thank you for candidly sharing your heart and reflections about your incredible wife.

Alyssa was a one-of-a-kind shining star—annoying habits and all. Your movie-like love story

continues to bless those around you.

Chris, thanks for being my favorite guy and accepting me with my endless idiosyncrasies and

irritating quirks. I still wouldn’t be sad if those breakfast banana peels made their way into the

kitchen trash most days. But when they don’t, I will gladly help you out with gratitude that I’m

the one who gets to.

How Mom’s Night Out the Movie Made Me Feel Like a Million Bucks

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 11 May 2015 16:17:38 GMT

It wasn’t that I got to exchange my yoga pants for a fancy dress.

It wasn’t the Hollywood hotel with the primo view or dinner out with my man, no high chairs or kids meals, just table for two.

It wasn’t the red high heels walking the famous red carpet or the free movie theater popcorn smothered in addicting salt and butter.

It wasn’t the high style after party with the loud music, tiny gourmet burgers, self-serve ice-cream bar, and mingling movie stars.

These were amazing perks of winning tickets to the Hollywood premiere of Mom’s Night Out the movie ! But it wasn’t the fluff and stuff that made me feel like a million bucks.

It was the message.

Mom’s Night Out is a movie about a stay-at-home mom of three little ones who loves her crew desperately but also finds herself desperate for a way to breathe. A way to remember who she is in the midst of the mundane chaos that consumes her days and dreams.

Hmmm…I may just be able to relate!

So when the lead character Allyson, played by Sarah Drew, receives encouragement from her husband Sean, played by Sean Astin (my Samwise Gamgee-loving husband was in love with this!) to do something to find herself before she totally loses it, Ally musters the courage to rope her best friend and pastor’s wife into the mom’s night out of their life.

The men are left to tame the kids while the ladies leave for a should-be quiet evening out, which turns into anything but. The writing in this movie is hilarious and the portrayal of kid antics and parent angst is spot on. I laughed out loud and shook my head yes and probably muttered several Amen!s under my breath.

But it was an unexpected scene toward the end of the movie that really got me. I won’t give away the full context, but let’s just say Ally was feeling like all her efforts to take care of herself, her kids, and her friends had failed. Miserably.

Once again, she just felt like not enough.

A wise man says to her,

“It’s a beautiful thing watching one of God’s creation just doing what He made it to do… And that’s enough.”

Without knowing the profound mark he was making, he continues,

“I doubt the good Lord made a mistake giving your kiddos the mama he did. So will you just be you? He’ll take care of the rest.”

My popcorn box was empty but my mama heart was right full.

Back at our hotel room I took off all the glitz and set it on the shiny desk. I saw myself in the reflective surface. Saw that it wasn’t all the sparkle that made this night so special.

It was being reminded that I’m a good mom, that my mothering is important, and that our loving, all powerful God (the One who gave my kiddos to me and me to my kiddos) will equip me to mother them well.

And even when I don’t, He’s there to catch me.

To wipe my tears and hand me chocolate.

To give me grace to start again with joy another day.

Mom’s Night Out opens in theaters tomorrow, May 9th!!

And it’s Mother’s Day weekend! So PLEASE, go treat yourself, your mom, your sister, or your best friend to 1 hour and 39 minutes of feeling like a million bucks.

Why It’s So Easy to Almost Miss the Gift

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 04 May 2015 18:00:00 GMT

We finish dinner and my boy looks across the table into his daddy’s eyes and pleads for another

round of baseball.

I glance up at the clock.

(These longer daylight days can be deceiving to a six year old who thinks there’s no end to time

to play.)

“We’ll go outside as a whole family and each boy will get three buckets of balls to hit,” my

husband says. “Sound good?”

Noah and Elias cheer, offer the quickest mumbled May I please be excused? and cram on their

matching black Nikes in lightening speed.

I take Jude out of his highchair, put a teetering tower of plates and forks in the sink, and return

half-drunk milk sippy cups to the fridge.

I walk outside.

The warmth of the day has burned off, replaced by a refreshing evening breeze. The sun is

starting its daily decent. It shoots rays of glory through the neighbor’s ancient oak tree.

“Mommy, let’s sit together and watch brudders hit the ball!” my littlest shouts.

I pull two dusty step stools out of the garage and place them on the driveway out of Noah’s

deadly line-drive path. Jude sits on the white stool, then scoots the black one right next to his

and pats the seat. I plop down on my appointed spot.

The skin of our knees kiss.

My husband stands in the center of the grass coaching the kids through proper grip, stance, and

swing.

Elias glows with effort . Four years old and smiling happy sweet despite missing 17 out of 20

balls.

Noah shines with talent. Tennis balls soar over the roof. One gets lodged in the upper

branches of the neighbor’s tree. Six years old and swings like an all-star.

“Shag ’em up!” Daddy calls after the bucket’s empty.

Jude launches from his perch next to me and joins the big boys chasing down spheres scattered

across the yard.

I look to my left and see my favorite foxtails aglow with golden beams. I run inside to grab my

phone.

I frame up the gift with pixilated evidence.

My husband teases that I already have 100 pictures of this grass. Probably true.

But there’s no limit to the number of times you can breathe in beauty, stand in awe, or give

thanks.

Wonder is limitless.

There is always more to capture.

I move to the middle of the lawn and click away as my boys hit away the evening light. They

laugh and shout, “Did you see that, Mom?” as another ball rockets through the sky.

“Yes, I saw it!”

I see you, son.

I whisper it in my heart.

I see you.

* * *
But, I almost didn’t.

I almost missed all the seeing.

I almost protested against my husband’s invitation for the whole family to go outside. At

the end of a meal I’m not thinking about having fun, I’m thinking about getting things done.

Dishes need to be rinsed and loaded. Pots scrubbed. Leftovers put away. Counters don’t clean

themselves and the load of laundry with the blue school shirt one boy needs to wear in the

morning won’t leap into the dryer on its own accord.

So if Daddy can occupy the boys outside with baseball, it’s the perfect time for me to GET

STUFF DONE! After all, they don’t need me. I have zero aim pitching and I instinctively close

my eyes whenever a ball is thrown my way.

Yes, there is always so much that needs to be done.

But—I’m learning—there is also so much need to just be.

Be present.

My boys may not need me to pitch or catch. But that doesn’t mean they don’t need me to

watch, cheer. Just be there.

It’s funny because I write a lot about slowing down to see, savoring the moment, awakening to

the wonder right in front of you.

But maybe the message that thrums loudest in your heart is the one you need to be

reminded of the most.

I understand when Ann Voskamp writes about the hard eucharisteo, how counting gifts and

choosing joy is a daily battle, even for the woman who wrote a Best Selling book about the

transformative power of thanksgiving . #SoulAmnesia #PreachingGospelToMyself. Indeed!

Left to myself, I would have let productivity trump being present with my family.

But God knows I’m quick to forget so He gave me a husband who helps remind me (whether I

always like it or not) to loosen my grip on my lists and embrace being in the moment.

The perceived urgent can blur our vision.

Yes? Do you ever get all tight-fisted and blurry-eyed, too?

Sometimes we need to let someone lead us away from what feels most pressing so we can

press in to what’s most present.

Sometimes we need to accept the invitation to be.

Dear Blank Page

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 27 Apr 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I miss you.

I miss the way you welcome me with your wide open spaces. Miss your invitation to endless

possibilities. The way you help uncover unseen lessons lurking in the dusty corners of

school pick up, potty training, and spaghetti making.

I miss filling your margins in the spare moments of mine with simple thoughts, mixed-up

feelings, or weighty revelations born from walking through the mundane days. I miss unpacking

the message my heart is most needing in the comfort of your page.

Hours string into days, days into weeks, and I don’t make time to unravel the web of

observations woven by that non-stop thread.

I feel tangled when I’m away this long.

But there are other pages, other places I’ve been filling while you’ve stayed blank.

Grocery lists and dinner menus. T-ball picture forms and Scholastic Book Club orders. Pages of

prayers texted to my soul sister in another state. Volumes of childhood comedies and dramas

set on the stage of living room forts and back porch chalk murals.

I’ve been filling the audible blank pages of gathering places, offering stories from my life and

words from the Word to women’s wondering hearts.

Good pages. Life-giving pages.

Filling in the blanks of little boys’ tummies that never seem to not be hungry.

Asking the Spirit to fill me as I write devotions or emails or workshops, hours poured out and over books and

notes and Bible translations.

The daily chores. The daily grind. The daily invitation to be with God. Be more with God.

It’s been a hard, trying, beautiful, to-self-dying kind of month.

It’s been a continuing kind of month. ( Continue—that blessed, beautiful, and unexpected

word God gave me at the year’s beginning. That call to not conjure up something new, but to

keep on keeping on with the things He is already doing.)

So I wouldn’t change them or trade them—these last four weeks of blog post blank pages.

But the missing is deep enough and the ache to meet you, dear reader, here again is strong

enough that I can’t stay away much longer.

Because this is also part of my journey to continue.

Continue using words to unwrap the murmurs of my heart. Continue to open a space where

you can say if your heart stirs the same way, too. To ask hard questions of myself, of you. To

open ourselves up together to the gritty, grace-laced work God is doing in our lives.

That’s all I needed to say today.

Say that I have missed you, blank page.

And I’ll be back soon.

The Pit of Despair or the Pinnacle of Hope

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 03 Apr 2015 18:00:00 GMT

He shuffled up the walkway in his worn argyle sweater and corduroy pants. We came out to

meet him so he wouldn’t have to climb the two concrete steps to the front door.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, with our usual awkward hug.

I loaded my toddler in the backseat and climbed in next to him. Dad eased himself in the front

seat while my husband drove. From over his shoulder we made small talk on the short drive to

church. It was Easter Sunday Eve.

I told him about Noah’s newest word and the picnic we had planned. I dreaded the next

inevitable question. The answer in recent years was never good. But I had to ask it anyway.

“How are you doing, Dad?”

He cleared his throat and looked out the window.

“I’m okay.” Long pause.

My husband shot a look in the rearview mirror that begged me to keep the conversation light.

“I, umm,” Dad continued, “I went to church three times this week. I plan to go again tomorrow at

least once. Maybe twice.”

“That’s great,” I said and asked which churches he attended and what each service was like. We

pulled into the crowded parking lot and made our way into the worship center.

White lilies lined the stage. Classic hymns recomposed with modern beats pulsed from the

speakers. The pastor got up and preached a resurrection message. But all I could think about

was the week my dad had. I pictured him sitting off to the side in unfamiliar pews. I pictured

stranger faces glancing back at him each time he rattle-cough-hacked or blew his nose too

loudly. I pictured him surrounded by crowds, but all alone.

It was a sobering glimpse of my dad’s grim reality. The truth was, he didn’t go to church six

times during Holy Week because he was super spiritual; he went because he was utterly

desperate.

Several years of bad luck and worse choices had catapulted my dad from living the high life to

hitting rock bottom. From corporate success to chronic unemployment. Fiscal freedom to

financial ruin. He traded European vacations and luxury cars for bankruptcy and subsidized

housing.

Add to the list failing health, addiction, depression, and a second divorce, and my dad had

plummeted into a pitch-black pit without a light or a ladder.

He couldn’t climb out. My sisters and I tried to throw him a rope. It always fell short.

The affirmation I offered my dad in the car was genuine. For having no money, no friends, and

nowhere to go, church was an excellent choice. But sitting next to him during this resurrection

celebration, I couldn’t see the hope in it.

I only felt the grief.

I only saw a man not drawn by devotion, but wrought with despair. I saw a man not motivated

by piety, but moved by self-pity. I was ashamed that these judgements even entered my mind

. But the evidence seemed obvious.

That was my dad’s last Easter.

He died nine months later.

It’s now my fifth Holy Week without him and each year I look back and see with greater clarity

the brokenness…that was mine.

I look back and see a daughter jaded by what she perceived as years of unanswered prayers. I

see a daughter looking for hope in miraculous physical healing, relationship restoring. I see a

daughter dulled and wearied from continual disappointment.

But God wasn’t hindered by the darkness of one father’s pit or the faltering of one

daughter’s faith.

He was in it all.

My dad didn’t regain his health or wealth. His revival was greater—he recommitted to walking

with Jesus.

A few months before my dad died he took his disability money and traveled to the Holy Land,

a decision I thought was physically dangerous and financially irresponsible.

Now it makes me smile.

And I can’t help but wonder if it was the stories my dad heard his last Easter week that made

him want to go. That made him need to feel the soil where Jesus knelt in the Garden of

Gethsemane and cried out soul overwhelmed. If it was that last Good Friday service that left

the sound of nails pounding through flesh and wood echoing in his heart, the reality of his own

sins nailed to the cross. If it was those repeated resurrection messages that made him need to

see the empty tomb, evidence that Jesus had indeed conquered death.

I cannot help but wonder if the week I once grieved as my dad’s lowest desperation was

actually a picture of the Resurrected Savior reaching down into his pit.

Saving him again.

Unremarkable Beauty: God’s Daily Pursuit of You

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 23 Mar 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I watch my gangly son sprint through the open gate to the far end of the blacktop where he

finds a friend and a red bouncy ball. He’s all spindly arms and lanky legs strung together with muscles lean and long. Some days it feels like this eldest son of mine is six going on sixteen.

My gaze floats past little girls jumping rope, a tricycle rider pedaling happy, and the seasoned

schoolyard aide who always wears a whistle and a smile. It’s a blur of playground commotion,

but my sight is fixed clear in the distance on my boy.

He raises the red orb high above his head then thrusts it down in one smooth mighty motion.

Rubber ricochets off asphalt and the perfect sphere jiggles wonky in the air till the impact’s

force runs its course and the other boy catches the ball in jubilant victory.

It’s just a regular Monday.

It’s just an ordinary morning of kindergarteners playing before the ringing bell signals the

beginning of another learning day.

It’s in this ordinary moment my heart swells with thanks. All my inners about to burst with

ridiculous glee and sobering gratitude.

Eventually I leave my post as unnoticed, grinning watchman, leave my boy to delight and play

and grow. I turn toward the path home.

I inwardly laugh at myself for such intoxicated joy first thing in the mundane of Monday

morning. I mean, really, I’m nearly teary over my kid bouncing a ball. What in the world?

But I know the deeper reason for my exaggerated, moment-savoring wonder. It’s rooted in

a renewed understanding of God’s abundant goodness and faithful care.

My heart is full from a mountain weekend soaking in His love.

I shuffle past moms chiding disheveled kids in rushed morning chaos and their Hurry up! The

bell’s about to ring! urgent pleas trail behind me.

Another day that will be me. But today I’m strolling slow, chewing on all I heard and saw, felt and sung at the weekend women’s retreat I attended with a dear friend.

I hear snippets of messages spoken, God’s Word boldly proclaimed:

    I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me . (John10:14)

I feel the way worship stirred my heart:

    I’m no longer a slave to fear
    I am a child of God

I smell the crisp air of a million pines and remember the desires and tears poured out over

journaled prayers, some of the sweetest conversations I’ve had with the Lord in a long time.

It was a weekend of feeling the depths of God’s care. Assurance that He sees me. He knows

me.

He pursues me and forgives me and delights in me.

Because I am His sheep.

His child.

His Becky.

And when overwhelmed by the wonders of God’s intimate

knowledge of you, His personal reach into your ordinary,

everyday grit and fears and dreams, the best response I know is

to give thanks.

To continue to live eyes wide open to His continual love and care.

So I relish in the way my boy with no front teeth smiles the widest toothless smile as he plays

the timeless game of bouncing a schoolyard ball.

And I continue to give thanks through every step I take on the half mile journey home.

I slow.

I want to see.

Because if I believe that God met me in the mountains through scripture and song, divine

appointments, afternoon naps, and stranger-sisters praying over me, then I have to believe that

He wants to meet me in the mundane of Monday morning.

If He poured out His goodness on me at a retreat then He can pour out His goodness in my

everyday routine.

On the short route from the kinder playground to my white front door, I slow.

I look.

I find.

I find that God’s goodness is here. His glory abundant . His fingerprints evident .

My neighborhood is nice, but not overly remarkable. My street is pleasant, but not

extraordinarily beautiful. But there are joy gifts through every pace of this path I’ve traversed a

hundred times.

I offer you this pixilated evidence—images captured on the phone pulled from my back pocket

as I walked from school to home.

How?

Why?

Because God goes to remarkable lengths to display the extraordinary ways He loves us.

And His love is always beautiful.

The Moments Add Up (and why you shouldn’t give up when you’re thick in the ordinary grit)

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 03 Mar 2015 18:00:00 GMT

We’re eating chicken bowls after church and my six year old scootches his buns across the vinyl

booth and buts up next to me, leans in and breathes. I pull out my phone and snap a selfie to

remember the sweetness of a little one who wants to be near.

Later I look at the grainy photo and see how big my boy has become.

These sit-close days won’t last for long.

IMG_2061

* * *

It’s the end of the month and I’m trying to stick within our budget, which means getting creative

in the pantry instead of zipping to the store. I see a can of pumpkin left from fall baking and

decide that muffins are probably in order.

Little boys love to mix and measure, take turns calling out ingredients and stirring with the wire

whisk and wooden spoon. (Okay, they actually dislike sharing in the most grumblesome way and

voice their disgruntled objections at every turn that isn’t theirs. I may have lost my cool with

voice raised in matched grouchiness.)

But in the end there are warm muffins to satisfy hungry tummies, a beach towel made picnic

spot, and sunshine. There are boys still in jammies with sneakered feet. There is family. There is

love.

I pull into the spacious parking lot, full of cracks and asphalt bulges. Before I even fully look up,

the reflection in my dirty minivan window catches my eye—a glorious sky.

Clouds hang heavy with imminent rain, weighed down with somber gray. But then peaking

through patches of blue are streams of gleaming light, a brilliant glow. Storm cloud halos.

My last errand of the evening waits inside the center store of the dilapidated strip mall. My

family waits at home for dinner.

But I stop to click. Capture glory.

When I return to my car 15 minutes later the sky is overtaken by a charcoal blanket. I give

thanks for my window with the light.

* * *

It’s 3 am and “You’ll be seen next!” was the nurse’s promise an hour and a half ago. My littlest

guy is now breathing easier, mostly recovered from the scary, gasping-for-breath episode that

jolted him from sleep’s arms hours earlier. Croup always hits my kids fast and hard.

I’m thankful for the medicine waiting on the other side of the doc’s Rx signature, but I’m fighting

heavy eyelids and straining for another measure of creativity and patience—every drip of

reserves dried up from entertaining a two year old in the ER for way too many hours.

I magically produce a second box of raisins and for a moment Jude sits happily on the hospital

bed. It’s then that I see tiny toes and little fingers. I let them work the edges of my frustrated

mouth into an upward curl.

I glance at his bunny and blankie, faithful partners of comfort no matter how late the hour. I

remember that being mama is a sacred joy-duty, too—to give and be needed, to love and be

loved.

Reasons to smile.

I look at these snapshots of my ordinary life. Sometimes sweet but not spectacular.

Sometimes difficult but not radical.

And sometimes I’m tempted to wonder what it all adds up to anyway?

Tempted to think my life made up of moments that roll into weeks, weeks into years, doesn’t

really fit into the category of important or big. Doesn’t really make that big of a difference.

But through the questions I see the truer message.

The message I need to remember and maybe you do, too…

The moments add up.

It’s the small moments of daily grit that add up to a life marked by faithfulness. Beauty. Love.

And it all matters. Every moment matters.

Maybe you feel like you’re not living a big dream or fighting a big fight. Maybe you feel like

you’re not making a meaningful difference or even a small dent.

Maybe you just feel small.

Maybe you feel like your days are strung together with a blurry ribbon and you can’t see

how it all matters because you’re just hanging on by an unraveling thread.

What I want you to hear today, deep down in your weary bones and questioning soul, is that the

moments matter.

Capturing beauty glimmer by glimmer.

Mustering thanks through the mundane.

Not giving up in the thick of the grit.

It. All. Matters.

You matter.

Slowing Long Enough to Listen & the Story that Rocked Me at School Drop Off

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I’m watching my boy hang up his backpack and write his name in red marker on the easel

propped up outside his classroom door. Around the time he drops his Spider-Man lunch bag

into the big white basket, the lovely mom I’m chitchatting with mentions the daughter she lost

last Christmas.

I look at her beautifully pregnant belly and the toddler playing with his paci in the stroller and

her kindergartener with pretty blonde hair and pink bow skipping toward the playground. I look

at this mom who looks like she has it all together and never in a million years would I have

known.

Known the pain and grief and sorrow she has lived.

Never would I have known her full story.

She’s still smiling as she talks about her second born and the light and joy the little girl was to

her family for nearly three years. She gently touches the life swelling within her and tells me

how her eldest is excited to have a sister again.

“Life goes on,” she says, “and it’s hard and I never imagined it would happen to us, but we are

so blessed by the time we had with her and the time we have now with these little ones.”

I want to weep right there in front of Room 3 and hug this woman whose name I can’t

remember.

I want to grab hold of my son with the missing front teeth and not let him go to the jump rope

and tricycle calling his name. I want to hug him forever and never forget the blessing of life.

The school bell rings, the yard whistle blows, and children freeze in mid-play motion.

My heart wants to freeze time—for me—yet somehow also turn back the clock and change its

course for this other mom’s broken heart. I can’t do either.

We walk together along the chain link fence, trampling pink blossoms fallen from my favorite

schoolyard tree, concrete sidewalk muddled with color. She shares more pieces of the story she

never expected to live.

“We know we will be with her again one day and there is so much hope in that. We miss her

beyond words…”

She pauses. Heart caught between the past and present.

“But there is beauty in who she was, beauty in her life and in her death. We are blessed in

both.”

I say goodbye at her car and keep traveling the sidewalk alone, passed manicured lawns and

then two turns toward home. I will my legs to keep moving as I choke back sobs.

Beauty in the brokenness.

It’s one thing to talk about, write about. It’s another thing to live.

I thank God for the gift of this startling glimpse into another woman’s story. A glimpse of His

grace.

I’m almost home and I stop at a cluster of roses. One droops, near the end of its life. But the

morning light shines through.

My breath catches in my chest for the beauty that’s birthed from fallen places.

I fill my lungs with the sweet aroma of petals barely hanging on. I walk the last few meters to my

front door, filled with sorrow. Filled with hope.

Thankful for home.

Fab Friday Recall Roundup [02.20.15]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 19 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I started this little Friday tradition a few weeks ago for the sake of remembering—declaring and

sharing God’s goodness on the journey. I decided I could make small alters out of words and

Instagramed pictures, lest I forget God’s messages, promises, and faithfulness in my life.

In that inaugural Recap Roundup post I wrote:

" One of the greatest ways we can awaken to wonder is by remembering—

taking time recall the ways God has blessed us, stretched us, reached into our

circumstances and touched our hearts through the meaningful and mundane

dance of daily life.

It’s been less than a month and I have already needed to re-remember, to live these words, to

not downplay or neglect the importance of documenting our days and planting stakes of truth

in the sand. You never know when you’ll need one to lean on.

Here are my stakes in the ground for the week…

Instagram Favorites:

This is the Valentine’s breakfast I almost didn’t make.

You see, last night I planned to bake oversized banana muffins in heart-shaped molds to

surprise the boys with in the morning. But the oldest was such a huge pill at bedtime, getting up

a gazillion times, fussing and wining and threatening my sanity with his overly tired, school

party overly suraged up, bad attitude, that by the time the whole ordeal was done, so was I.

Not only was I not in the muffin-making mood at that point, but I also felt justified aborting my

special breakfast plans by reasoning that the little rascal didn’t deserve it. That throwing socks

at his sleeping brother and a tearful tantrum meant he hadn’t earned a Valentine’s treat.

And while his actions were real and my mama rational valid, I woke up this morning with a

different perspective.

I remembered that the Greatest Act of Love wasn’t done because we deserve it or had

earned it, but because the One who Loves chose to offer grace. Forgiveness. Lavish

redemption.

That’s the kind of love I want my boys to know. I don’t want them to wake up knowing mom is

still counting their sins against them. I want them to live knowing that I will always choose to

love and forgive them, because that’s what Christ has done for us.

#happyloveday #lessonslurkingeverywhere #becauseHefirstlovedus #blessedtobemama

#merciesneweveryday #frenchtoastgrace

* * *

When I was 14 I wrote a poem for Freshmen English titled “Savor the Time.”… Nearly twenty

years later that refrain is still ringing in my heart. An anthem I want to live.

Because it’s by savoring each moment that we can be most full of thanks, which allows us

to be most satisfied in God.

#savorthetime #momentslikethis #1000gifts #awakentowonder #blessedmama

* * *

He shouted “No fair!” too many times to count before the clock struck 9 am and was a

grumbling ball of complaint for most of the day. He picked on his brother and didn’t pick up his

toys and made me want to pick up and leave for a deep-breathing reprieve.

But then at nap time as I sat on the edge of his bed singing, he reached up and placed his little

hand on my chest and said, “Mommy, I love your heart.”

I’m not even sure what that means to him but to me it meant the world. To me it was grace for a

rough morning poured out in 4-year-old compassion.

I share this now so if there is any other weary mama our there reading these words, you would know

that you are seen. That God knows how hard you work and how fiercely you love even when you just

feel fed up. And it’s okay to cringe in the frustrating moments and still give thanks at the end of the day.

It’s a blessing to be on this journey with our kiddos. And it’s a blessing to be on this journey with you,

precious fellow mama. I see you.

#surprisedbymotherhood #blessedtobemama #1000gifts

* * *

I’ve been reading all week about 21 Brothers who lost their lives for the sake of Christ.

My heart is sick and heavy over this atrocity and the ongoing persecution people of the cross

are suffering all over the world.

Yet the same week that I’ve cried out to God on behalf of grieving wives and children, this same week is

when I felt stirred to write about backyard wonder . To describe the beauty of unwanted mushrooms glowing

in afternoon light and the unexpected joy of illuminated leaves and puckering lips dripping with sour grass juice.

And if I’m honest? Ever since I pressed publish on that post I’ve felt achingly small. That my words were

frivolous and trite–utterly meaningless–in the midst of such tragedy.

But tonight God whispered back the very words I quoted from the dear Ann Voskamp:

“Looking for the beauty in Christ in the everyday isn’t some quaint exercise in poetry. It’s a

critical exercise in staying alive.”

The Enemy is real and he’s out to take lives. So perhaps something as simple as pursuing beauty

in the everyday ordinary and praising God for His every good and perfect gift is in fact important.

Necessary!

Perhaps it’s actually a very small yet mighty way of fighting the Enemy back by fighting to

live fully alive. Fighting for joy for the sake of Christ.

(Read the whole story here: http://www.beckykeife.com/the-pursuit-of-beauty/)

#The21 #joyfight #peopleofthecross

* * *

Words of Life From Around the Web:

Last week I posted a pic of my littlest guy running behind his crew of cousins and big brothers; I mused that

the destination isn’t as important as the journey because everyone’s pace and course is God-ordained different.

Well, that’s pretty much the message my heart was aching to hear this week, and in God’s beautiful way, He

flashed that encouragement in the form of a blog post by my friend Jennifer Dukes Lee . Take a few minutes

to soak in Jennifer’s post, If You Ever Feel Like You’re in Last Place, Read This …I know I will be blessed.

God also reached into my week through the words of my dear friend Elise Hurd . (Again and again and again.)

Her words in This is For the Weary & Worn “Goliath” Facer wrapped me like a grandmother’s hug. I was smiling

and crying over the post Lisa-Jo shared at her place, What a 9 Year Old Girl Taught Me about Love on Valentine’s

Day. And I can’t stop thinking about Elise’s latest entry, Is the Enemy Benheading Christians in North America?

So since I clearly can’t pick just one post, all I can say is , please, pour a cup of your favorite steamy drink and

take a virtual trip to The Giving Place . I know God will meet you there.

And if all that goodness weren’t enough, I must help launch you into the weekend with this beautiful story from

Terri Lynn Underwood at Grace Table: On Making Space …what if we all opened our ordinary lives and made space

to love another like this?

Now It’s Your Turn:

What moment from the week can you recall and give thanks for?

Or leave a link to a post that stirred your heart or made you stop and think.

(If you’re reading this in your email, click here to join the conversation! )

*** Let’s connect on Instagram throughout the week! Follow me: @beckykeife! ***

HAVE A BEAUTIFUL WEEKEND, FRIENDS!

CHOOSE JOY. COUNT GIFTS. AWAKEN TO WONDER.

Why You Can’t Discount the Pursuit of Beauty and the Backyard Gift that Could Save You

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 17 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

My desk nestles under two windows in a nook at the far end of the kitchen. The double-hung

glass in their original frames give view to our small porch and sprawling backyard. (Sprawling,

by SoCal standards, I should say.)

It’s at this desk that I fall into the quiet afternoon hour—three boys napping—with a cup of

reheated coffee and open my computer to work or write.

But one day a few weeks ago, I had barely perched my behind on my desk chair with the

chipping black paint when my attention was captured by something outside. The scrawny tree

in the corner of the yard with awkward shoots sprouting from its bark had been transformed

into a glowing conduit of light.

I was drawn outside.

Tender leaves aflame in sun’s rays, glorious against the simple grain of a fence leaning and

forgotten. Ordinary green transformed into translucent wonder, alive with light like Christmas

lights long hung on a house then electrically ignited on a merry night.

This tree, these leaves, they were really nothing special. But in this moment, they became

an unexpected gift, an invitation to a new perspective.

I could have kept my eyes lowered in laser-vision on the screen at my desk, straining in

routine productivity toward the task at hand.

I’m sure many times I have.

But this day, this moment, I felt a beckoning to come. To explore. To breathe. To awaken to

the wonder around me.

I turned from the glowing totem and discovered another organism of wonder. A cluster of

mushrooms ballooning from the earth. The boys had been playing in this very spot a couple

days ago without a trace of toadstool to be found. But now a fungi bouquet decorated its place.

And a growth I would normally disdain for its potentially poisonous power had now become a

gift of golden orbs.

Something despised transformed into something wrapped in delight.

The work at my desk was still waiting. Minutes ticking away till the three energy-pulsing pieces

of my heart would emerge sweaty-head awake, and I would be thrust back into the regular

rhythm of the day—dinner-making and homework-helping and mommy-I-need-you-RIGHT-

now demands.

But somehow time slowed in the slow turning of one mama in a quiet suburban backyard.

I noticed the blanket of fallen leaves covering the concrete slab, smothering the dirt the whole

side yard long. No longer drenched in fall colors of crimson, carrot, saffron, and amber. Now

dried up brown andblown over with dirt from our unusually hot winter and Santa Ana winds.

But there in the bland crust of a chore waiting to be raked and hauled away, even there, a fresh

glimpse of beauty peeked through.

Hundreds of discarded leaves, each with its own unique crinkle and curl. Veins that once

thrived with chlorophyll life now displayed delicate patterns of artistic symmetry.

I no longer saw the ugly shell of what used to be glorious—I saw a patchwork of

transfigured beauty.

I saw a story.

I could keep going on about the single stem of sour grass burgeoning from an unruly lawn,

fluorescent yellow petals dancing against the cerulean blue sky. I could tell you about the last

read leaf waving like a lonely flag on the pole of the tall maple tree, soaring over power lines and

telephone wires like a symbol of hope commanding respect.

Have you totally checked out? Or are you still with me?

This may all sound too verbose and like a ridiculously poetic, unwise waste of the one quiet

hour of my day.

But here’s the thing, friends…

if I can find exuberant beauty in my own ordinary backyard,

if I can find baffling grace in the middle of unkempt grass and unwanted weeds,

then really,

can’t JOY be found anywhere?

Everywhere!

There’s enough cynicism and criticism, satire and sarcasm. There’s enough negativity and

idolizing productivity. The world is drowning in adversity, hostility, and animosity.

Isn’t it time for a little more backyard hope? Isn’t it

time for more everyday wonder?

I tromped through the overgrown grass, picked that lone weed in bloom, and chewed its stem

like a little girl in summer. As the sour-sweet juice rolled around my mouth in lip-puckering

delight, words from my favorite thanks-living trailblazer rolled sweet in my mind:

"I redeem time from neglect and apathy and inattentiveness when I swell with

thanks and weigh the moment down and it’s giving thanks to God for this

moment that multiplies moments, time made enough.

I am thank-full. I am time-full.

This is what Ann Voskamp taught me. This is what naming God’s gifts all the way to 1,000 and

beyond has taught me:

The moments add up.

Do you believe it? Do you live it?

I’ve lived life weary and drained by the mundane that drones the same depressing refrain.

I’ve lived life sucked dry by my own striving and anxiety-winding.

But I’m done living that way.

I’m not saying awakening to wonder and giving thanks is a magic fairy wand that will make your

disappointments or drudgery vanish. Dishes and diapers, long commutes and short paychecks

won’t go away.

The mundane might be here to stay—but whether we barely survive it or actually thrive in it is a

choice!

I recorded the words Ann once wrote in a New Year’s blog post because I wanted this to be the

record of my life:

" Looking for the beauty of Christ in the everyday isn’t some quaint exercise in

poetry. It’s a critical exercise in staying alive.

It’s no longer 2014, but a prescription for staying alive can’t be confined to just one calendar

year. The gift of beauty does not expire. S o we must continue .

To look. To see.

To give thanks to the One from whom all beauty comes.

" Let them GIVE THANKS to the Lord for His unfailing love and His wonderful deeds

for men. Let them sacrifice thanks offerings and tell of his works with songs of JOY.

-Psalm 107:21-22

Fab Friday Recall Roundup [02.13.15]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 12 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

It’s been a long week. It’s been a good week.

I celebrated a birthday, enjoyed summer-like weather, and a mix of work productivity and

around-the-house puttering. I skipped to school holding hands with my mini-man, jumping over

cracks and pointing out our favorite plants. I lost my temper with my kids, laughed with friends,

and really thought about how blessed I truly am.

I spent my morning with Jesus and most evenings watching Friends with my best one.

It’s nearly the end and I’m tired. A little weary worn from the day in, day out, stuff of

raising tiny humans. But I’m thankful.

Thankful for this moment to stop, reflect, and share some highs and lows together.

So here’s a glimpse back through my week…

Instagram Weekly Favorites:

Sunday lunch with the people I love most.

#blessedmama #ThisIsWealth #momentslikethis #1000gifts

How to Start Your Day Centered Before the Ragged Race Begins

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 09 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

I wake up each morning with thanksgiving on my lips

—a new day

—renewed hope

—mercies made new

all by my God, for me, for us. Today.

“Lord, be with me” prayers pour from my heart even before my feet pad down the hall toward the toilet and coffee—because true relief and refreshment come from Jesus.

I’ve stopped the morning scrolling: the social media feeds on my phone, the lists in my mind. Both.

Why start my day bombarded with information when my soul really needs quiet

meditation?

Fab Friday Recall Roundup [02.06.15]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 05 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

Happy Friday, friends!

You’ve made it to the end of the week! Maybe you’re ready to crumple into an exhausted heap

or you’re rearing to jump into the weekend with excitement and joy. I feel a little bit of both.

But before I look to what lies ahead, I’m taking a moment to look back on what has been.

Last month I shared my One Word for the year—CONTINUE —and how God asked me to

continue to give thanks for the work He has done, continue to trust Him for the work He will

yet do, and continue to be obedient in each faith step He calls me to.

Then last week I kicked off a new Friday tradition of recalling my favorite moments of blessing

and stretching by sharing a few posts from my Instagram feed , and then remembering the ways

God whispered words of life to my heart through the writing of others and pointing you to

some of my favorite blog posts!

But the weekend it waiting, why stop to scroll back through the moments I already

captured, why pause to ponder words that I already left me enraptured?

Because one of the best ways to awaken to wonder is to

remember.

(Yep, I wrote that last week, but my hungry soul is quick to forget and I need to keep chewing on

the truth. You, too?)

Instagram Weekly Favorites:

Sometimes I feel ready to go for it, run so hard I can almost fly, no feet or fear weighing me

down. Other times I’m all tilted to the side in sulky, doubting slow motion.

I believe God loves me just as much whichever posture I take. But how I journey down the

path ahead is my decision to make.

Unwrapping the Bad Rap Gift of Technology

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 18:00:00 GMT

My phone big bongs like a melodic harp running scales, alerting me that the time I decided to

rise has now arrived and I must crescendo out of bed.

I shuffle to the kitchen, avoiding creaky floorboards, lest a sleeping child hear me and wake

before the sun. I pull the antique bronze ball hanging from the dangling chain, igniting my

favorite desk lamp and my senses awake.

In soft glowing light I slide my finger across my phone to initiate functionality. I find the brown

Holy Bible icon in its familiar bottom left corner and tap the digital Good Book to begin my daily

reading. I’m soaking in Scripture this year in a new-to-me translation in order to perceive the

Word with fresh eyes. I haven’t been able to buy a printed edition yet so the gift of changing

versions with a finger’s flick is one I don’t take for granted.

Verses light up on my small rectangular screen and my day begins with the peace, truth, and

perspective God alone can give.

In other words, I start my day with technology.

Rediscovering Community in Every Life Stage

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 20 Jan 2015 18:00:00 GMT

In college we crowded around tiny dorm room TVs quoting endless episodes of Friends . We

bemoaned midterm drama and class schedule craziness over trays of mediocre, mass-produced

dinners in the florescent-lit dining hall. We laughed through ridiculous group projects and

learned how to pray and study the Word in apartment small groups.

College was where I first lived community. It was beautiful. It was easy.

Then there were years of a “transitional” job and part-time ministry. Moving and marrying and

dreaded church hopping. (Heart-home hoping.)

Years of trying to find a place again. A people to call home.

I finally found my niche in a university marketing department. I looked forward to weekly

editorial meetings in the “mini,” as the office’s tiniest conference room was affectionately called.

I loved working on a small team with a talented designer and marketing guru to create content

to meet clients’ needs. But the large creative team meetings were perhaps the job’s biggest

perk—a time to break away from individual desks and glowing screens to exercise our creative

minds together.

I felt home again in community. Camaraderie. Professionalism. Friendship. Care. Working side

by side to meet goals and deadlines and carry the pressure to exceed expectations together.

I had never enjoyed a laptop and red pen and diverse group of people more.

It’s a job I only said goodbye to because I was saying hello to someone I loved even more.

Hello to my first son. Hello to being home with him.

I adored this little life all pink and soft. A squirming, cooing, sometimes screaming, piece of my

heart. My husband and I decided together that I would stay home. I was thrilled we could

rearrange our lives to do so.

But welcoming this new chapter meant parting ways with the past.

Suddenly I felt very alone.

No more daily coffee breaks by the copy machine or weekly team meetings. No more emails

and instant messages mixed with work details and real how are yous. The community I had

longed for, loved and thrived in, was now a memory waiting to hire someone new.

Yes, leaving was my choice. I wouldn’t have chosen differently. But I wasn’t prepared for the

community-size hole it would leave. We had crunched the numbers to account for a lack of

paycheck. But finances wasn’t the only repercussion.

I was now facing a whole new full-time gig without a boss to direct me or team to support me or

intern to assist me. Of course my wonderful husband was deeply invested, but when he was at

work it was just me and the little guy, who turned out to be the most needy client I’d ever met.

Those first few months of motherhood, years if I’m really honest, were the most isolating time

of my life.

But thankfully I knew deep that this job, this journey, was not meant to be traveled alone. I

needed community.

Developing a support network of do-life-with friends as a young mom of one, then two, then

three little boys wasn’t easy. There weren’t others mamas living down the hall or gathering

around a conference room table.

I had to seek it out. I had to be intentional.

It took anxious park dates and awkward church pew introductions. It took showing up to a

moms group knowing no one . It took being the kind of friend I longed to have. And prayer. So

much prayer .

But through it God was gracious to keep reminding me that community is out there.

Chase it. Embrace it. Because community makes every type of life work you do the richer and

more beautiful for it.

The HOPE of Knowing You’re Not Alone When Grief Leaks Out (and the Graveside Letter I Wrote)

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 13 Jan 2015 18:00:00 GMT

My heart thuds a little too loudly and I keep checking Facebook even though there’s nothing new, nothing

I really need or want to see. I tap my phone to refresh the screen, checking for

returned text messages I may have missed in the last 30 seconds.

It’s nap time.

I can hear Elias’ soft snores through the bedroom door. Jude stopped singing his 2-year-old

version of Angels We Have Heard on High so I assume he’s sweaty sleeping, surrounded by his

menagerie of stuffed friends. And even the 6-year-old rests, sleeps most day. (Halleluiah! Pure

grace for a weary-mama-aching-for-quiet.)

So it’s my small window to write. But I keep questioning if what I sat down to say is right. Right

to share. Helpful or necessary to those who read here.

Most often a speeding pulse and compulsive self-distracting means for me that God is

stirring. And that I need to obey.

* * *

Every time I write about grief, whether in a full post or as a passing comment , I get notes slid

into my inbox or Facebook messenger that say, “Yes, me, too. You’ve put words to my

experience that no one else says or feels.”

It brings redeeming joy that my pain could somehow be a gift to someone else. But it also

escalates the ache. Because I heart cringe to know that others have felt so alone. That others

have gone through seasons of mourning without someone to look them in the eyes and

squeeze their shoulders and say,

I see you. You are okay. Your grief and confusion and mixed-up, angry-sad-relieved-lost-

and-mad feelings are normal. And it’s okay, not just okay, necessary, to let those feelings

out.

Whether you lost someone suddenly or after a long illness. Whether it’s been two months or

five and half year or a decade or more. Whether you adored them or despised them or both on

different days. Whatever the details of the losing, it is still a loss.

It is complicated.

It is confusing.

It is a journey.

Grief is many things. But it isn’t something to just get over.

Yet our American culture, don’t-know-what-to-say friends, and well-meaning Christians often

send the message that it is.

And for me those messages increase the loneliness. They elevate the feeling that know one

really understands why I’m still struggling when my dad’s been dead for almost four years. And

that there’s no one to help guide the way on grief’s journey with its unpredictable waves and

heart tremor triggers.

Every experience of loss and grief is different.

But no one should have to feel alone in it.

I’m not an expert or psychologist. I’m just a regular mama and wife whose dad died when she

was 28 years old, and four years later is still figuring out what that means. I haven’t walked the

journey perfectly. But I’m purposing more and more to open my heart to the Perfect Healer.

Last weekend I had a significant experience. An unexpected heart healing moment. It’s this

gritty, ordinary, beautiful moment that became part of my healing process. And I want to open

it up to you…

A letter I wrote to my dad.

Dear Dad,

I’m sitting on your old crocodile afghan in front of your grave. I pulled a weed out next

to your marker and pushed away the dirt crowding out the corner.

I’m annoyed at the preteens talking loudly behind me. Angry at their lack of respect for

the dead and grieving.

Grieving. I’m grieving.

I’m grieving for you. For Alyssa. For others so dear to my heart and the different kinds

of loss and death and pain they are struggling through.

I couldn’t find the new Bible I was hoping to buy at the Family Christian Bookstore

down the street from your old house. I feel like it was a waste of time to drive out here.

But I know it wasn’t. I know I’m supposed to be here.

It’s not your birthday or anniversary. I actually can’t remember the last time I was here.

But I keep hearing that phrase I read in those grief books: “You can’t heal what you

don’t feel.” And significant milestone ore not, today I know I need to let myself feel.

Feel the loss. Feel the weight of what is gone.

The boys don’t remember you but we talk about you sometimes. They call you Grandpa

Ralph. If you were still here I’m sure they would just call you Grandpa.

They are so sweet and so smart and so fun. I know you would love them.

I buy them each a new puzzle for Christmas every year. And I think of you. How you’d

enjoy turning over pieces with them and teaching them how to group colors or collect

the border or whatever your favorite puzzling method was. I don’t remember that part.

I just remember it was your love for jigsaw mastery that fueled mine.

Noah got a dinosaur puzzle. Eli’s was robots and Jude’s was a pirate scene—he liked the

treasure chest box it came in best.

We’re signing Noah up for his first season of t-ball this Spring. I know that would have

put a smile on your face, too.

I wish I could have known you as a boy. From all the stories cousin Mike told at your

memorial it sounds like you were a dynamic kid. I wonder if you had the twinkle in your

eye like my Elias or if you snuggled in your mama’s neck like my Jude does with me or if

you were confident and strong with a silly sense of humor like my Noah.

I wonder if you didn’t yet carry the sadness and anger I knew in you as an adult. I

wonder if you were different before the weight of your own grief sank in. The grief of

losing both your parents in your teens and twenties.

I wonder who you would have been if cancer hadn’t taken your family. Was that the

catalyst to decades of addition and self-destruction? Was that the root of two divorces

and so much despair?

I don’t know the point in all this question asking other than just allowing myself to wonder, to

follow where my feelings flow, where my mind meanders.

Question asking doesn’t make things different. But sometimes it does lead to a

difference in understanding.

Maybe that’s what I’m going for. Maybe I want to understand the past differently so I

can have more compassion in my reflection.

I don’t like just feeling hurt and angry and lost.

This morning at church the message was on forgiveness. Pastor Bruce preached on

Romans 12:14-15 and how we are suppose to bless our enemies.

You were not my enemy, Dad. But you did hurt me. You hurt me on purpose and you

hurt me completely without malice or intention. I see that. I see both.

I don’t know what it looks like to bless someone who is dead in this world. But I know

that forgiveness does not require a two-person interaction. It’s a one-person

transaction of release. Releasing the offender from debt in my heart and mind.

I know I’ve done it before. But maybe forgiveness is a process. I’m not God and

sometimes I do remember the sins of others and allow them to continue to eat away at

me. No more here. No more with you.

Dad, I forgive you.

I forgive you for not being the father I often wanted and needed. I forgive you for not

trying harder. I forgive you for just not knowing how. I know you loved me. Thank you

for loving me. But too many times your own issues and agenda and sin trumped your

capacity to show love. I forgive you for your shortcomings and for the ways your

depression and addictions wounded my heart and caused stress in my life.

I release you.

You are already whole and alive and redeemed in heaven with your Savior! I praise Him

for that!

I choose to lay down the weight of any unforgiveness or bitterness I was carrying.

It is finished.

Jesus finished it.

And since I’m still here, I will ask and trust Him to continue to bind up my wounds and

heal my brokenheartedness as much as is possible this side of heaven.

Then one day, I’ll see you both face to face. And I relish the day when I will feel my

Fathers’ embrace.

I love you, Dad.

~Becky

* * *

Friends, this letter isn’t a prescription for getting over grief. It’s not a formula for healing or

an equation for forgiveness.

It’s just one small example of one small step in one woman’s journey.

And despite that heart pounding insecurity I felt when I started tapping out this post, I’m

sharing it with the HOPE that these words will allow at least one other person to not feel so

alone.

I see you, grieving, friend.

And God sees you.

He sees you and He is with you. Continue with Him you on your journey.

When the Journey Forward Takes You Back and My One Unexpected Word for the Year

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 06 Jan 2015 18:00:00 GMT

It’s been two weeks since I’ve published words here or written a status on Facebook or posted

a picture on Instagram.

I have missed it. But I’ve been busy being present.

“Busy”not missing the gifts right in from of me. Big family dinners and cousins running joy-laugh

wild. Bundle-up frigid hikes and God-glory casting light. Endless hours of Lego building and

fireplace glowing and living. Each moment. Wonder-full.

And in doing so I’ve realized that sometimes when I flick away from the moment I’m in to click

away a cropped and filtered snapshot for the world to see, maybe I’m not being fully present

long enough for my heart to fully see. To see the full beauty and grace and give-thanks-for

treasure of this should-not-be-interrupted moment.

Maybe when I wait for instant feedback with what everyone else thinks about my

Intsagrammed life or when I continually check in on what’s happening with those I follow,

maybe I’m not really waiting for God’s feedback on my happenings, not checking in first

with the One I Follow.

So I’ve taken a short break—to be all in. (Not because I’m anti-social media. I actually enjoy it.

Partially adore it for the goodness is can offer and the connection, community it can help

cultivate.) But because I needed to hit the reset button again on the pattern of my thinking

heart.

Live first. Savor fully, first.

Linger longer.

Give thanks wholly.

Let God’s holiness permeate my heart before I premeditate a post.

Friends, it’s been so good.

As I’ve spent these last two weeks adventuring to seek God’s presence by being fully present,

I’ve also been purposing to seek His plan for my future.

Old years ending and new ones beginning will do that.

I get excited about blank calendars and endless possibilities. I wonder what unexpected

blessings God has in store and what challenges will accompany them. So I set aside some time

for just me and God—to talk, to dream, to plan. I was also thinking perhaps this would be the

year I jumped in and chose One Word, one word to define, inspire, and direct the path ahead.

When Reflection Is the First Direction

But as I sat down with Bible open, pen and journal poised in ready posture, gung ho to hear

from God about His grand 2015 plans for me—this blog and ministry, family affairs and

personal growth—I was quite surprised by the first thing the Spirit said.

(I’m confident it was God’s voice seeping through my thoughts because what came to mind was

not at all what I had been thinking.)

He said, “Before you can look to the year ahead, I want you to look at the year behind. Take

stock of what I’ve done before you ask me what I will yet do. And give thanks.”

Write down what you’ve done, God? Give thanks, God? Haven’t I already done that? Haven’t

I spent this last year numbering gifts and naming grace ?

I questioned (with a little confusion and a tinge of bad attitude) if I had sensed the Spirit

correctly.

“Yes. Do it again, Becky. Remember. Record. Give thanks. Again.”

So that’s what I did.

And you know what? I was astounded.

Though I’ve joined all the joy-darers by adding daily to scribbled lists of the ways I see God’s

gifts, though I’ve purposed to awaken to wonder and documented the work He’s doing, I found

that the stretched out discipline of marking my spiritual journey slowly throughout the year

does not have the same impact as an exercise of recalling and re-recording all of God’s major

movement, blessing, and divine orchestration in my life, 365 days strong, in one bird’s-eye-view

sitting.

The perspective was beautiful.

Over and over I remembered significant ways God had worked through everyday

circumstances to draw me closer to Him. How He had intervened and opened doors and

communicated His heart and purpose through friends new and old, online and in real life. My

black ball point pen couldn’t keep up with the sudden flood of God-did-this memories.

His Amazing Grace. All over the page.

I think what made me joy-baffled most in looking back at so many unequivocal blessings is

that 2014 wasn’t always a year of happy endings. It was actually a year with a whole lot of

ache and loss.

Losing a fellow young-mama-friend to cancer . Aching with ones I dearly love through the

heartbreaks of miscarriage and chronic illness, uncovering abuse and betrayal, devastating

diagnoses and financial difficulties, lives wrecked by reckless drivers. It’s been a year of grief .

Mourning with those who mourn. I’ve been on my knees with somber heart, sobbing cries, and

puffy eyes too many times to count.

Yet, by looking back, I see that through the sadness and muck of sin, God’s hand has been on

me. His grace has been abundant. His provision perfect.

When You’re Waiting to Forge into the Future

And I now see that through the heart-aching and soul-blessing, 2014 has also been a year of

calling.

As I chronicled God’s work in my life, I identified three specific calls.

The call to write. The call to speak. The call to rest.

This past year the Lord confirmed that words are not just my fascination, delight, and internal

processing device; they are also part of my Kingdom blessing. Words written and words spoken

are my toolbox to encourage women on their faith journey. Using them for Him makes me come

alive! It’s more than a hobby. It’s a calling.

And so it is with rest. I will always recall 2014 as the year God invited me into Sabbath keeping,

into holy, purposeful rest. I hope to share more about this in the year ahead, but for now I’ll say

that it’s been a deep soul conviction and life-giving spiritual awakening that I didn’t know I

needed or was missing. I learned that Sabbath rest is not just an archaic command to be kept.

It’s a gift to be savored. A universal calling to live.

Blessings, stressings. Sorrow, joy. Grace and gifts and three foundational callings. So what does

this all add up to? I wondered.

Reflection is fantastic but what does it mean for my future?

When My One Word Found Me

And then without word-smithing or creative crafting, my One Word for the year emerged:

Continue.

Continue to write.

Continue to speak.

Continue to rest.

Continue to awaken to wonder and trust Me for the rest.

Immediately two passages from Scripture came to mind.

And now, just as you accepted Christ Jesus as Lord, you must CONTINUE to

follow him. Let your roots grow down into him, and let your lives be built on him.

Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught, and you will

overflow with thankfulness.

–Colossians 2:6-7

And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will CONTINUE

his work until it is finally finished on the day Christ Jesus returns.

-Philippians 1:6

I was waiting for something new, exciting, different. But instead God showed me that He is

already up to something significant. And I have the humble joy of being invited to continue with

Him on the journey.

Continue following God on the path He is revealing. Continue being faithful in the big and

small of faith steps He’s providing.

Faithful in making school lunches and singing bedtime songs of prayer. In tapping out blog posts

and sharing the gritty struggle and beauty of life in Christ with women who want to hear.

Continue logging off the computer and reheating leftovers so Sundays can be set apart for naps

and prayer and sitting long with Jesus. Continue in what I am doing.

And believe that God will continue the work He began. Using my brokenness and grief and

messy mama heart for my good and His glory.

Continue.

It wasn’t the artistic or whimsical or super spiritual word I was hoping for, expecting. But I

believe it holds the key to more art and whimsy and spiritual growth with the One I always

Hope for.

So I will continue.

How to Make the Last Two Days of Advent Count without Checking Something Off Your List

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 22 Dec 2014 18:00:00 GMT

The countdown is nearly done, only two paper rings on the red and green Christmas chain

dangle from the refrigerator magnet. The boys want details about exactly when Santa will come

down the chimney and when are we going to look at more lights and can we have donuts

tomorrow.

“I’m not sure if The Donut Man is open on Christmas Eve,” I tell them.

“Well, can’t you just look it up on your phone?” my six year old asks.

They know Christmas is about more than shiny packages and sugary treats. We talk about baby

Jesus and how much God loves us and Noah loves that Christ’s birthday is just nine days after his.

“How about the story of the three wise kings?” he asks as we flip the brightly colored pages of

the storybook Bible.

We’re getting ready for His coming.

But we’re also getting ready for ours. I’m getting ready for my Christmas. My presents for my

kids’ stockings still need to be bought and wrapped and stuffed down to the toes. My meal still

needs to be planned and shopped for and made. Maybe one last dusting of all my decorations

artfully displayed.

But I don’t want these last two days of advent to be about all my to-dos coming to fruition.

I want to live out the fruits of the Spirit as I point my own heart and others to the joy and beauty

of the Gift that’s coming. The One who came. Into the world. Into my heart. The Christ child.

God’s incarnate, saving-grace Love.

I want these last advent days to be filled with His JOY.

I read Psalm 89 and let the words wash over me. Sing through me.
“I will sing of the Lord’s great love forever;
with my mouth I will make your faithfulness
known through all generations.” (v.1)

Then I imagine.

I imagine Mary in that famous, ordinary stable, swaddled newborn tucked tightly in her arms,

swaying like all new moms instinctively do. Oblivious to the strong stench of animals and post-

delivery pain—too enamored with her new son, too overcome by her Father’s love.

I picture Mary and Joseph trying to keep their excitement in check. Joseph putting a hand on

Mary’s shoulder as she steps toward the wood slat door; Mary giving her husband the “just

relax” look as Joseph starts to pace again.

They must have just wanted to go tell everyone!

“The Messiah is here!” their hearts longed to declare.

“The Christ child, born of a virgin, breathing, crying, cooing right here in Bethlehem! God’s

promise has been fulfilled! The King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Prince of Peace, the Rescuer has

arrived in the flesh of a tiny babe. I’m holding Him! He is here!”

Can you imagine their parental pride? Can you fathom their desire to make known God’s

faithfulness and love?

As we prepare to celebrate the Savior’s birth, I don’t want to be fixated on making my

celebrations perfect; I want to be fixed on celebrating His perfect love.

I don’t want to let this season pass with only passing smiles or passed out presents. I want the

ones I know and love—even strangers on the street or the neighbor I wave to next door or the

other frenzied mom behind me in the epic line at Target—to know of God’s incredible love. Of

His wonders. His unending faithfulness

As it manifested in the miraculous birth of a Savior King? Absolutely!

But also in the nitty-gritty, grace-laced ways of God’s goodness working in my life every day.

The heavens praise your wonders, O Lord; I join them with the words of my mouth and

songs of my heart. Thank you for your greatest gift of love, the gift of your Son. I am

forever grateful—forever will I make your faithfulness known. Amen.

Dear Magic of Christmases Past

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 17 Dec 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I remember the way you tingled up my spine and fluttered like a snowflake flurry in the middle

of my belly.

So much wonder. Excitement. Delight.

How you were there every year when we piled in the car and drove down the boulevard to the

family owned corner lot that sprung to life with perfect pines each cold (or Southern California

warm, as the case often was) December. We gravitated toward rows of Douglas Firs because

my sisters liked the way they looked and Mom liked the way they were priced. My eyes danced

to the majestic Blue Spruce with its strong branches and thick blue-green needles.

But in the end there’d be a tree tied on the roof rack and four off key singers belting out carols

(give or take one backseat sulker) and off we’d go.

Back home for the trimming.

Mom would bring down metal trays from the top of the fridge where each ornament was

carefully placed as we unwrapped them one by one from crinkled tissue paper and recycled

bubble wrap. Once every mismatched, memory-rich treasure was tray displayed, it was time for

the hanging! You know the red metal tricycle and gilded angel girl were my favorites.

Then, dear Magic, you’d croon to us through Harry Connick Jr.’s melodic voice singing lyrics we

all knew by heart while we sat cross-legged in couch corners threading long silver needles,

waiting for Mom to bring us bowls of stale popcorn for stringing…

I’m thrilled to be guest posting today at Simply Jesus Ministries as part of

Tobi’s “Christmas with Friends” series.

Please join me for the rest of this letter to Christmas Magic over there…

Mommy, I did NOT put a yogurt in my closet.

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 08 Dec 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Sometimes there are just no words for the things kids do.

Like the time my son was potty training and dumped my contact lenses into his tiny plastic toilet

full of pee.

Swish swish. Swish swish.

Or the time he was “cleaning” the big toilet…with my hairbrush.

Swish swish.

Or when we had to put a lock on the refrigerator to keep two toddlers from drinking my coffee

creamer straight from the bottle, but the one who is freakishly strong pulled with all his three

year old might and broke the lock, which I didn’t realize until I heard his brother crying and

rushed into the kitchen, my mouth still foaming with toothpaste (note: mothers of boys, it may

never be safe to brush your teeth), and found the two year old splayed out on the floor in a

sticky white puddle rubbing a big red bump on his forehead.

Slip.

“ Mommy , I did not drink your coffee creamer,” they both wined.

Yeah, sure you didn’t.

Classic moments, no doubt.

But I’ll never forget the night I was tucking my oldest into bed. He must have been three at the

time (yep, it was in the coffee-creamer-drinking days.) I had rubbed his back and sung him

songs. Prayed and cuddled and whispered sweet dreams. I had pulled up the covers and

smoothed out the sheets, just the way he liked. Nightlight, check. Noise machine, check. Final

hugs and forehead kisses. Check, check.

I was easing my weight off the edge of his bed, sure that my little guy was almost drifting

off to sleep, when he suddenly said:

“Mommy, I did not put a yogurt in my closet.”

“What, Noah?” I asked.

“Yeah, Mommy, I didn’t put a yogurt in my closet.”

Yogurt hadn’t even been mentioned. Or the closet. I had no idea what this kid was talking about.

His voice was sure and I could see a glimmer of proud resolution on his dimly lit face.

Then my mommy radar kicked in. Oh, I had an idea.

“So you’re telling me, if I check the closet there will not be a yogurt in there?”

He bolted straight up.

“NOooooooo! DON’T OPEN THE CLOSET!!”

His confidence had vanished. Now he clung to my arm, sputtering and stuttering his pleas for

me not to look in that closet.

I pried my limb out of his vice grip and walked across the room, flicked on the light, and slid open

the mirrored door. There, nestled near the back of the center toy cubby between a tub of

blocks and the monkey jack-in-the-box, was a banana flavored Yo-Baby yogurt.

I held up the evidence and asked the question we both already knew the answer to.

“Noah, did you put this yogurt in the closet?”

He hung his head in nodding admission and I hid my smile beneath stern words of reproof

and long hugs of forgiveness.

* * *

Oh, I am so much like my boy.

I rarely pause long enough or introspect deep enough to uncover it, but when I do, I find so

many of my own, “I did not put yogurt in my closet” admissions. However, mine are not

contorted confessions to my mother. They are twisted truth tellings to my God.

For me it may sound like, “Lord, I am not clinging to my pride” or “I am so over my battle

with perfectionism” or “God, I’m glad I’m way past my people pleasing days.”

The Father kindly listens to my words, but the message He hears is clear: “I did not put a yogurt

in my closet.” Which is of course means I did.

And the evidence is as clear as the creamy white drips on my kitchen floor and the spoiling dairy

hiding with the toys. Pretend as I may, it’s there.

God sees the disappointment in my heart over a blog not read or comments not left. He hears

the loops of internal recordings I play to myself that I’m not measuring up. He knows that while

my heart longs to live for an audience of one, some days I order my steps in order to win the

approval of others.

In other words, He sees my yogurt.

Because there are no closet doors that can conceal my sin from God.

And I praise Him for it!

Noah wants to be a good boy, so much so that he ratted himself out. Likewise, it is my deepest

desire to live a full and free life in Christ. I don’t actually want to hide anything from Him.

So as a caring Father would do, God graciously peels back the layers of my pretense, forgives

my false testimony and flaws, and leads me in His ways of truth and grace.

A life of redeeming love.

When Living Trumps Writing

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 30 Nov 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Things have been pretty quiet here over the past month. As a writer that makes me feel mixed.

I am wired to process through writing. It’s my joy to share how God is working in my life

through the ordinary glory of motherhood. It’s my passion to encourage others by reminding

you that you’re not alone on this thick, sticky, beautiful mess journey of walking with Jesus.

So when I’m not writing, I’m missing writing. When I’m not posting, I’m missing reaching out and

connecting.

But I also have to acknowledge, mostly to myself, that more than writing, I am wired for

living. I was made to be present in the very moment I’m in.

And for November, that meant more being. Some doing. And less writing.

I spent November strolling through long walks with my family, soaking up sweet memories with

my boys, capturing snapshots of God’s beauty and creativity.

I spent lazy mornings with my kids in PJs eating too many banana chocolate chip muffins and

snuggling on the couch through too many episodes of Super Why.

I spent relaxing evenings with my husband unintentionally watching half a dozen Paul Rudd

movies. (Our Idiot Brother was entertaining with a redeeming central character, but please let

me save you from the pain of watching Wanderlust, yeah, just don’t—they should have stuck to

just being Rachel and Mike (Phoebe’s boyfriend)…I miss my Friends. Just sayin.)

I took long Sabbath naps, feasted with family, and tried to conquer my never ending battle with

laundry. I started using Instagram. I decorated for Christmas. I soothed sick boys through

midnight hours of cough attacks and croupy breathing. I brewed countless cups of coffee and

sat on my back porch watching the leaves change color, listening to their magical wind rustle.

We lit evening fires and I relished watching them watch.

And I prayed for loved ones who are broken, hurting. Prayed hard and late night long. Prayed

for healing. Admitted my own brokenness and prayed for my heart, too.

So while the writer, blogger, truth-speaker, grace-pointer, friend-connector parts me look back

on November with a little misgiving, a little longing for what could have been, the rest of me

knows that it’s okay to long, because it’s okay to not have it all, do it all, be it all.

It’s okay to just live life, present, available, free of the guilt of self-imposed expectations.

And I gave thanks.

Thanks to God for all the pain-filled, joy-filled, life-filled moments that maybe weren’t recorded

in a post last month, but they were moments well lived.

Friendship Beyond Favors

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I leaned against my kitchen sink—the one stacked with enough dirty dishes to hide the

mysterious brown spots that needed to be scrubbed off—and took another deep breath.

It had been a long week. A long couple of months, really.

I felt so behind on ordinary life and I only half cared because the big, hard stuff that people I

loved were going through made my crusty sink and loads of wrinkled laundry seem meaningless.

My mind spun with details of trying to arrange schedules and scrounge up childcare during my

husband’s busiest work season so I could go out of town to attend my friend’s memorial service.

My 32-year-old, mother-of-two-little-ones, radiant friend who had lost her battle with cancer . I

desperately wanted to make the seven-hour road trip to gather with loved ones and celebrate

her beautiful life.

There were still so many pieces up in the air, but at least I had Desiree committed to caring for

my youngest son.

I glanced back at the dishes and picked up my phone instead. It was hard to think through the

heart-swirling emotions and mind-whirling list of to-dos. But I managed to pluck out a text to

Des with a few more details about my departure and drop off plans, and rambled a list of thanks

for all the other ways she had recently helped me.

I finished the text with this heart confession:

“I feel like I’ve been a really needy friend lately and you are always there to help so willingly.

Thank you. I appreciate you beyond words and hope that at some point I can return all the

favors.”

Within a moment I heard the familiar bing-bong of a new message back…

I’m sharing at Deeper Waters today. Click here to read the rest of the story .

Spilling into Grace: A Practical Lesson for an Uptight Mama

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 10 Nov 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Friends at church are singing the closing song but we’re home because our oldest was up in the

night barking like a seal. His breathing is easier now, energy up, but we’re still house-bound for

at least a couple days. Daddy had a sleepless night, too, with his own hacking cough and is now

trying to seek a little late morning relief for achy eyelids.

Keeping three boys quiet indoors is no easy feat.

I corral my crew and we head outside with a stern warning that it is not a running, jumping,

crazy-making kind of day. (I’m already thinking ahead to bedtime and how croup will be back

with a vengeance to steel another night’s sleep if that little body doesn’t spend the day at rest.)

I kick away pokey balls and spread out a brown quilt on the concrete slab. Boys plop on their

chosen spots, buns crunching fallen leaves hiding beneath the blanket. I pull out the Sesame

Street ABC and 123 cards from their shiny boxes and little boys delight in choosing dry erase

markers for tracing practice. (Realizing you have a few unpacked boxes, even though you moved

11 months ago, becomes an unexpected gift when kids have new found excitement for old toys

and activities they thought lost or forgotten.)

I breathe in the crisp November air and thank God for this day that actually feels like Fall.

With three little men all happily occupied I dash inside to get baby wipes for marker erasing and

cups of water for sick kid hydrating. Though my oldest is nearly six, I confess that I’m still a

stickler for sippy cups. Fewer spills just make my life easier at this stage. Because if the big one

has a big kid cup then the middle one wants one and then of course the littlest, too. So for the

sake of ease and sanity we just stick to the blessing of tightly sealed lids.

But today I find the dishwasher whirring with all the blessed sippy cups inside.

We’re outside, I reason. No big deal if water spills. So I gather four large plastic glasses and fill

them half way with H2O goodness.

“I want green!” “Yellow for me!” they shout their cup color desires.

I disperse the water with a gentle warning to be careful not spill. They all nod and take their first

gulp, water sloshing over the brim onto happy lips.

Smile. Sigh.

The coughing boy abandons his letter tracing and dumps out the bucket of chalk. He rifles

through the pile of broken pieces looking for the perfect shade to begin his pastel masterpiece.

Less than thirty seconds in, his elbow collides with his cup and water splashes everywhere,

an instant stream running toward the quilt.

Noah looks up with squinty eyes and shoulders shrugged up tight. He musters a half smile,

asking if it’s alright.

“I’m so sorry, Mommy,” he says. And his eyes stay fixed on mine.

I sigh again.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I say. “It’s only water. Just be careful not to slip in the puddle.”

He nods and inches over to a dry concrete spot.

I go back to helping Jude name his letters and reminding Eli to wipe away all his crazy scribbles

before putting the cards away. I glance back at Noah and find him wildly scratching his chalk

inside the pool of water.

Color blurring everywhere.

Fingers stained, whole hands smeared with glistening bright yellow.

“I made paint!!” he loudly proclaims.

In a moment’s flicker I feel tension rise up my neck, see flashes of watery chalk goo splattered

over exposed limbs and clean clothes. I suck in a breath and hold it longer than normal, willing

myself to think. Remember.

Remember that this moment won’t last forever. Remember that the experience is more

important than the expectation. Remember that the memory is worth more than the mess.

I let a big grin sweep away the stress.

“That’s awesome,” I say.

His smile widens and he reaches long for another piece of chalk.

Soon his brothers dump their water out, too, and join in the paint-making fun.

I breathe in their giggles. I breathe in the dance of light and dark, rays of morning sun and tree

casting shadows. I breathe in bland colors made vibrant with water and little boy wonder.

I breathe in this moment.

This gift.

The one I almost cleaned up and squashed with my uptight, try-to-control-it-all mothering.

But today I didn’t.

And I’m so grateful for the ability to choose breath and grace and beautiful messes.

For them and for me.

Day 31: Untidy Closure, Questions, Confessions, and the Ultimate Awaken to Wonder Conclusion

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 30 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I’ve started this post four times.

I know you’re not supposed to write that. Or that.

But here’s the thing friends…

I want to finish this series eloquently. I want to wrap it all up in a neat and pretty bow. I want to

succinctly and inspirationally tell you how writing 31 Days to Awaken to Wonder has radically

transformed me and others. I want to be poetic and profound and find a way to share all the

corners of my heart and scratched out notes and well-planned ideas that never made it into one

of my posts.

But after starting four times and painstakingly working my way through mixed metaphors and

faltering story hooks, I recognized (yet again) that perfect isn’t the point. That I don’t have to

have life-changing takeaways or deep soul lessons all perfectly synthesized, analyzed, ready for

distribution and mass consumption.

I don’t have to have it all together.

I don’t have to have it all figured out.

Because I don’t.

But what I can tell you is that I have changed. Grown. Deepened. Awakened.

Not because I’m super spiritual but because I asked God to work. To show up.

And He did.

He reminded me of truths I already knew and etched them deeper on my heart with every word

I wrote. Like the joy and splendor of creation! How His love for beauty and creativity is

hardwired into all He created, including you and me.

So when I’m hiking in the mountains alone or hunting grasshoppers in the backyard with my

boys and I feel a tingle, a tug, down in my soul, I know that it’s deep calling to deep. It’s what

God made speaking to how He made me so that I may know more of Him.

Creation. Full of wonder. In it I awaken.

I have changed through the wonder of God’s Word. Through remembering significant ways He

used the Living Truth to reach through a thin crinkly page to the most tender places in my heart.

Until I wrote about my most unlikely friend , I hadn’t thought about Ritsuko in years. I had

forgotten what God had done. Remembering was awakening .

And what joy He gave in recalling the night He reached into my weary new mama reality and

ignited a dream and calling . Gave me the verse that would guide my life.

Through this series I dug my heels and heart into the Word to anchor me lest I lose my footing

under the weight of life and grief and more grief and writing.

Taking on a writing challenge like this with three small kids, a part time job, and all that comes

with being a mother, wife, homemaker, (and a person who likes to regularly shower) was not a

slight feat. I sacrificed time and sleep and clean laundry. Most days I dropped into bed utterly

bone weary. But even the bone weariness was for a God-ordained purpose .

The Word. Full of wonder. By it I awaken.

Then there was all that business about t he power of thanksgiving and perspective changing .

Again, truths I know, experiences I’ve lived. But it was in the writing, recording, declaring God’s

goodness all over again that my soul awakened from its sleepy, ho-hum state.

And sharing that one about how jealousy edged out my joy and ignited my ugly attitude of

ingratitude —that was hard. Hard to remember. Hard to write. Yet life giving. Wonder filling to

look back on where I was then and where God has brought me now.

Cultivating gratitude and changing perspective. Through them I awaken.

* * * * *

Before the month began, I prayed that through this series I would be able to lead others on a

journey of living eyes wide open, heart soft to surrender to the wonder-full things of God that

invite us to the full life to which we are called. I hoped to see others with hearts more alive and

connected to Jesus than before these 31 autumn days began.

But with a challenge like this it’s hard not to wonder if anyone was reading. If all the heart

convictions and soul stirrings poured out in inkless posts made any difference at all. Or if in this

#write31 days saturated blogosphere if they were just more Internet spam falling on deaf ears.

But in my questioning I heard this whisper:

Your ears were open, Becky. And I was speaking. You listened and were changed. That is

enough. Because I am more than enough. I am WONDER.

Yes, Father. Yes.

And I’m so grateful for the journey You took me on to awaken to You.

Find all the 31 Days to Awaken to Wonder posts here.

If this series was meaningful to you, I would be so blessed to

hear from you.

Would you share in the comments one way God worked in your life or opened your heart to

His wonder ? It doesn’t have to be bow wrapped or word tidy. I’m good with raw and real.

Day 30: A Perspective Lesson from Behind the Lens

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 29 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

It just takes a few moments of sitting, scrolling, stopping, and savoring. Just a few moments to

remember stories through captured pixels—stories with a different ending because of

perspective changing.

To relearn that re-framing a situation is sometimes the best way to awaken to its wonder.

How else could a self-helping three year old spilling an ENTIRE gallon of milk transform from a

moment of epic mommy rage into an opportunity to slow for God’s grace and experience the

depth of His redeeming love.

Yep, it was the macro setting on my little point and shoot camera that helped me breathe

through the anger and capture this unexpected moment of wonder. [Read that whole

Screaming Over Spilled Milk story here.]

I was also indebted to my silver pic clicker for its gift of perspective that afternoon when I felt

bogged down and downright weary from doing life in the motherhood trenches.

It was a day I was ready to give up and let ingratitude sweep me away. But instead I let the

possibility of wonder propel me on a search for ordinary beauty. As my three little guys

scavenged for sticks, I saw the same old backyard features with fresh eyes.

What I had once passed without a passing glance took on new meaning when I chose to

behold the beauty from a different perspective. [Read that whole Ordinary Beautiful story

here.]

The lens is a tool. A powerful one that indeed shows how every moment or event has many

different facets and it’s up to you which one you choose as your focus.

I love my camera for that. It’s not big or fancy or new. But it does its job.

But sometimes my perspective needs fall outside my camera’s range.

Sometimes it’s just up to me to change. Refocus. Ask God to help me reframe my story. To see it

through His eyes.

That’s been the case on a whole lotta looooong mama days. Days that threaten to undo me are

also days that ultimately bless me. You know the days. [ Read the whole These Are The Days

story here .]

So today I sit for a few moments. I scroll through pictures, give thanks for pixels. I wade through

posts, give thanks for words.

And I pause to praise the One who delights in guiding me on this journey, who delights in

offering lessons in perspective so that I may awaken to His wonder.

Day 29: The View from Up Here

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 28 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

My tray table was secured and locked and I was just waiting for the intercom announcement

and seat belt bing bong signaling approval to disengage my seat from its full upright position.

I just needed those four reclining inches and then I could settle in, eyes closed, for what I hoped

would be a quiet flight of slumber.

The small oval window next to me was closed, saving me and my stranger friend from the

searing early morning sun. Though I couldn’t see the changing horizon my body felt the gradual

ascent. I couldn’t see the skyline but I knew higher towards the heavens we climbed.

The body of the plane finally leveled out and permission was granted to move about the cabin.

But my body was ready to rest.

Before I settled in for my airborne snooze, I decided to lift the tab on the plastic sun shield to

take a quick look at the aerial view.

My breath caught happy in my chest as I took in the sight.

I instantly imagined of a class of kindergarteners emptying bag after bag of cotton balls, then

stretching each one with tiny, excited fingers into a gigantic wispy blanket of fluffy white

delight.

Yes, I was weary from a restless toss-and-turn night and pre-dawn rise; my body did need

physical rest. But my soul needed to be wonder refreshed.

            The heavens praise your wonders, O Lord,
       your faithfulness too, in the assembly of the holy ones.
         For who in the skies above can compare with the Lord?

I let the glory truths of these Psalm 89 words and the visual reality before me sink deep. And

continued to peer out that oval porthole for most of the flight.

Day 28: The Power of Perspective Changing

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

The Bible is full of them.

Commands, encouragements, and promises that are completely counter to our cultural

experience.

The last will be first, and the first will be last.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Consider it pure joy whenever you face trials of many kinds.

We don’t see the first being last. On earth we see the first being first.

Anything that begins, “Blessed are the poor or meek” makes absolutely no sense in a world

where the rich and proud are lifted higher than the rest and the poor and meek are oft

forgotten, left to fend for themselves.

And trials? Our ease and comfort striving society sings no trial praises and boasts no hardship

benefits.

So how can this all be? How can we believe?

Because we were not created for this fallen world.

Because the Father’s love for us is vast beyond compare.

Because the ways of this world are NOT the ways of the One who made it.

* * * * *

I walk out onto the back porch with Jude glued to my left leg. I tell him it’s time to water the

garden and ask if he wants to help.

“I water! I water!” he squeaks in his tiny two-year-old pitch. “Naked time, Mommy?” he adds.

I smile and help him take off every stitch of clothes leaving a lanky, slightly pasty toddler and his

Mickie Mouse Crocs basking in the morning sun.

We water the raised flower beds together and eventually I yield the hose to his full control.

I sit on the top step and survey the yard. Our summer garden that was once in full bloom has

now withered under the extended scorch of too many weeks of post-summer heat.

One by one each glorious blossom, once rich with color, alive with texture, wilted to a dry and

brittle, lack luster droop.

Now the whole garden is more a hodgepodge of half-dead plants and discarded leaves

than a curated collection of beauty.

I miss the beauty.

I scan the rest of the yard. The avocado tree is past its fruit-bearing season. The pair of maple

cousins are neither lush in spring green nor donning their autumn rainbow. Weeds choke out

large patches of grass.

Where is the beauty? Where is the wonder?

I hear the whisper of words seared on my heart:

“Wonder really could be here—for the seeing eyes.”

In that blue egg book that changed everything, Ann Voskamp not only wrote the words that

helped me first awaken to my sin of ingratitude, but also the words that helped me awaken to

wonder!

Words that taught me the power of perspective changing.

I refocus my eyes.

This time the view is beauty-full, overflowing with wonder and delight.

The world says wonder must be extraordinary. The stuff of blockbuster special effects and

exotic dream vacations.

The world says beauty must be be extraordinary. The stuff of plastic surgery tucks and million

dollar red carpet glamor.

That is not what God says.

In my southern California backyard on a Tuesday morning, God says water drops on dried

up leaves and a toddler with a green garden hose is the stuff of ordinary glory.

Day 27: The Blue Egg Book that Changed Everything and the Comparison Pit It Saved Me From

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 26 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

There’s this little book called One Thousand Gifts .

Maybe you’ve heard of it?

By little I mean 60 weeks on the New York Times Bestseller’s List, over a million copies sold,

and available in 18 languages.

And by book I mean deep theological truths wrapped in exquisite prose about the dare one

woman took to live fully right where she was.

One little book written by a simple farmer’s wife that changed everything.

Not just changed for Ann Voskamp because of the book’s astronomically impressive success

—that’s not why I’m writing; I know that mama of six would shake her brunette head in humble

beauty and say, “No, it’s not me. To Him be all the glory.”

I’m writing because it changed everything for me as the tool God used to impress His grace

and truth upon my heart.

To transform my life.

I first started reading the book almost two years ago.

It was Thanksgiving weekend and a friend graciously invited my family to use her gorgeous

waterfront home while they were away for the long weekend. My husband, three small sons and I

descended upon the magazine-worthy residence and basked in the comfort of a more-

luxurious-home away from home.

The fridge and pantry were stocked, clean sheets on the beds, an abundance of toys for our

little ones to play with. A beautiful gift basket waited for us on the lavish dining room table,

filled with sweet and salty snacks and a gift card to the fantastic fish place on the corner—yes,

our hosts were even treating us to dinner!

We were invited to use every perk and resource available.

Chris was thrilled to untie the white and tan Duffy boat from the dock and take the smooth

sailing vessel for a spin around the waterway block. We strapped life jackets on reluctant,

squirmy boys who soon squealed in delight over the salty breeze in their faces and eye spying

games of huge white seagulls.

After two nights of family fun, my husband lovingly took our 2 and 3 year olds home and let

me and the baby stay another night. Alone! (By the time you have three children, being with

just one who doesn’t talk or run or climb or need food cut up in small bites actually feels like

a glorious gift of near solitude.)

During the first part of my quiet day I enjoyed wandering around my friend’s house, admiring the

opulent autumn decor, taking in the beautiful marine view. I made a specialty cup of coffee and

heated a homemade, gluten free muffin, and sat on the back deck. Crisp November air nipped at my

nose. Toes curled cozy warm under the world’s softest throw.

I was happy. My heart was full.

Later that night after Jude was nursed and burped, diapered, jammied, and contentedly in bed, I

descended the long staircase, ignited the gas on the huge stone fireplace, and snuggled into the

supple leather sofa with a sizable stack of books.

One by one I opened the cover of each novel or Christian living prescription I had been waiting to read.

And in succession I closed each one. Just. not. feeling. it. That night even the Bible felt flat and dry.

The house was quiet save for the gentle click and flicker of flames. My baby was peacefully asleep.

But now my heart was neither quiet or at peace.

I felt this tightening in my chest. Icky. Aching. Restless. Racing.

I got up and grabbed the book off a shelf that had caught my eye several times throughout the day.

(I actually had a copy of it in my desk drawer at home that another friend passed on to me several

months before.)

One last ditch effort at a satisfying night of reading.

I glanced at the pair of delicate blue bird eggs, the scrawled title, and opened One Thousand Gifts .

This time I couldn’t put it down.

But just six pages in the breaks of my soul slammed to screeching stop.

I read and reread the words slow and sober.

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 this 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.

It was like someone had stuck fireplace bellows in my mouth, but instead of pushing a burst of air

in, all my breath was sucked right out.

In my physical breathlessness I knew exactly where my spiritual restlessness was coming from:

Ingratitude.

It had been slowly creeping in all day, like an invisible serpent slithering up my leg then striking at

my heart.

The joy I first felt from spending blessed time in my friend’s lovely house was slowly being snuffed out

by my growing jealousy.

The huge walk-in closet stocked with fashionable threads. The children’s art supplies delightfully displayed

in open mason jars. The attention to every decorating detail—every accent pillow providing the perfect

pop of color, every bookshelf visually pleasing and stacked with titles I wish I was reading.

Yes, I had allowed jealousy to take joy’s place—not enough room in one heart for both.

And without intentional thought, I also started to equate every picturesque thing seen with every assumed

blessing unseen. Perfect home accessories somehow mind morphed into meaning the perfect job and

ministry, perfect marriage, perfect kids, all perfectly thriving while I felt like I was barely surviving.

All of her presumed everythings made me feel like a whole lot of nothing.

I didn’t even realize it was happening until I read Ann’s words.

How could I be so selfish? How could I fall into the pit of comparison so quickly? How could I allow all

the beautiful blessings my friend had received make me forget all that God had given me?

I closed the book, closed my eyes, and opened my heart in repentance.

* * * * *

I don’t know if it was just the crazy chaos of life at home with three boys three and under or if it was my lack

of discipline or a self care oversight…or if maybe it just wasn’t yet the right season in my heart…whatever

the reason, I let the blue egg book stay tucked in my desk drawer for several more months.

I did start scratching phrases of thanks on random pieces of paper and scribbling bits of gratitude lists in

mostly neglected journals. But despite the deeply moving experience I had that November night on the

harbor-side couch, I never finished One Thousand Gifts.

Until the following July when the Spirit said that it was time.

I started again from the beginning. And again it was the same words about the world’s first sin that stopped me.

    the sin of ingratitude…

    painfully ungrateful for what God gave…

    we aren’t satisfied in God and what He gives…

I recorded the passage in my journal and thought about the weekend I first read it.

Then as fast as my pen would write I inked this confession, reflection, God-change-me

petition.

July 14, 2013

Yes, me, too. I justify my sin of ingratitude by calling it discontentment or reasoning that I deserve

something different or by comparing my perceived lack to someone else’s plenty, my weakness to

someone else’s strength.

I say I just want good things for my family—they deserve the best!—a better mom, a better wife,

better house, better things.

But really I’m telling God that what He’s given is NOT good.

I’m so often ungrateful. Painfully ungrateful.

Lord, please forgive my sin of ingratitude. Please grow in me a grateful heart. Please grow eyes that

see all your gifts and train my lips to give you the praise and thanks YOU deserve.

I deserve nothing. You, everything.

Grow joy in me for your everything.

Amen.

Friends, I marvel at these words that poured from my heart just 15 months ago. Not because they are

poetic or profound, but because God has answered my prayer profusely!

The daily practice of giving thanks has transformed my life.

I see His grace and beauty everywhere.

I am now painfully grateful for all of His gifts—that deep soul ache that comes from loving

someone so fierce it actually hurts, or realizing the God of the universe loves you like that, too.

Jealousy is a joy sucker. Ingratitude is a life stealer.

God gave me the sword of Thanksgiving to fight both back and in doing so, reclaim my heart for

Him and dare to living fully right where I am.

Has reading One Thousand Gifts changed you?
What truths about gratitude has God impressed upon your heart?
What prayers has He answered?

Day 23: Dinorsaurs, Dingy Couch, and the Power of Thanksgiving

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 22 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I sit in my living room, house asleep, eyes and soul straining to wake. I pull my knees to my chest,

huddle for warmth in the cool of early morning.

And I give thanks.

Thank you, Lord, for dinosaurs scattered on the floor and for the little boys who left them there.

Thank you for this old hand-me-down couch more seasoned than my marriage. Thank you for

its microfiber fabric—marked and marred from use and abuse by three dirty, rowdy, acrobatic,

wild, growing boys—that still yields well to the magic cleaning power of a baby wipe.

Thank you for my autumn decorations on the hearth that keep getting disarranged by curious

little hands convinced wooden pumpkins look better in a different order. Thank you for the

reminder that no one, no thing, is perfect besides you.

Lord, help me to let go of all my inner strife that wants to keep my life perfectly in order—

it’s a futile feat, I know, but still I strive.

Instead I want to live fully alive!

I want to find joy in training my children well to care for their things by cleaning up and putting

away; I want to find joy in the haphazard messes that some days make every floor in the house a

living landmine of pokey stegosaurus spikes, sharp building block corners, and almost invisible

Legos.

I choose joy in both by giving thanks!

I choose joy when I surrender my perfectly ordered 31 Days series for the disordered—nay,

God re-ordered—writing of my heart. When I push forward with my own plans like a stubborn

rhino, I risk missing the beauty I’m plowing straight through.

If I charged ahead all month, head down and driven by perfection, I would have missed

writing this and this and this .

I would have missed these windows of God’s grace.

I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart .

Eyes wide open, heart soft to surrender, letting go of my ideas of what a God gift looks like—

THEN I can receive all God’s intimate displays of beauty, encouragement, and mercy.

These are HIS wonders:

Messy houses, tantruming children, little boys alive digging dirt, cradling worms, kicking a

soccer ball with all their might, inspecting every facet of a fallen leaf, afternoon breeze kissing

my cheek; yes God’s wonders are revealed in all things—even in the heartache of grief .

I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole

heart; I will tell of all His wonders.

Yes, it is thanksgiving that opens the eyes, softens the heart, to every wonder to be told .

Yesterday was my dad’s birthday. Third year not being able to call him. Third year his gone-ness sinks in a little deeper. becky & chris 462

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Yesterday was my dad’s birthday.

Third year not being able to call him.

Third year his gone-ness sinks in a little deeper.

Day 21: Reaching Past Desperation to Dreams

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 20 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I remember it clearly.

Late in the evening I sat on my disheveled bed nursing my second son—just a few months old,

still pink and new. As he drank I prayed that this would be the last feeding for at least a few

hours. I just needed a little rest. A little break from a little someone needing me.

Oh, I remember the deep eye socket ache from lids chronically forced open too many

hours each day.

I felt myself drifting as my precious boy suckled out his nourishment. I knew my soul needed

feeding, too.

Day 15: Unlikely Friend, Surprising Wonder

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 19 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I dreaded every meeting with her.

Time slowed to an excruciating pace and my well-paying part-time job didn’t seem at all worth it

during those two agonizing hours each week.

I was an English tutor for second language learners. It was my junior year of college and I was

grateful to have landed a coveted on-campus jobs that I could pop into between classes and

earn double minimum wage. The gig was more or less just talking with another student for one

hour, twice a week, to help improve their English. Each week we focused on a different language

landmine: pronouns, verb conjugation, word order, plurals.

Overall, I loved my job! I enjoyed getting to meet peers outside of my major who called another

country home. It was fun getting to learn about different cultures while encouraging new

friends on their road to English mastery.

But one student, was not my joy. Her name was Ritsuko. She was at least fifteen years my

senior and one of the coldest women I had ever met.

Not shy. Cold.

She would sit across from me at the lacquered language lab table, answer my questions in the

shortest way possible, and never crack a smile.

At first I thought maybe she was just nervous. So I turned up the warmth from my side of the

conversation to try to make her more comfortable. That only made it worse.

Even after months of meeting together, I knew very little about Ritsuko, other than she was

from Japan, came to the U.S. for her husband’s job, and that she had finished all her

engineering coursework three semesters back but couldn’t get her degree until she passed

the university required WPE (Writing Proficiency Exam).

She met with me because she had to.

I desperately wanted to help Ritsuko improve her English (and fast) for her sake, and mine.

But she didn’t make it easy.

By Christmas break I had given up on small talk and trying to build any semblance of a friendly

rapport. She was a stick-to-the-program kind of gal so I ditched the chitchat and got right

down to business.

One afternoon halfway through the spring semester, I let a simple, “So what did you do this

weekend?” accidentally slip out (a question I routinely asked my other Monday students.)

Shockingly, Ritsuko answered me.

“I went to the mall,” she said.

I was so taken aback that she actually responded, I felt compelled to attempt a light

conversation.

“Oh, that must have been fun,” I said.

“No,” she replied. “Shopping American stores too hard.”

“Really? Why is that?” I asked, expecting her to say something about the loud music,

long lines, or crowded dressing rooms.

But instead she said, “Sales people too friendly. They don’t leave me alone to look

what I want.”

What?! I thought.

And thus ensued an enlightening, engaging conversation about how from her cultural

perspective, a salesperson asking if she needed help finding something was not seen

as good customer service, but rather an infringement on personal space.

Ritsuko told me how off putting it was when strangers smile at her on the street. How

she doesn’t understand why people are friendly to you when they’re not your friend.

She shared how life in Japan is more private, reserved. You earn respect and trust

in relationships—you don’t just give it away.

I shared back how in the U.S. general friendliness is welcomed, warm, polite. How a

smile is a sign of acknowledgement; offering help is a gesture of respect.

We went back and forth discussing societal norms and how different cultural

perspectives influence how we interpret our surroundings and interactions.

As the conversation continued, Ritsuko wore a widening smirk.

I finally had to know what was behind her curious expression.

“What is it?” I asked.

She paused. Thought. Then said:

“Well, you most friendly American of all. I not know why . You not selling me anything.

You not passing me on street. So why big smile and so nice all the time?”

This, of course, made me smile all the more, which made me all the more embarrassed,

while at the same time completely perplexed. I thought I had quit the friendliness months

ago. I thought I wasn’t exuding any usual warmth.

As I searched my mind for an appropriate explanation, the Spirit stepped in and stirred

my heart with the most accurate answer.

It wasn’t me she was seeing—it was Christ in me.

I measured my words, aware of the other tutors and students around us, aware of the

highly secular university we sat in, aware of the truth-challenge thrumming in my chest:

“Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the

reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.”

I was young and not used to talking about faith with people who didn’t share my same beliefs.

I took a deep breath, Ritsuko’s dark almond eyes never leaving mine.

“If you think I am happier, more friendly than other Americans you meet, it’s not because I’m

just really nice. I smile because I know a person named Jesus. He is God’s Son. He loves me

and I love Him. His love in me allows me to love other people.”

Ritsuko was intrigued. She wanted to know more.

And thus God opened the door to one of the most surprising friendships of

my life.

From that day forth I shared my faith with Ritsuko in bits and pieces. I told her about church on

Sundays when she now asked about my weekend. We pressed forward in our English lessons

with a new ease and fresh fervor, both working hard to prepare for her final attempt at the

WPE and last chance to earn the degree waiting for her without having to complete more

remedial language coursework.

I now looked forward to my time with Ritsuko each week. But no day was as blessed as the

one when I got to read the Word with her.

Our session was winding up and I felt that heart-racing, semi-frantic feeling that I had learned

to recognize as God asking me to do something outside the edges of my comfort zone.

“You’re my last meeting for the day and I don’t have class right now,” I said as casually as I could.

“So I was wondering if you’d like to keep talking for a bit and hear more about what it means to

know Jesus?”

She looked at me. Nodded.

We relocated to a shady bench near the north campus traffic circle. I clumsily rifled through my

backpack to retrieve The Book from where it was wedged between textbooks. Cars with crazy

college students whizzed by, desperate to find a golden metered spot and dash to class.

I honestly didn’t even know what I was going to share with Ritsuko or where to start. So I just

opened to where I had been reading in John 15.

“I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear

much fruit; apart form me you can do nothing.”

I read the words out loud and I nervously tried to explain the agricultural metaphor in terms

she could understand. We went through the passage, verse by verse.

Awkward silence was in no short supply.

But when we got to verse 11, something changed.

“ I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete. My

command is this: Love each other as I have loved you.”

I was ready to move on when Ritsuko put her delicate hand on mine.

“This is what you told me,” she said. “You have joy because this Jesus give to

you. So you be happy and love people. Yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

We kept reading.

“Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are my

friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not

know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I

learned from my Father I have made known to you.”

I told her how Jesus laid down his life by dying on the cross. That we all miss the mark, that I

miss the mark, and sin, which separates us from God. I told her how God loved us so much that

He didn’t want us to be separated from Him forever, so He sent His son to pay the price of our

sins. That His love forgives us, we just have to accept the free gift.

Ritsuko looked at the thin pages splayed on my lap. I watched as her eyes scanned the blue

ballpoint pen markings. She reached out a slender finger and placed it on one word.

Friend.

“This say I can be Jesus friend? This say he love me like he love you?”

She looked up and her eyes were bright. Shining with curiosity. Hope.

Awake with Wonder.

I wish I could tell you that in the weeks that followed I watched Ritsuko pass the WPE

and receive her college degree.

Even more, I wish I could tell you that I watched her pass from death to life and

receive the forgiving love of Christ.

But that’s not how the rest of the semester unfolded.

We continued our tutoring and had a few more conversations about God. We met at Starbucks

once and read the Word again. I invited her to church; she said she would come but never

showed up. Then slowly she started to miss our weekly appointments, and eventually racked up

so many unexcused absences that the tutoring center had to remove her from their roster.

More than a decade later, I still wonder what ever happened to dear Ritsuko. Perhaps her

husband was not supportive of her new found intrigue in “American religion” and discouraged

her from further exploration. But that’s only speculation…

What I do know is that I grew to love Ritsuko.

And I am forever grateful for the gift of being present the very first time she experienced

the wonder of the Word.

The Wonder of Joy [join me at Deeper Waters]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 16 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I am not a morning person. Really, really not a morning person.

But on most days, I wrench my blurry-eyed self out of bed at least a few minutes before my

three little boys rise. I stumble through the kitchen to my rescued-and-refurbished desk and try

not to let my chair squeaky scrape across the tile as I take a seat. I reach long to open the

window, letting crisp morning air and bluebird chatter greet me awake.

Why do I do this when I’d rather savor every last moment in bed?

To give thanks.

. . .

I’m so blessed to share my heart and The Wonder of Joy over at Deeper Waters today.

Day 16: The Word Reaching through Grief

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 16 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I can still feel the tight and swollen ache of eyes marred by crying.

I can still feel the pang in my heart, reality sinking deeper of my father’s dying.

I dragged my weary soul to the couch and opened up the Word;

I needed to hear God’s voice before my children’s cries could be heard.

I flipped to the Psalms, a familiar home for comfort, solace, and hope,

And there God handed me the 103rd song, like a lifeline length of rope.

Day 13: Word Wonderful…Join the Listening Journey

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 13 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Have you ever felt wildly passionate about something yet wholly inadequate to share it with others?

That’s how I feel starting this section of the series of looking at the wonder of The Word.

Last week we talked about how God first revealed His eternal power and divine nature through

creation . I shared how my mind awakens to wonder and my heart stirs in awe by God’s infinite

creativity and masterful workmanship in all He created.

The skies above. The creatures below. Flowers and trees, so simple yet intricate, fragile but

strong.

I love nature. It draws me to the heart of God .

So does the second way God chose to reveal himself—through His Word.

Many years ago as a believer young in my faith, I remember lingering over the opening words of

John chapter one:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God

in the beginning.

Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been

made. In him was life, that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness,

but the darkness has not understood.

I read it. But I did not fully understand it.

I was pretty sure the passage was talking about Jesus, but even for a girl who loves language, I

found myself tripping over words and getting mixed up in metaphors of what “the Word”

actually meant.

I pressed on, unsure of where this rocky road of understanding would lead me. Nine verses

later came these words:

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the

glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

Now things were becoming clearer.

The Word became flesh—Jesus. God incarnate.

Christ, the Son, one of three, part of the trinity. The Word, Jesus, God. All one. All with one.

Since the beginning.

The eyes of my heart were starting to open, like an infant after a long, swaddled nap whose

vision blurs with the first few bats of delicate eyelashes, then slowly, the world comes into

focus.

My heart recognized the truth even though I could not explain or dissect every aspect.

I think this was purposeful.

Because areas left for my budding faith to trust made room for wonder.

Today, my understanding of Scripture is a bit deeper. I have a better grasp on the greater

context for many passages and a fuller knowledge of genres, writers, and historical

significance.

Yet the Word of God is the most precious, perfect expression of His goodness and love.

The words on the pages we hold in our hands or flip through on our devices are actually

God-breathed, Spirit-inspired. Infallible. Hallowed.

I do not take this lightly.

I am not a biblical scholar,, theologian, or hermeneutics expert.

There is so much I don’t know.

But the Bible is for me. The Bible is for you.

We all need grace. We all need truth. The Word is both.

John 1:16 reads:

From the fullness of his grace we have all received one blessing

after another.

This I can attest to from my own life. One blessing after another.

So I come to you this week, not as a master or authority, but as a regular girl enraptured

by the wonder of God. The wonder of the Word.

And I can’t wait to share with you stories of how God has used his great gift of divine

inspiration to my life in real, gritty, grace-laced ways.

The Word of God speaks.

I’m on the listening journey with you.

Day 12: What Precious Love We See

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 11 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

PSALM 36: 5–9

“Your unfailing love, O Lord, is as vast as the heavens;

                                                                                                 your faithfulness reaches beyond the clouds.

                                                                                            Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains,

                                                                                                  your justice like the ocean depths.

                                                                                           You care for people and animals alike, O Lord.

                                                                                         HOW PRECIOUS IS YOUR UNFAILING LOVE, O GOD.

                                                                                       All humanity finds shelter in the shadow of your wings.

                                                                                         You feed them from the abundance of your own house,

letting them drink from your river of delights.

                                                                                                         For you are the fountain of life,
                                                                                   the light by which we see.”

                                                                        Thank you, Lord, for giving us so many expressions of your precious love,

                                                                                                              the greatest of which,

                                                                                                                       your Son.

Day 11: The Wonder I Need

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

My boys were operating out of their usual crazy chaos this morning.

Bouncing from room to room, cars playing, spaceship making, brother battling, pillow fight

fighting. The noise was escalating to an intolerable volume, but I ignored the happy (ear

piercing) racket because I was immersed in my own parallel chaos.

I whirled from room to room like a Tasmanian devil mama, not searching for food for her

precious brood, but searching for a precious book. I checked every cabinet and cupboard,

drawer and nook. Its hiding powers overpowered me.

I crumbled on the couch in a defeated heap.

It was nowhere to be found.

The book that I planned to review today, the one I couldn’t wait to tell you about, the one that

God used over a decade ago to first awaken my heart to the infinite ways he reveals his

wonders, the one with the black cover and bright colored window that I can see clear as light in

my mind’s eye—that is the missing book.

So again my writing plan goes awry .

I huff and complain a little to myself (to God?) that all my hunting should be rewarded with a

little finding. But I resign. And go about my day.

I prepare chili for the crockpot so my crew will have a hearty meal to feast on come dinnertime.

I clean up pee before someone slips on the slick pool left by the littlest who has a new objection

to clothes and diapers. I marvel over Lincoln Log forts and put each boy on at least two time

outs for not treating one another kindly or using screams instead of words.

Lunch is served and toys are cleaned up and I hold out hope that my mama brain is somehow

suppressing the vital information of where this book is hiding and that once the blessed hour of

nap time comes I’ll be able to think and retrieve the treasured words in the calm and quiet.

Jude, the smallest, gets put down first.

He wants to play peekaboo with his yellow fishy blankie and asks for “one more song” three

times. I lovingly oblige but firmly tell him “last one” on the final tune. We rock and sing.

I put him in his crib, expecting joyful compliance, but instead I get a back-arching, soul-

screeching, full-blown toddler tantrum.

I tell him goodnight and turn out the light. The screams only escalate.

A few minutes pass and I go back in. I expect myself to provide calm and strong discipline, but

instead I give way to an ugly adult-tantrum.

I yell at my sweet boy.

He crumples in my arms, too overcome to mutter his “I’m sorry.”

I whisper mine to him, to Jesus, again and again. With aching heart my auto-response kicks in

and I start to sing the last song in my lullaby repertoire.

The words start out,

You are good, You are good, When there’s nothing good in me

You are love, You are love, On display for all to see

https://youtu.be/l2wdnEI0bMY

As my mouth sings these words, my spirit questions,

Why are you so distracted by sharing about wonder the way you want, instead of

experiencing the wonder right in front of you?

Instead of raging over Jude encroaching on “your” time, could you relish your time with

him?

Could you savor his ridiculously cute two-year-old voice that squeaks out every lyric in

unison as you sing?

Could you gaze at his impish grin longer? Show more patience and grace through an

unrushed embrace?

Perhaps this is the wonder God wants me to ponder.

Perhaps Windows of the Soul went missing so my soul would still longer at the window right in

before me. The window of His love, always being enough, even in my messy mom moments.

The riches of His love

Will always be enough.

…Nothing more wonder-full can I imagine.

Day 10: Blooming into Wonder

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

One of the best material gifts I’ve ever received is a silver rectangle three and a half inches

wide, two inches tall, and three-fourths an inch thick. It has a smaller black rectangle on the

back and a raised button on the top right. It’s a Canon PowerShot SD1000, my first digital

camera.

My friend Mey gave it to me for my 25th birthday.

I was blown away by her generosity. So touched that after years of watching me snap pics with

cheap disposable cameras, she wanted me to have something better. I’m sure Mey knew I’d able

to capture more memories and share photos more easily with friends.

What she didn’t know is how her kindness would help me Awaken to Wonder.

Day 9: The Wonder Boys Can See

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I have always been taken by the vastness of God’s creation.

His infinite creativity.

His awe-inspiring creatures.

A trip to the aquarium or local zoo makes me marvel at the beauty and variety of His animal

kingdom.

Delicate sea dragons with their lace-like appendages zigzagging through living coral of every

bright and glorious hue. Massive octopi with suckers slurping at the glass. Sting rays gliding

through shimmering water.

Black and white zebra stripes, no two patterns exactly alike. Swinging elephant trunks and

slender giraffe necks stretching to the sky. Spindly-legged flamingos that stink and turn the

color pink based on the food they eat. Parrots whose voices mimic visitors and feathers mirror

rainbows.

Marveling over earthly creatures is one simple way to awaken to holy wonder.

The speed of a cheetah is majestic; the power of a grizzly is marvelous. The flap of a

hummingbird’s wings enough to make your heart flutter, your imagination sing.

I’m not really an animal lover, in that pets just aren’t my thing, but I do believe animals are a

living, breathing call from God’s beating heart for beauty, mystery, art, to ours.

Having boys has taught me that sometimes that beckoning masterpiece comes in the form

of insect art.

I think it must be written in their DNA. A “Boys-Love-Bugs” chromosome.

I’ve written about how growing up I was more of a tree climbing kid than a dolls and dress-up

girl. Even so, I did not love bugs. Sure, I’d hold a rollie pollie every now and again. But I did not

have an innate affinity for creepy crawlies with more than four legs.

But my boys? They have insect magnets embedded in their fingertips and special bug-seeker

vision that must send off tiny brain beeps like a metal detector getting closer to treasure.

It’s never my favorite thing to have a wriggly worm or half-dead beetle thrust half an inch

from my eye.

But it is my favorite thing to see my boys awake to wonder!

So for the sake their delight and “Look what God made!” exploration, I have become quite keen

on discovering the smallest kingdom creatures and capturing them in pixels.

It’s incredible, really, how much wonder sneaks past us every day. Amazing how many miniature

masterpieces are there on display, just waiting for us to slow and breathe. Stop and see.

I think all artists would concur that in some way, they make art to make themselves

known.

The Artist is no different.

Because of the art they see, mu boys know that God is beauty and creativity. At ages 5, 4, and 2,

they know that life is valuable and creation is to be cared for.

The delicacy and power they witness in a sleeping spider and resting bee, teaches them awe

and respect for the Creator and all His wondrous creatures.

I never want them to numb to this awe. I never want them to out grow their inquisitive

wonder.

…now I still don’t want to cuddle with a praying mantis or make a colony of ants our new family

pet, but I try to do my part to help them see every opportunity for beauty.

And sometimes that even means snapping a pic of a dead dashboard fly.

It’s an ugly nuisance to me. But to my three little men? They see a shining emerald belly and

glistening metallic wings. They see tiny crooked legs and big beady eyes.

What we would all quickly dispose of, discard, makes them ooh and ahh and hunger for more.

They are enthralled with ordinary glory.

I want to be, too.

A Break for Grief

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 07 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Today I should be sitting down to write Day 8 of 31 as I guide my heart, and maybe yours, on this

journey to Awaken to Wonder . I have notes and an outline of what today’s content should hold.

But sometimes the “shoulds” need to be put on hold.

* * *

This morning at kindergarten drop off I saw a beautifully gray grandmother holding hands with a

small boy with light brown locks. I didn’t see their faces, just the backside view of their precious

connection.

Their stature and coloring were a near perfect match to another precious grandma-grandson pair

I know: Alyssa‘s mother and son.

Watching these two strangers, I came undone.

Grief is like that.

It catches your breath in your chest, catches you off guard in moments you thought you

were safe from its swallowing wrath.

I had rushed my boy as we walked to school. I chirped and chided and continually reminded

him to walk faster, keep up the pace, you don’t want to be late!

I was too taken with the hurry to slow and savor each step we took together.

On the way home, I hid huge tears brimming in my eyes with bigger sunglasses so the

friendly crossing guard and his fluorescent orange vest wouldn’t see and ask too clearly,

“How are you?”

Because the truth is, I don’t know how to answer that question today.

I am blessed and I am thankful. I am hopeful and I am hurting.

I’m ashamed for taking the sweet and simple gifts of kissing my son goodbye at the

playground gate for granted. I’m broken that Sam and Charlotte Fukumoto will never get

kisses from their radiant mother again.

And I’m confused. Confused by the relief and joy and pain I feel over my own gray-haired grandma

who went to be with Jesus this past Sunday. My heart celebrates her home-going, and I am filled

with deep and honest gratitude for the legacy she and my grandpa both lived and passed on of

knowing God and making Him known.

It’s the greatest gift she could ever give the generations that follow.

Yet something stirs stinging in my heart, too, for never having the gift of a grandma who was

available to take me to school, never knowing my sweet Tutu in a day-to-day doing-life-together

kind of way.

She was kind and quirky and thoughtful and bright. She told loopy stories that were hard to follow

and made me and my childhood best friend silly blue neck pillows. On the special occasions

when she came to town to visit, she always had a smile and hug to share (and maybe a hand-

me-down present.)

I wish today I could fall into her squishy, strong embrace. Though we weren’t wildly close, I know

she loved her family fierce. I know her soft bosom would be a safe place for my sobs and

fears and tears.

* * *

I don’t very much like feeling undone. You?

I much rather feel in control. I much rather analyze the truth of God’s saving grace and operate

out of happy assurance that Alyssa and my Tutu are in a better place.

I much rather not feel so profoundly affected in ways that don’t make sense to my Type A,

categorize it and put it away personality. It feels uncomfortable that the passing of two beautiful

souls who were not a part of my daily life could now impact my days so deeply.

But sometimes uncomfortable is where we need to be.

Sometimes undone is okay. Necessary, maybe.

Maybe that’s the place that makes me stop analyzing God’s grace and just accept it—

for me.

It’s much easier to write when I’m at the end of a lesson and I can look back and recount

the takeaways and recap the growth. But today I’m not at the end of this lesson of grief.

I’m right in the thick messy middle of it.

But the wonder is that Jesus is right here with me in it.

He was perfect. So I don’t have to be.

Day 7: Mountain Whispers

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 06 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I laced up my tan hiking boots, coated my pale skin with bug repellant, and loaded my backpack

with just the essentials: water, Bible, pen, and journal. I tucked the trail map in my pocket and

closed the door to my mountain dorm.

I was off.

Off on another adventure. Just me and God.

I avoided trails that the tourists traveled most and set off in the opposite direction. I breathed in

the oxygen-rich mountain air, crisp and refreshing even in the heat of summer. I liked the way

my boots padded in comforting thuds on the hard-packed dirt; I was thankful that this essential

footwear was now actually comfortable to wear, the blister stage of breaking in now a pink-skin

memory of the past.

My ears were tuned to the tiny songbirds who perched on the spindly branches of the red manzanita.

My nose was tuned to the melodic fragrance of woody Sequoias mingled with sweet wild flowers

and musky earth.

And my heart was tuned to hearing God’s voice through it all.

How Majestic Is Your Name

My eyes continually scanned the landscape ahead for the prize of every hike: a huge off-trail

boulder with a scenic view. Once I found it I veered off course and scampered up the hill,

unmindful of the undergrowth, eager to get to my perch. I assessed my resting place to

find the perfect groove or nook with the right curve to cradle my trail-worn body.

Then I settled in. Mind reeling with memories from my day, my week, overlayed like a

cinematic effect on top of the panoramic picture before me. The voice-over played,

ringing these words in my heart:

     “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”

                                                                  -Psalm 8:1

*     *     *

Looking back years later, I’m now partly appalled that I was regularly hiking and even

camping overnight alone in wilderness I didn’t know well. I do not endorse solo

excursions by 19 year old females.

Yet even so, I honestly wouldn’t trade those solitary summer hours for the world.

I spent three months working and ministering in Kings Canyon National Park right

after my freshman year in college. It was a summer of learning .

Learning how to do everything as unto the Lord during long shifts as a thankless

“bus boy” at the mountain village diner.

Learning how to work with teammates so unlike me as we pooled our minimal

experience and resources to put on Sunday worship services for park visitors.

Learning how to speak truth while showing God’s love to the dozens of other

college students who came to spend their mountain summer getting wasted.

But more than anything, it was the summer I started learning to awaken to

God’s wonder through creation.

For since the creation of the world, God’s invisible qualities—his eternal

power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from

what had been made, so that men are without excuse. -Romans 1:20

The difficulties of that summer paled in comparison to the vividness with which I

experienced God.

I felt Him in the lush green valleys and rugged peaks. I saw Him in the

spotted fawns and blue-chested birds. I sensed Him in the deep-rigged

bark of the massive sequoias, sensed the majesty and power of the

200 foot giants’ Creator. Perceived Him in the sinking sun and

changing sky.

At every turn I heard His whispers.

sunset valley Awaken to Wonder

Often I would come back from those nature treks sun burned and

bug bitten (because that repellant never really worked.) My tummy

was usually grumbling and my pallet parched from not enough water.

But none of it mattered.

Because I was Awake to Wonder.

When was the first time you felt God most clearly in creation?
Where is your favorite place in nature to connect with the Creator?

Day 6: Awaken through Creation

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 05 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Before a word was ever etched on a slab of stone or inscribed on a piece of parchment, God

was writing His manifesto in the glory of creation.

The heavens were His canvas and He used broad brushstrokes of every hue to compose an

ever-changing love letter to describe His unchanging power and love. Sun and clouds and stars

reaching down to us through never-ending skies.

A professing masterpiece.

    The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

    Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge.

    There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard.

    -Psalm 119:1-3

This was the first way God chose to reveal His wonders . And He is still using the awesome

medium today.

My oldest swings a bat like a mini professional ball player while my middle collects an inordinate

amount of dirt on the tip of his nose from who knows where. My littlest delights in being the

wiffle ball retriever in between his serious work of school bus driving and serious shark helmet

wearing.

And they do it under the canopy of God’s visual voice.

“Look at how God is painting the sky tonight!” Noah shouts.

“Yeah, I see yellow and orange and pink,” Elias adds.

“Pink! Pink!” Jude chimes in.

I stand back. Feel the cool evening breeze kiss my shoulders. Close my eyes to cherish the high

pitched squeals of boyhood laughter.

Then I open them again and behold the wonder.

Day 5: Sunday Praise

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 04 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

“The heavens praise your wonders, O Lord,
your faithfulness, too, in the assembly of the holy ones.”

-Psalm 89:5

Day 4: The Purpose

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 03 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

If I were to ever have a whole day all to myself, I could easily spend it in a bookstore.

I could browse shelves of classic literature and light-hearted novels, pour over children’s

picture books and salivate over high def photos in beautiful cookbooks. I would be delighted to

compile a huge stack of memoirs and devotionals and young adult lit and curl up in an over

-sized leather arm chair with a never-ending caramel latte and just read the afternoon away.

And as I browsed, there would be one section hard not to notice: The Self Help books.

I would probably mosey over out of curiosity about what the next “quick fix” fad was and find a

hundred plus “Ten Steps to a Happier Life” titles. But these “helpful” books wouldn’t make me

happy.

Day 3: The Posture

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 02 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Their little bodies naturally fold themselves into miniature accordions of zigzagged limbs

pressed tight against bent torsos. Their eyes are focused, searching, seeking. Soaking up every

detail. Savoring each discovery.

To their little bodies, this posture is natural. Because their little hearts are awake to

wonder.

Day 2: The Plan

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 01 Oct 2014 18:00:00 GMT

There are certain stories I love to tell again and again.

Like the one about how I didn’t get in to my dream college even though on paper I was the

perfect candidate.

Or the one where I felt stuck in a job that wasn’t my joy for more years than I care to count.

Or the one where the position I longed for slipped through my fingers.

Why? Why would I enjoy retelling stories of pain and disappointment?

Because that’s not where those stories end. They may begin with my pain, but they end with

God’s provision. God’s purpose.

They aren’t tear-jerkers or split-your-side crowd-pleasers. But they are stories that make me

REMEMBER.

Remember God’s wonders in my life.

It’s so very easy to get caught up in the day to day STUFF. You know how it goes. Breakfast,

lunch, and dinner because your family insists on eating all the time. Dishes, laundry, work,

and church. Diapers, homework, hungry world. That one you love is dying and that friend is

going through that awful thing, barely surviving. You gotta get groceries, gotta pay the bills,

gotta stop and weep for the hurt in your home or around the world. Gotta get some sleep.

Bemoan the lack of sleep.

It’s the stuff of life.

But sometimes all the stuff can SNUFF OUT your life. It can snuff out your joy, your peace,

or maybe your perspective.

So sometimes we have to step away from the stuff that threatens to snuff us out so we can

re-ignite and shed some light on who God is and what He has done.

We have to remember.

When I tell the story of not going to Stanford, I remember that God sees the needs I didn’t

know I had. I remember that I graduated from a State school debt-free because of a full

academic scholarship and with a heart full of His Word because of the Christian campus

ministry that taught me how to read my Bible, enter into community, and walk with Jesus

daily.

When I tell the story of slogging through years as a medical biller, I remember that God

takes care of my future . I remember that He prepared a skill set for me that I would have

never sought after so that when my babies were born I’d have the opportunity to work

part time from home, spending precious years with my boys while helping provide for

my family.

When I tell the story of getting the “We went with another candidate” letter, I remember

God’s faithfulness and perfect timing in all things . I remember how a year later I got a

call back asking if I was still interested because the editorial position was open again,

and this time on a team that was an even better fit.

I will give thanks to the Lord with all my heart; I will tell of all His wonders.

-Psalm 9:1

Looking back and remembering when and how and where and why you saw God’s

fingerprints in your life is one important way to Awaken to Wonder. And when we

tell those stories, it re-strengthens our faith, helps us re-Awaken to who God is

and the wonder-full things He has done.

→ So storytelling is going to be one part of The Plan for our 31 Days to Awaken to

Wonder . Throughout the month, I’ll be sharing in-the-thick-of-it stories of my messy

motherhood moments and God-growing-me lessons.

→ Next week we’ll focus on how to Awaken to Wonder through CREATION : Looking

at the stories God writes through the world around us.

→ The following week we’ll dig into how we can Awaken to Wonder through THE

WORD : Looking at how the Bible reveals the wonder of God’s character through

The greatest Story on earth.

→ Next we’ll spend a week exploring how to Awaken to Wonder through THANKSGIVING :

Looking at how cultivating a life of gratitude is one crucial avenue to the full life of wonder.

→ Finally, we’ll wrap up the last week of October considering how to Awaken to Wonder

through PERSPECTIVE CHANGING : Looking at how our point of view determines our ability

to live eyes wide open and heart soft to receive God’s daily wonder and grace.

I hope you will join me on this Awaken to Wonder journey…because I need your stories, too.

Day 1: The Problem

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 30 Sep 2014 18:00:00 GMT

We live in a generation that is chronically asleep.

How can that be, you ask, when “I’m so tired” is the habitual response millions sigh out

whenever asked the “How are you?” question.

How can we all be chronically asleep when our 24/7 world of trying and striving and uber-

productive living (or burning hours of midnight oil just to scrape by) keeps most us from the

rest our bodies need? I’m not talking about an over abundance of physical sleep.

No, I’m talking about spiritual sleepiness.

Asleep to wonder.

One Who Shines Brighter

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 28 Sep 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I don’t how heaven works exactly. So this may be totally wrong. But I have a hunch that a few

of Glory’s citizens shine a little brighter than the rest.

I think Alyssa is one of them.

If her smile lit up a room here on earth, if her zest for life and shining eyes were near magic, her

joy contagious, here, then doesn’t it just make sense that her bright life light would become

even brighter when she is restored in heaven to the fullness of who God created her to be?

Yes, I think it does.

So I’m gonna say with confidence full that on Tuesday, September 23 at 12:20 a.m. heaven

welcomed one of those rare and glorious bright lights.

31 Days to Awaken to Wonder

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 25 Sep 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Each October The Nester hosts a writing challenge called 31 Days .

The premise is simple: write every day for 31 days on a single topic.

In previous years I have happily followed other bloggers on their October writing madness

adventures, learning from their in depth look at every topic from strengthening your marriage

or mothering in the mess to arranging a beautiful table-scape or making dinner out of pantry

staples.

But this year I heard the Lord whisper,

It’s not your year to be a reader. It’s your year to be a writer.

Death and Chocolate and God’s Nearness

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 22 Sep 2014 18:00:00 GMT

My friend died today.

And my four year old still wants to talk about the color of his poop. And he tells me to please

stop crying because it hurts his ears. And he tells me he’s sad, too, because Jesus and God

aren’t on this earth anymore either.

We make pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, little hands dumping in sugar and flour, fighting over

the spoon and who gets to mix first. Because on this first day of Fall, cinnamon and chocolate

and warm things baking mean nothing. But they mean something.

I have no words, yet, to tell you the pictures of glory I see of my friend dancing through heaven’s

gates, all whole and healed and basking in complete joy in every cell of her being for being face

to face with Jesus.

I have no words for the soul wrecking, body wracking sobs and broken heart ache I feel for the

tragedy, loss, pain, and devastation left here in cancer’s ugly wake.

But God is close. He is here. He hears and is near and He never asks us not to feel.

Why We Need to Hold On

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 18 Sep 2014 18:00:00 GMT

The words roll off my tongue faster and more frequently than I care to admit.

“Hold on a sec!”

I say it to the kid (kids) constantly calling my name. Hold on a sec, I’m doing dishes. Hold on

a sec, I’m making dinner. Hold on a sec, I’m reading email. Hold on a sec, I’m finishing up a task for

work or text to a friend or, or, or…

Though I feel like I’m purposing to be present with my boys, I realize that I’m far too often

preoccupied…with me. Not that I should be at my boys’ beckon call or that I shouldn’t train my

children to wait. (Yes, patience IS a virtue.)

But what are they really hearing when I say, “Just hold on a sec”?

Saying “Yes” to Change {welcome to my new blog}

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 17 Sep 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Somewhere stuffed in a dusty box lurks a photo of five-year-old me in my favorite red

sweatsuit, gloriously appliqued with a colorful lion and tiger and bear. Oh, my! If this fashion-

disaster relic was ever uncovered, you’d see a freckled-nose girl with raggedy light brown

pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. But the crowing jewel of this masterpiece? Spindly

white ankles and wrists poking out awkwardly from the thick crimson fabric — the

tragic result of a treasured outfit two sizes too small.

But I loved it. And insisted on wearing it. All the time.

I haven’t seen this picture in decades but the details are still vivid, just like the familiar

feeling that propelled my stubborn clothes-clinging: I don’t like change.

My mother can attest to this.

When I was a kid she decided to paint the family room a warm, inviting buttercup; I

came undone. She rearranged the furniture; I protested and fussed. Even though

I could acknowledge that these non-life-threatening changes were actually beneficial

— improvements — I still wanted it back the way it was.

A desperate need for everything to stay the same. Not change.

As an adult I no longer pout or whine the same way over change, but my deep inner

resistance to it remains. Like it’s hard wired in me.

When I was working as an editor and up for a laptop refresh, I naturally jumped at the

opportunity to exchange my brick-like PC for its light and sleek Mac counterpart.

But as soon as my fingers hit those unfamiliar feeling keys and my email looked

different and Word didn’t interface quite the same, I was shrieking inside, What have

I done? Give me that old black brick back!

This past winter we moved to a slightly larger house, an answer to two years of

prayers and searching. Our new place had an extra bedroom and wide open living

space. I loved the u-shape driveway where our boys could scooter and bike in the

safety of the quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac.

But almost as soon as the last box was hauled off the truck, my excitement began

to retreat and I just wanted our old address back.

No, I didn’t want to go back to piling our family of five into two crowded bedrooms

or to the dishwasher that leaked a few liters every cycle. No, I didn’t want to trade

my spacious new shower for the cramped quarters we use to share or give up my

luxuriously large linen closets.

But something about change, even though welcomed, upped my anxiety by about

23 notches.

Not having set systems for storing and organizing things. Needing to figure out

which wall art looks best where. Finding new homes for everything we own. All

part of the change process that I wish I could forever fast forward and just skip

to the settled in, this-is-my-new-normal-that-now-I-don’t-want-changed phase.

Clearly this is a pattern in my life. An unpleasant quirk I know about myself and

work to conquer manage.

So when I started the process of building this new blog, I braced myself for the

ugly inner resistance sure to take place.

I was ready to talk myself off the ledge when the discomfort of moving from the

blog I have known and loved for more than four years to a new platform, format,

online space became too taxing. I knew that this was the right change at the

right time for me to make, so I was geared up to pacify my inner change naysayer

for the sake of completing the task.

But you know what?

For once, change came easy.

This new website has been months in the making and even while traversing these foreign

roads of WordPress widgets, plugins, HTML code, and design, I never once said, “I want to

go back.”

Not every step was without frustration and I didn’t love every learning-curve moment, but I

did embrace this change in a whole new way.

Want to know why?

Friends, it’s because I am SO excited to welcome YOU into this space!

I have waited for, prayed for a new online home for over a year. It’s like Christmas morning

for my writer’s heart. It’s a God gift to me and I hope a gift to you as well.

Not only do I want you like the pretty package and curly ribbons, I pray you unwrap beautiful

treasures of me-too encouragement, grace-laced Truth, and authentic community.

I don’t know exactly where this new journey will take me, but I’ve already packed my “Yes” and

the changing landscape ahead couldn’t look more inviting.

Want to join me on the journey? I’d be thrilled if you would subscribe to my blog.

Just enter your email address in the SUBSCRIBE box in the right sidebar.

And as a small thank you, you’ll receive a FREE printable download of

16 Scriptures to help you Awaken to Wonder.

I’m a White Girl from Whittier and I’m #GoingThere

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I was raised in a city that is 65% Hispanic.

Growing up, my family hosted a slew of international students. I heard hushed tones of

Japanese whispers sneaking out from the downstairs bedroom and boisterous bursts of

Argentinian laughter booming from the corner room upstairs. College students from

Taiwan and China, Finland, France, and Spain gathered around our dining room table to

share food and culture and conversation.

Later we rented a spare room to an older woman from Sri Lanka. I remember liking her

coffee colored skin but having a harder time with the pungent smelling leftovers she left

uncovered in the fridge.

In high school I dated a Vietnamese guy whose parents weren’t too keen on

the fact that I was white.

There was a black girl on my basketball team and apricot was not the most common

colored skin in our school.

Through the years my mom dated several men of color and my dad’s second wife was

Korean. I celebrated a half dozen Christmases with my three Asian American step-siblings

and never minded my step-mom’s special kimchi refrigerator.

I have one niece and five nephews on two sides of my family who are half

Mexican and beautiful.

I adore my boys’ pediatrician who is from somewhere in the Middle East. His thick accent

and foreign inflection have become comforting indicators of expertise and care.

I live in Southern California, one of the most ethnically diverse regions in the

entire country.

So, I’m kind of good, right?

I’ve rubbed shoulders and shared meals with people who don’t share my pale complexion. I’m

used to hearing different languages spoken in Target and the nail salon.

I don’t have a problem with race.

I honestly don’t think much about it.

So, I’m kind of in the clear, yes?

Or maybe not so much.

Maybe some people I care about, some voices I respect, are starting to speak up, speak out to

say that the status quo of quasi-diversity isn’t “all good” after all. Maybe there’s a whole lot

about how God designed, how God desires the Church and Christian community to look like

that people like me are completely missing.

Should I feel badly that I’m a thirty-something white female living in an upper-middle class

neighborhood in a predominately white pocket of LA? No.

I am who I am, I am where I am because of God’s design for my life.

But have I ever stopped to consider that the design that looks similar to mine — the same

one I primarily sit next to at church and play with at the park and read online and listen to

at conferences — is not the only one God made? That white is not the only hue, form, voice

God cares about? Not the only story, perspective, experience I can learn from, be blessed

by, or call mentor, friend, pastor, or teacher?

Of course not, I say. Surely not all the roles I respect, people I cherish in my life have to be

white.

But have I ever purposed to seek out something other?

Have I ever intentioned to pursue someone unlike me for the purpose of discovering

the unique value they would bring?

Have I ever considered inviting a person with another color skin into my life for the goal

of delighting in who they are and how their perspective might be rich and beautiful,

necessary and crucial because of our differences?

Honestly? No.

Maybe not even once.

And this, I am awakening to, is part of the problem.

My part in the problem.

. . . . .

I scribbled down these mind whirrings, heart stirrings in my journal last week, days before

the news of Michael Brown’s tragic death and #Ferguson made its way into my tiny life bubble.

I poured out these honest reflections rooted in deep questions after having the privilege of

hearing a perspective from someone who feels “other,” from someone who I viewed as “in” but

opened my eyes to how horribly skewed “being in” may be.

I feel wildly inadequate to enter into this conversation. I fear that I have nothing noteworthy

to share, nothing of value to add. But as I listen to others chiming in to this #GoingThere

conversation, I realize that every voice is important.

Every voice has value. That’s kind of the point.

As a white woman who doesn’t have a “problem” with race, I worry that I’ll make things

worse or sound stupid or say the wrong thing.

But what if not saying something is wrong?

What if you don’t have to be a race-relations scholar or diversity expert to offer a

thoughtful contribution?

What if you don’t have to be an outright racist or full-blown bigot to be a source of

contention?

What if not having all the answers or understanding all the facts or being able to own

all the wrong aren’t good enough excuses to keep quiet?

What if just saying that I’ve been wrong, that I’ve excluded or discounted the

rainbow of God’s people, is a right place to start?

What if better actions need to trump good intentions?

With the heated debates and warring words exploding on social media right now, I feel

even further disqualified to add my tiny white-girl-from-Whittier two cents.

But God never said I had to be qualified to be obedient. He didn’t say I have to be qualified

to love, to speak up, to bend low, to say I’m sorry, let’s do better.

He didn’t say I have to be qualified to open my hands and reach out.

So here I am.

Hands open and outreaching.

__________________________

Related Links:
Simple Things by Deidra Riggs
On Coming Together by Alia Joy
I’m a White Girl from Rural Iowa…and I’m ‘Going There’ by Jennifer Dukes Lee
I’m a white girl from the South African suburbs and I’m “going there” by Lisa-Jo Baker

The Wild Thing God Asked Me to Do

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I’m applying a second coat of concealer to mask the dark circles under my eyes — ugly beautiful

reminders of the heart bearing, soul sharing that happened in hotel hallways way past the

midnight hour.

My five year old stands besides me and rifles through my bathroom drawer. He pulls out my

favorite tangible treasure from the weekend. A one and a quarter inch dome of glass secured to

an antique bronze textured plate, encasing an aged-looking photo of a miniature typewriter. A

message has been typed on the tiny device for the pendant wearer to wield: Wild Obedience.

“Mommy, what’s this?” Noah asks excitedly, holding up the gift.

Beginning Again {Big Announcement!}

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 04 Aug 2014 18:00:00 GMT

No, I’m not pregnant.

It’s not that type of big announcement and beginning again. We are content with our three-boy

crew and have no plans for birthing anymore boys (or girls for that matter…but, oooh, little girls.

I love them! …I digress.)

BUT, this big announcement I hold in my heart is a whole lot like giving birth in many ways.

I’m Going to Declare! (And 16 Fun Facts About Me)

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 03 Aug 2014 18:00:00 GMT

In October, God opened the door for me to go to a blogging conference called Allume. I came

back from that long weekend in South Carolina heart overflowing, heart set on telling you

about everything I had learned. Telling you by living it .

It’s been a wild nine months and God has grown and stretched my faith and writing like no

season before. I haven’t lived it out perfectly, but day by day I trust that God is perfecting

my faith –not for my glory but for His.

It was my deep desire to return to the Allume this fall, but like God often has a habit of

doing in my life, he closed the door I expected…and opened another instead.

This year that door is Declare .

In three days I’ll hop on a plane during morning’s first light to Dallas where I’ll gather with

women from around the world to be encouraged and equipped in following hard after Jesus

in the call He’s put on my life. I will continue to learn how to live out the lessons God is

penning in my life.

Declare’s theme this year: Wild Obedience. I couldn’t be more thrilled!

So now I’m linking up with my Declare sisters to get to know one another before the

conference extravaganza begins!

FOUR THINGS ABOUT ME

1. My Man . I’ve been married to my husband Chris for nine years. Our first photo together

was walking down the aisle…not at our wedding but at my sister’s! My middle sister married

Chris’ best friend, so Chris was the Best Man and I was the Maid of Honor. Though he

turned me down when I asked him to dance, he made up for it by asking me out five days

later. We got married almost three years to the day after my sister and now Chris’ best

friend is his brother-in-law.

2. My Boys . We have three of the most spirited, dirt-loving little boys the Good Lord ever

made: Noah (5), Elias (4), and Jude (2). Though I never asked God to give me three sons

in just three and a half years, His plans are always better than any I could write or dream.

I wouldn’t trade any rowdy, wrestling, stinky, adventuring moment with them for the world.

3. Culture Shock . I grew up with mostly just my single mom as the youngest of three

daughters. Though I was a tomboy when I was little, I still find myself in complete culture

shock at times over this house full of boys I now call home. Fart humor. Constant climbing.

Light sabers and dragon duels. I live in a world of sweaty necks and dirty fingernails. I’m

not a prissy girl but I’ll be getting a manicure before Declare and enjoying every feminine

minute with my writing sisters!

4. California Girl . I was born in Arizona but have lived in California almost by entire life. I rarely

have a tan and I’ve never surfed, but the mild weather and sunny skies are delights I wouldn’t

easily trade. Yet, sometimes my husband and I dream about what it would be like to trade this

life of crowded LA freeways and sky-high cost of living for wide open spaces where our boys

could roam wild and free. Only time will tell if God leads me to be a California girl forever.

FOUR OF MY ENDEARING QUIRKS

1. Special Orderer . I special order. Everything. (So does my man.) It’s not so much that I’m picky.

I just like what I want and want what I like. Okay, I’m a little picky. If we went to lunch at say, Pei

Wei, and I ordered a Teriyaki Chicken Bowl, it’d go something like this: No Cabbage, Add Broccoli,

Onions Well Done, No Sesame Seeds, Easy Sauce, Brown Rice. Sounds delicious, right?2. Recovering

Stutterer . When I was in fourth grade I had a horrible stutter. I, I, I, couldn’t t-t-t-talk w-w-w-without

stuttering. When I wasn’t stuttering I was jabbering a mile-a-minute. My mom used to tell me that

I stuttered because my mind was on hyper drive and my mouth just couldn’t always keep up. Kids

at school made fun of me, but I think God had my back because the teasing never deeply bothered

me. But what does bother me is that sometimes still as a grown woman, when I get really excited or

my mind is on overload, my words get twisted and my fourth grade stutter rears its ugly head. It’s like

I suddenly become that awkward ten year old with greasy bangs and a bionator.3. Multiple Sneezer .

I always sneeze in multiples, usually in threes, and sound like a tiny mouse. I’m not trying to hold it in,

honest. That’s just the way it sounds. (My husband on the other hand sounds like he’s trying to blow

down the house.) In Junior High my best friend Emily would count every time I started to sneeze. My

record: An impressive 17 times in a row!4. Paradoxical Preferencer . I love vineyards, but I don’t like wine.

I love dessert, but I don’t like cake. I love Mexican food, but I don’t like tomatoes or cilantro. I love

paradoxes, but I don’t like irony.

FOUR THINGS ABOUT MY BLOGGING & WRITING

1. Since Second Grade . I’ve known since I was a freckled nose second grader that I wanted to

be a writer. Words have always been magical to me. Full life, dreams, and possibilities.

2. During College . My love for language and the power of words propelled me into choosing a

college with a Creative Writing Major. I wanted to be a children’s book author and crafted my

own independent study course toward that end since that specific focus wasn’t offered.

3. As a Young Mom . I didn’t step into adulthood as a world renowned children’s writer. I spent

years doing medical billing and then landed a great job as an editor for a university marketing

department. But my soul burning, soul stirring need to write never died. After I had my first son

and stepped away from the full-time workforce, I started this little blogspot to give a voice to

all the words still churning. But now I didn’t write words for kids. I wrote words for their mamas.

4. One Significant Year . The last year has been the most significant in my journey as a writer and

blogger. I’ve discovered that this is more than a passion. It’s my calling. Using Words to give thanks

to the Lord and tell of all His wonders (Psalm 9:1) is what makes me come alive. It’s the way Jesus

speaks to my heart and at times uses me to speak to others. This year I have written more about

living thanks, growing faith, and embracing motherhood than my prior three and a half years of

blogging combined. It is the delight of my heart. And I trust the journey has just begun.

FOUR OF MY FAVORITE THINGS

1. Hiking with My Guys . Most weekends you can find me and my guys tromping the shady

trails in our local foothills or trekking through a nearby state park. We call these our

Adventures. I love being out in nature and watching my little men explore and enjoy God’s

creation.

2. Coffee with My Friends . Filled with ice or swirling out steam, I love my coffee with Italian

Sweet Cream. And I love even more to share it with a friend while sharing our hearts. Crying

together, laughing together, unloading our burdens and uplifting our prayers. Together.

3. Back Porch with My Jesus . My favorite time of day is my time alone with God. Usually it’s

when my boys are napping and my coffee is brewing. I sneak out on my back porch, turn on

the soothing fountain, prop up my feet, exhale all my worries and inhale God’s sweet, amazing

grace. Reading His Word and giving thanks.

4. Taking a nap, eating ice-cream, and watching Chopped . Okay, that’s three, but it’s fun to

end with a little extra randomness.

And that’s a wrap.
If you’re a Declare sister reading this, I can’t wait to meet you!

If you’re a friend or faithful reader, would you consider praying for me on my Declare

journey?

I’m wildly expectant that God has a plan and a purpose for me (for each of us) going to

Declare. I can’t wait to savor each moment, soak up each lesson, and come back ready

to share and live out the message He lays on my heart.

Music: The Memory Keeper

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 22 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I’m the girl who can never remember names of artists or song titles or lyrics. I’m always, “You

know that one band with that song that goes kind of like this…”

I’m the girl who tapped her foot on stage at her first trumpet recital for ten awkward minutes

to find an internal beat before ever blowing a signal note.

I’m the girl who likes music. But I’m not a music girl.

In high school I miraculously landed one of the leads in the school musical, but only because I

auditioned for the role of Oklahoma’s Ado Annie, a quirky character who could get away with

singing completely off key.

In college I figured out that a guy liked me because he complimented me on what a great singer

I was after we sat together in a worship service.

To say I can’t sing is an understatement. I could easily become Simon Cowell’s new “favorite”

worst singer in the world should I ever try out for American Idol.

But despite my lack of natural talent, I can’t deny that music moves me.

Music is art. It’s a language of the heart. It has a way of capturing, stirring, expressing emotions

unlike words spoken staccato, alone.

Music is a memory keeper. It awakens sights and smells and feelings of days or years gone by. It

brings you back to significant moments with one swell of chorus sung.

I can’t hear the classic melody of Amazing Grace without thinking of my dad and remembering

the feel of the plush stadium-like seats the day we memorialized his life and the tears that ran

down my cheeks as that song soared through the sanctuary at the close of his service.

Music.

If I’m in store and hear the melodic voice of James Taylor come on over the speakers, it’s like I’m

back in our old kitchen on California Avenue, singing Sweet Baby James and setting the table

while my mom makes dinner.

If I’m surfing channels on the radio and catch a chord of “You’ve got a peaceful, easy feeling,” I’m

transported to the backseat of a tan 1980’s Honda Accord next to my childhood best friend while

her cool older brother drives us to school and lectures us about trying harder in sports and staying

away from the wrong crowd of boys.

Music. It’s a gift.

For the singer, songwriter, dancer, instrument player, yes! But it’s also a gift for the rhythmically

challenged, tone deaf, popular artist clueless girl who soaks in the sounds and belts out the notes

when nobody’s around to notice or complain.

I unwrap the gift on Sunday mornings when I use my voice to praise the Good Lord.

I unwrap the gift each evening when I press play on iTunes and let instrumental wonders seep into

my heart and weave through my prayers while my hands scrub dinner dishes.

I unwrap the gift every afternoon and night when I sing bedtime songs at the bedside of three little

boys, ushering them into sleep with harmonies of hope, lyrics of God’s love, peace, and protection.

But perhaps my greatest unwrapping was when I was eighteen years old and God used music to wrap

me in His love.

It was my senior year. While my friends were agonizing over SAT scores, college visits, and prom dates,

my heart was in agony over the date I’d lose my home. The repercussion of my parents’ divorce was almost

a decade in the making. Now that I was no longer a minor, they would finally sell our family home and part

financial ways.

I had long known this day was coming. But now it loomed like a huge storm cloud, ready to pour after graduation day.

I was sad and angry and depressed. Their divorce was final eight years prior but selling the house reopened

wounds that had never really healed. I didn’t know how to sort through what I felt. I didn’t want to talk about

it with my parents, and the pain of divorce wasn’t exactly a hot topic among my teenage friends over Friday

night pizza.

My faith was young but genuine and somehow God met me in that broken place through

the most unexpected way.

Music.

He put a song in my heart.

He helped me pen lyrics to give voice to my hurt and answered me in refrains of hope and

truth.

This was my song…

Home for My Heart

For sixteen years I made this house my home
And now the day has come; I feel so all alone
The day has come and we must move away
The only day I’ve ever felt the need to stay
The sign on the front says sold
To tear it down I’d give a lifetime’s gold
Thing will never be the same

As I look upon these walls that my great grandfather built
I see lasting childhood memories as they begin to wilt
The laughter love and kisses, the echos of divorce
The piercing sound of silence
My tears of grief run their course
And I fear that the sixteen years of memories I made
When packed away in boxes will begin to fade

But I don’t want to place my heart in a house made of wood
I don’t want to place my heart on a mantel
Hold me, Lord, keep me safe
Hold me, Lord, in this place
I want to see your face
I want to give my heart to you

I’m graduating high school, opportunity’s knocking loud
“How excited you must be,” they say. “And how very proud”
But my excitement has now dulled, my pride has now paled
And the perfect vision of my dreams has sadly been derailed
And I yearn for the comfort and security of routine
To feel your arms around me, Lord, is all I need

And I don’t want to place my heart in a house made of wood
I don’t want to place my heart on a mantel
Hold me, Lord, keep me safe
Hold me, Lord, in this place
I want to see Your face
I want to give my heart to you

I’m tired of the anger, I’m tired of the pain
Lord, free me from this agony and wash me clean with rain
And let me see the sun of all tomorrow’s bright
Cleanse me of my bitterness and a heart of spite
Let me show my thankfulness and let me shout my praise
To God, my provider, for the home where I was raised

Because I don’t want to place my heart in a house made of wood
I don’t want to place my heart on a mantel
And I don’t want place my heart where the world thinks I should
I just want to place my heart in You, Father
Hold me, Lord, keep me safe
Hold me, Lord, in this place
I want to see Your face
And I will to give my heart to you

I belted out this song in front of a panel of teachers for my senior project. (If I had a recording of

it I’d share the off-key wonder with you.)

With tears in my teenage eyes, I thanked God for the gift of music, for the gift of His love.

It’s been 14 years since I wrote those lyrics. But sometimes still, if I find myself alone in the car, I

turn off the radio and turn on the music God wrote in me. In a whisper or roar, I allow the memory

keeper to speak to my heart again as I sing to the One who will always be my true home.

* * *

Sharing with Jennifer, Holley, and Elise. Inspired by this week’s “How I…Community” prompt: Music.

Making Space for Him to Bloom

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I’m craving my own space, my quiet, my time to think, breathe. Find reprieve.

I’m missing what’s been mine for the last five and a half years — my midday security, sanity —

that’s now slipping through my fingers.

I’m craving the ability to make things not change.

(I’ve never been good with change.)

Yes, I should be grateful for half a decade of nap-time solace (which means two years of

mastering three boys’ concurrent afternoon sleep.) And I am. I am SO thankful because I

know it’s been a gift to meet a need…

My need for a little uninterrupted time for me.

Write, read, pray, sleep. Work, clean, call, or weep. Ponder, wonder, dream, or sweep.

Whatever the time is, it’s alone time. Just me.

And I guess what’s making me feel all angry and anxious is that I still have that need.

But the means to meeting it must change, and I can’t yet see how or when the

replacement gift will come.

But the gift before me now is a little boy in tan shorts and a red plaid shirt, whacking away like a

backyard golf pro.

He’s beautiful and strong and sweet. He’s stubborn and way too much like me.

I know I can’t keep him small forever. I know he’s meant to blossom, grow.

But today my son’s sprouting (which I know will bear fruit, beauty) is a painful part of the

process for his mama, who needs to make more space in her life, her heart, for him to stay

awake and bloom.

* * *

I’m joining Lisa-Jo and her beautiful friends to just write for five minutes , without over-thinking,

double-checking, or worrying about getting it right. Today’s word is Bloom.

What If You Chose Rest?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 14 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

What if you just rested?

What if you closed the computer and powered down the phone? What if you turned off the

music or the podcast or the great preacher on TV? What if you put away the iPad and hid the

remote control?

What if you didn’t post, tweet, share, favorite, comment, like, or link up?

What if you exchanged the noise out, noise in, for quiet? For more of Him.

What if you just stopped? Chose rest.

Breath.

What if you laughed over little boys in backyard buckets or ran through the sprinklers?

What if you walked with family in a place with no wires and looked for signs that Yahweh is

looking for you?

What if you captured the day’s last light and marveled over the Artist’s evening masterpiece?

Would the world whiz on without you? Would the busy buzz on beyond you? Would you be

lost, passed up, or forgotten? Would you miss out on God’s best because you chose to rest?

Or would you find new life, new meaning, a new way of connecting over jigsaw puzzles and

white lacquered dominoes?

Would you discover that you can actually find refreshment for your soul without refreshing

your browser? That you can hear the message your heart needs without receiving another text?

Would you uncover that you’re not overlooked or left out when you unplug your devices,

but that you’re actually seen and known best when you plug into relationship? Plug into

living present?

Your blog and Facebook, Twitter feed and Pinterest board all serve a purpose. But do

they sometimes keep you from living life on purpose? Do the voices you hear there

sometimes drown out the Voice you need to hear everywhere?

What if doing more wasn’t the answer? What if being still was. Listening. To Him. Resting.

In Him.

What if your longing for the bigger picture, the larger story, could be fulfilled by slowing down

enough to notice the smallest of creation?

Working for Free, But Wanting Someone to See

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

My work day begins the moment I rise, often before the sun ever does, and doesn’t end until my

head hits the pillow when it’s dark again. I’m also on call through the night, every single night,

and I always work weekends. Holidays, too.

I’ve been doing this round the clock job for more than five and a half years.

You know what it is.

I’m a mother.

I’m a life-grower, love-giver, boo-boo healer, meal maker, taxi driver, house cleaner, butt wiper,

fort fixer, puzzle doer, wrestling referee-er, mama to three little boys. I dole out hugs and kisses

and snacks by the hundreds. I lift up prayers for grace, mercy, and strength by the thousands.

I’m a mother.

And it won’t surprise you the slightest when I tell you I don’t get paid for it at all.

It won’t shock you a smidge when I tell you it’s the best and hardest and most important

job I’ve ever done.

You’ll knowingly nod when I suggest that it’s the most rewarding, fulfilling, heart-wrenching,

joy-giving job that perhaps the good Lord ever made.

And while I think I would become the most popular woman on the planet if I could figure out

how to give every mom a fair wage for the blood, sweat, and tears she pours out over a

lifetime of raising her children, I think I can also speak for mothers the world over when I

say that it is our privilege to do this job for free.

Yes, I’ve reconciled to the fact that not all meaningful, necessary work is paid. I don’t

bemoan not getting a monthly check for my motherly service. God has called us to work

for Him and not for man. I’m at peace with the reassurance that my reward waits for me

in heaven.

Or am I?

Because money is not the only way of getting paid. I’m fine to work without the hope of dollars,

but am I content without the payment of praise?

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, ”

Colossians 3:23 says.

And that’s where the “working for free” rub comes in for me.

If I’m really honest with myself, I struggle with working without expecting affirmation in

return. Without wanting kudos for my days and nights of service.

The endless dishes, diaper changes, and grocery shopping. The countless questions answered

for the world’s most curious three year old. The way I fashioned blankets and couch cushions

into a monstrous monster-truck ramp for the racing delight of three miniature drivers. I want

recognition for it all.

I want someone to see. See the effort and patience. See the way I die to self every day for the

sake of loving someone else.

Even as I write these words I know. I know that someone sees. I know that the One who’s opinion

matters sees. I know deep that God’s approval is the only one I really need.

But there’s the flesh in me that fights.

The part of me that wants to download on my husband when he walks through the door about

every parenting struggle, triumph, and completed chore he missed while at work. I want to post

witty Facebook updates about the awesome or appalling mom-moment I faced to receive one

(or better yet twenty) virtual pats on the back for surviving this mom job another day.

Is sharing with my husband wrong? Of course not.

Is building community and exchanging motherhood stories bad? Not at all.

But my motives need to be kept in check.

I find the same is true for my writing.

It is my joy to write. It makes me come alive. I see the world through literary descriptions. I soak

in my surroundings with similes streaming through my mind. Writing brings me clarity and

understanding. It’s how I learn the lessons, how I see God move .

So I write for me. I write for the gift God gave.

Sure, it’d be nice if one day my writing led to a financial blessing for my family. But I work at it

for free because it’s my calling.

Yet there are days I do it as if for men. Days I write what God has stirred in me but then wait for

words that man approves of me.

I know this isn’t how God intended me to work.

I’m reading Jennifer Dukes Lee‘s book Love Idol . Her words hug my heart with whispers of

understanding and invitations of freer living. She writes,

“When you and I no longer rely on praise or approval for our performance, we find new freedom:

We can enjoy affirmation without craving it. Because it has lost its grip on us.”

It’s a process and slowly I am growing.

Day by day I remind myself of God’s unchanging love and approval of me. I remind myself that he

delights in the silly made up songs I sing to my boys and is proud of the way I patiently disciplined a

particular disobedience. God smiles when I give words to the heart stirrings, the struggles, and the

wonder.

He sees me when I mother. He sees me when I write.

I’m learning to let His seeing of my work be not just payment enough, but approva

l abundant.

I’m linking up with The High Calling this week as we wrestle with and rejoice over what

“working for free” really means.

Does God Really Listen?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 08 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Listen, my precious daughter,

Do you know how much I love you?

Do you know how beloved I see you?

Do you believe how deeply I know you?

Do you believe how clearly I hear you?

Your cries, your questions,

your curiosities, your concerns,

I hear them all.

It is my delight to hear you call.

When you pour out your heart,

whether in praise or confession,

confusion or profession,

whether with confidence or feeling condemnation,

I’m listening.

I’m listening when you’re worried,

I’m listening when you’re whining.

I’m listening when you’re content

and when you’re stressed and pining.

I’m listening when your joy is full

and when your peace is perfect.

I’m listening when you’re scared and nervous

because your path seems uncertain.

I’m always listening.

Not because I’m looking for your failures

or scouting out your faults.

I’m not planning my rebuttal

or rehearsing my defense and righteous laws.

I’m never preoccupied with what you might say next.

My focus is never anywhere else but in the present.

With you.

I’m just listening.

I’m listening because I love you.

Because I care for you.

Because I delight in you.

Because I’m committed to you.

I listen because I need you to know that I am with you,

for you.

That I see you–

not just what you do but who you are.

(I have always known you;

who you were then,

who you are now,

who you are becoming.

It is my joy to see you.)

Sure, I could take a spectator’s seat in the nosebleed section.

I could watch you from afar in the stands.

But I don’t ever want to be far from you.

I want to be near, standing with you.

Walking beside you.

Listening to your heart.

And if you share with me,

there’s nothing you can say

that will ever change the way

I feel about you.

But what you share may

very well change the way

you feel about me.

So pour out your heart to me, precious one!

Sing, shout, whisper, wail.

My ears are tuned to your cries.

Your voice is my joy when you call.

So speak, sweet child.

Then take a turn,

and

listen.

Love,

Your Listening God

* * *

The Good Lord stirred this letter in my heart in response to the prompt “How I…Listen” at

Elise’s inspiring new”How I…Community.” If you haven’t read this girl , you need to.

How to Savor and Celebrate Summer

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 03 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I bark orders in Costco to “Stay by ME!” and answer too harshly at home to the boy who is SO

hungry and needs one more snack.

I bemoan the brotherly bickering and strain my ears to discern whether the crying is fake or

real from three rooms away.

These summer days are hot and long. Yet they are slipping by.

I flip on the TV too often.

I tune out their questions too much.

I forget to savor each blessing.

I forget to celebrate each moment.

But I’m learning that wishing I had done yesterday differently doesn’t make for more full living

today.

You savor by savoring. You celebrate by celebrating!

So here’s a Hip Hip Hooray for a borrowed blowup pool and boys with sun-kissed skin slipping down a crocodile slide!

Here’s a Three Cheers for picnic lunches on the living room rug and a Yeehaw for little boys stealing special sips out of my special coffee mug.

Here’s a Yowza and Yahoo for sword fights in their skivvies; strong arms and legs, minds and hearts fighting courageous battles from the tender age of two.

Here’s a Holy Prayer of Thanks for brothers who love each other even when they fight,

brothers whose smiles and hugs, sing song voices and crazy noises make their mama’s heart

burst with gratitude and love.

I can’t conjure more joy for the crabby moments of yesterday. But I can commit to slowing

down and giving thanks today.

I can savor, I can celebrate

When I exhale the could-haves of then

And breathe in the sweetness of now.

I’m writing with Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday community, where we don’t worry about getting it

right. We just write. Today’s prompt is Exhale.New Paragraph

From Desperate Prayers to Abundantly Blessed: God Gift Friendships

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 01 Jul 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I don’t even feel like I’m that same girl anymore.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I was once her. That I spent two years lifting aching prayers for God to give me just one real friend to do life with. That I was that desperate mom always pushing my double stroller alone, always scanning the park playground and library bookshelves for a friendly face to connect with.

Making friends usually wasn’t hard for me. I’ve always had quality women in my life. Women who I love and admire. Women who know my story and I know theirs. But because of life stage or geography, they had been pushed to the periphery.

Now, I needed someone in my inner circle.

I needed a friend who I could make last minute plans with when fresh air and adult conversation were my saving grace to get through the day as mama to three littles. I needed a friend who I didn’t have to schedule four months out with to share my heart or drive 45 minutes to see.

I needed a day-in-day-out friend to walk through the ins and outs of motherhood together.

I just needed someone to do life with.

Writing this calls up memory tears from that deep place of longing that was once so real and searing. I cry for that floundering mom I use to be. For that Becky who yearned for meaningful friendships but didn’t know how to find them in a new town with two (then three) little boys in tow. For that precious mom who just needed to know she wasn’t alone.

And then there are more tears for the ways God has answered those longing-filled prayers.

Answered them abundantly. Answered them with so many beautiful women, soul sisters, do-life-with friends.

Now my heart aches with the blessing. It actually hurts for how deep and wide God’s love is for me. How lavishly he has poured out compassion, joy, grace, through unexpected friendships.

I prayed for one.

God provided many…

Desiree: My tell it like it is, purposefully doesn’t clean before I bring over my crazy boy crew, brings me coffee creamer and chocolate, faithful friend.

I’m so thankful God brought us to the same moms group table and knitted our hearts together through miles of sidewalk and countless coffee cups. There’s no one I’d rather start my week with. I love you.

Audra : My laugh with, cry with, come as you are, loves me in my strengths and in my mess, soul sister friend .

I’m so thankful God sat us next to each other on a Sunday morning and gave me the courage to ask for your number. I can’t imagine these past three years without you. I love you.

Mindy : My encourager, believer, cheerleader, truth speaker, serves me with dreams and time and words, all is grace friend.

I’m so thankful God used a writing conference across the country to introduce me to my best friend down the street. You are a divine gift from God to me. I love you.

Elise : Who I have never met face to face, who came into my life from across the web, who I feel like I’ve known forever, whose heart speaks the same language as mine, my kindred spirit friend.

I’m so thankful God wove our paths together for such a time as this. Your friendship is from the Lord, a heavenly answer to a prayer that I thought had already been fulfilled. I love you.

And many more who have been, or continue to be, or are now becoming significant women in my life and friends on the journey. (I hope you know who you are and how much you also mean to me.)

These gorgeous gals are my prayer and play date friends. My call and text, coffee and cookies friends. These women love my kids, which blesses me more than words can hold.

They point me to Jesus, show me how to live by the Spirit, and help me become more of who God created me to be.

These God-gift friends are pictures of beautiful mess grace. Soul beautiful. Authentic. Nonjudgmental. They are with me and for me. We share cooking tips and vacation books, hugs and tears and knowing looks.

These are my sisters.

My people.

Heavenly Father, thank you for hearing my cries and answering my prayers. Not meagerly but lavishly. Your Word says that every good and perfect gift is from above. These women are your good and perfect gifts to me. My heart overflows with joy and gratitude for the work you have done. Blessed be your name! Amen.

“Ask and you will receive, and your joy will be complete.”

-John 16:24

_______________________________________________

How has God met you in a time of waiting or answered desperate prayers in your life? I’d love to praise Him with you!

Are you in a place of longing for authentic community or a friend to do life with? I’d love to pray for you.

_______________________________________________

Linking up with Jennifer , Holley , and Barbie . Click over to these beautiful communities to read more encouraging stories.

* * *

Read more about my journey and the power of friendship:

Five Minute Friday: Encouragement

A Generation of Esthers

Five Minute Friday: She

Faith Steps

When Vacation Teaches You to Release Control

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 27 Jun 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I loved the Pacific Northwest wind in my face. The salty air filling my lungs. The memory of last night’s amazing sizzling salmon still savory on my pallet.

Tranquility whooshed by in rhythmic waves of cerulean surf rushing past the ferryboat bow. Every care and worry carried away in the current. We were on vacation!

But I was anxious.

My mind raced with questions: Where would we stay? What would we eat? What would we see? How much would it cost?

Since we stayed local for our honeymoon two years prior, this was our first big trip as husband and wife. And of course, I wanted it to be perfect. So as soon as Chris booked our flight from LA to Seattle, I got to work planning our ten-day stay in British Columbia.

I spent countless hours scouring the Internet to find the most idyllic bed and breakfast on Victoria Island and hours more researching the best off-season deals for Whistler ski resorts. I mapped out prime hiking trails and Googled must-see attractions. Then passed my thorough findings to my husband so he could make reservations according to my carefully crafted program.

But my wonderful husband wasn’t interested in my perfect plan.

He was skeptical of whether these B&Bs were actually quaint or just uncomfortably quirky and he didn’t want to be tied down by reservations if we got bored with a place or liked it so much we wanted to stay longer.

“We’ll just find a hotel when we get there,” he stated confidently. “It’ll be fun to figure it out as we go.”

Being the accommodating newlywed wife that I was, I forced a smile and offered weakly, “Okay, whatever sounds good to you. I’ll just go with the flow.”

But me saying “I’ll go with the flow” is like Monica Geller saying, “I’m breezy.”

And as Joey so astutely pointed out, “You can’t sayyou’re breezy, that totally negates the breezy!”

I wanted to be flexible. Easygoing.

But I had to fight my inner rigidity and reign in my desire for control.

As I squashed my need to know exactly what to expect, I began to find a small (yet appealing) freedom in letting go. Yes, going with the flow.

Did we find a place to sleep? Yes, we did. Did we enjoy good food and festive sights while making memories? Yes.

Was every moment flawless and carefree? Nope.

But perhaps that was part of the gift God was giving me through deferring to my husband’s laid-back style.

Whether painstakingly self-planned or fully God-surrendered, life on this earth will never be my version of perfect. Yet the journey is most enjoyed, most meaningful, when I’m following God’s lead instead of plowing forward alone.

Being in control of this trip could not have made the real sweetness any sweeter.

The lush beauty of Butchart Gardens would not have been more picturesque had I known the exact time we’d arrive.

The setting sun splaying glory across the rippled sea would not have been more magical had I booked the ferry in advance.

The mountain air would not have been crisper or the forest greener had I pinned the trail on a foldout map.

And time with my husband would not have bonded us greater had I pressed my will to vacation my way instead of submitting to his.

Sure I could have done without that awkward night in Vancouver sleeping in a stranger’s dank basement on a springy sofa bed and sharing a bathroom with two startled foreign exchange students.

But even so, it was hands down the best vacation ever.

* * *

Joining The High Calling t o share our Best Vacation Stories.

When You Need to Grab the Wonder Back

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 22 Jun 2014 18:00:00 GMT

When you need to remember that every breath is precious,

When you need to know deep in your soul that today is a gift,

When you need to feel the weight of grace in a moment like this,

When you need to grab the wonder back,

Start by slowing time by giving thanks,

Start but leaning low to see the glory in the small, the ordinary, the fleeting awe.

Because responsibilities can wait and time can’t rush on when your skin’s touching grass and you’re taking in the full amazement of a bubble round and shimmering, an everyday miracle made of soap and magic breath.

Because you can’t focus on that burden or predicament or what feels so very urgent when you’re giving the weight of full attention to this one moment right in front of you. This gift before you . This gift of now that wasn’t given to be discarded or ignored.

This breath is a moment to be savored. Enjoyed.

To be joy full.

The worries and to-dos will still be there waiting for you. But will a bubble wait? Will a child’s delight and giggles and hope for summer days that never end wait for you? Or will a could-be moment of wonder slip past without your notice? Or will it never even happen without your willingness to be present, to open today’s tiny present?

These days can feel long but an entire summer can slip away if you don’t stop to breathe.

Savor.

See.

Because when we look for wonder, we see more of who God is;

we see more of who He created us to be.

* * *

This post is inspired by Ann Voskamp , whose life-changing “Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are” has forever shaped the way I look at God, the world…and bubbles. Join the ONE MILLION readers who have been blessed by the journey of One Thousand Gifts .

“I only live the full life when I live fully in the moment.

And when I’m always looking for the next glimpse of glory,

I slow and enter. And time slows. Weigh down this moment in time

with attention full, and the whole of time’s river slows, slows, slow.”

-Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

The Grip of Expectations

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 19 Jun 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I live white knuckled without even realizing it.

Fists clenched tight over the thing that wields power over me

from within my sweaty palm.

Concealed but not controlled.

I’m the one who’s being controlled.

By my own expectations.

I don’t mean to cling so tight to the lofty goals and unreasonable standards

that lay me to shame each time I can’t measure up.

I say I’m doing better. I say I’m living real.

I’ll let you come over knowing dirty drips from boys’ backyard digging fingertips are

marring up the white bathroom sinks.

I’ll invite you in even if the dishes are piled on the counter and crusted remains

from last night’s dinner are soaking in pans on the stove.

I’ll say “this is real life” when my kid throws a fit and you hear him fuss or see him hit.

I’ll sigh and say thanks for understanding that life is a beautiful mess

and we’ve just got to embrace it.

But inside…

Inside my fist is the unbreakable thing that’s making my insides break under the weight.

The weight of expectations.

The weight of I don’t measure up as a mom or a wife or friend.

I’m failing as a leader. I’m flailing as a writer.

I’m smiling on the outside, smiling all is grace on the outside,

but on the inside I’m drowning, derailing.

I’m wailing on the inside because I will never measure up to these unmeasurable expectations.

I can’t do enough. Be enough. Make others see me enough.

My boys, my man, my ministry, my calling,

Jesus, Father, Holy Spirit all deserve my best, but I’m falling.

Falling short.

Of the expectations. (Of perfection.)

Of whose expectations?

I breathe deep and will myself to loosen my grip.

My fingers trained long years to stay stiff, closed,

slowly loosen.

Relax, release.

Whose expectations am I faced with?

My own.

Just mine.

Yes, it’s time to release them.

Release myself.

Into His Grip.

* * *

“It’s Friday. The day we write together for five shared and sacred minutes. The prompt this week is RELEASE.” -Lisa-Jo Baker

This post is part of the Five Minute Friday community. Please read Lisa-Jo’s incredible words this morning about why your story matters . Then won’t you consider joining us by writing for five minutes about what “release” means to you? Or share with me in the comments sections.

When Father’s Day Is Not a Shiny Facebook Feed

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 15 Jun 2014 18:00:00 GMT

I sat on the edge of his bed and I couldn’t make the tears stop.

Apparently a five year old demanding to brush his teeth and pick out a treat right before naps was just too much for this mama to handle. Too much to take right after the three year old fussed and kicked and huffed his way through his pre-nap song, and then only stayed in bed after “I’ll take away Sully” and other disciplinary threats.

Yes, a little boy’s longing to clean his pearly whites with big-kid toothpaste was just enough to push me over the edge because the two year old’s screams were still echoing in my foggy mama brain, along with bewilderment over how little lungs from such a sweet child can belt out so much belligerence over dropped Crocs that apparently I couldn’t pick up fast enough.

There were hugs and I’m sorrys the whole house over and somehow I made it through the last refrain of Gentle Shepherd and closed the last bedroom door.

The house is now calm but my soul is still in chaos.

I’m outside.

Wiping more tears.

Feeling like I’m totally failing.

Why else would each of my boys yell and hit and struggle?

Why else would these ordinary, everyday trials bring me to tears?

I breathe deep.

Listen to the birds.

I know I’m not a failure.

I know this raising the next generation thing is really hard.

And I also know my torrent of disproportional anger and sadness is not just about the next generation. It’s also about the last generation and this swell of grief over the one in it I lost.

My dad is dead.

It’s the day after Father’s Day.

I don’t really know how I feel. I just feel—a hole.

And it makes me want to crawl into one.

Because the endless Facebook feed of aged pictures from years gone by and moving tributes to “The best dad anyone could ask for” stirs in me more than thankfulness for the gifts my friends have been given.

It stirs longing for what is gone and for what I never had.

But it also stirs me to pray…

For all the sons and daughters who have lost their amazing fathers.

For all the kids (small or grown) who met their dad yesterday for a family BBQ but have never had their fatherly needs truly met.

For all the wives who can’t post, “My husband if the best dad ever!” because he walked out or gave up or cancer took his life or he took it himself.

Really, I’m praying for us all. Because while it’s great to celebrate dads—Yes, celebrate we should! My husband IS an amazing father and I cheer him on with gratitude and admiration!!—every dad, like every man and every woman, is a mixed bag of blessings and mess-ups because we live in a fallen world.

And chances are, Father’s Day (and Mother’s Day, too) stirs something up in all of us because no one is living the full technicolor picture of a fairytale life.

We all carry hearts that have been both bruised and blessed by our earthly parents.

And the only way to reconcile the unmet longings and unfilled gaps is to turn to the only Father who will step in, hold you up, meet your needs, love you perfectly, always keep His word, and never disappoint.

So for me, for you, for us, I’m crying out:

Abba! Father! Holy One! Please hold me. Hold each of your children, so precious and loved and seen by you. Hold us close and let us feel your love. Help us to invite you in to every heart hole that’s aching, that we may allow all our gaps and lacks and longings to be filled with more of you. Amen.

A Generation of Esthers

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 12 Jun 2014 18:00:00 GMT

When I approached Esther, the new, twenty-something, beautifully blonde staffer for our campus ministry, I didn’t know exactly what it meant to be “discipled.” But I knew the longing to be known. The longing to grow. To be okay. The longing for someone to guide the way.

We started meeting in my beige-painted cinder block dorm room my sophomore year of college. We’d sit cross-legged on opposite ends of my periwinkle duvet for an hour of weekly “discipleship.” I guess I expected to learn about God’s Word and the how-to’s of walking with Jesus. I thought someone more spiritually mature could keep me accountable in my physical relationship with my boyfriend and my progress with Scripture memory.

But what Esther really taught me was how to care for someone’s heart .

I doubt that was ever her deliberate “lesson of the day.” But it’s what she modeled by caring for mine. The way she asked intentional questions and leaned in to hear the answer. The way she was comfortable in my uncomfortable silence. The way she wasn’t afraid of my messy past or confused present.

Esther was just there to be with me.

To hold the brokenness and fears of a straight A student who may have looked like she had it all together. With her disarming smile, inviting eyes, and commitment to meet consistently, Esther made space for me to explore who I was, where I had been, and where Jesus was leading me.

We had been meeting for several months when she pulled out a little fold-up keyboard and attached it to her Palm. She started typing as we talked and I asked what she was doing.

“I usually take notes about our time together later, but what you’re sharing is really important. I don’t want to forget it.”

I must have had a strange look on my face because Esther quickly added, “I just want to remember how to pray for you and follow up later on what we’ve talked about. Does that make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No. Not uncomfortable,” I said wiping the tears that I couldn’t will to stay welled in my eyes.

“It makes me feel seen. Loved. Invested in . . . Like no one ever has.”

It’s been 13 years and Esther has transitioned from a mentor to a soul sister and life-long friend. But she’s still a difference maker. A life changer. A love and service leader.

Ann Voskamp writes about the Esther Generation . We, the North American Church , who are tired of being satisfied with comfort and are ready to be satiated by God. The Esther Generation who is ready to stop giving minimally to meet the status quo and start giving sacrificially because the gut-wrenching stats are real people. Who wants to use their excess for a purpose. Who is God-ordained inside the gates of status, education, access… for such a time as this .

I’m saying Yes! with Ann. We Jesus believers need to bend low to help our sisters!

But I am also ready for another type of Esther Generation. To be like my Esther and offer more than a passing “How are you?” and religious “I’ll pray for you,” and start giving our time, our ears, our arms sacrificially to invest in each another. I’m ready to influence the many by influencing the one. The one woman on my block, mom in my playgroup, college student at my church.

To be a generation of Esthers and take what I see as my not-enough and still open up my life. To lead by caring for someone’s heart.

* * *

Linking up with The High Callin g to explore the topic of “Leadership Influence: Beyond the Stereotype.” And sharing with Barbie’s wonderful community at The Weekend Brew .

8 Ways to Feel Lousy about Your Life

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 08 Jun 2014 18:00:00 GMT

Ready to start your week off right?

These eight steps may be all too familiar, but I encourage you to read slow, breathe deep, and don’t miss a beat.

THESE ARE LIFE CHANGERS:

1. Focus on everything you don’t have.

The job, the spouse, the sleep, or the house—continually dwell on each aspect of your life you wish was different. Keep everything you lack at the forefront of your mind.

2. Compare your worst to someone else’s best.

Take that friend who’s an interior designer and peg your mismatched decor against her magazine-ready living room. Or evaluate your mediocre cooking skills against that gal who thrives in the kitchen. Forget about everything you’re good at. Identify each thing you struggle with and measure it against someone who’s strength is in your weakness.

3. Remind yourself over and over how tired you are.

Continual yawning, clock checking, and shoulder slouching will help. Harbor a little bitterness against the person or responsibility that requires your attention. Sigh heavily when anyone asks how you are and make “I’m so tired” your first response.

4. Keep track of another person’s faults or grievances against you.

Don’t let anything go. Dwell on what they did wrong and overemphasize how right you are. Have imaginary conversations in your mind about what they should have said. Never give the benefit of the doubt. Feed any ache for intimacy or reconciliation with avoidance, anger, and justified entitlement.

5. Think in absolutes.

Resolve that you will NEVER get to do that and your life will ALWAYS look like this. Convince yourself that your hardship will last for-ev-er and that difficult person will be everlastingly difficult. Allow EVERY possible “always” and “never” to suck ALL hope and joy from your life.

6. Get so overwhelmed by the big picture that you fail to take the first step.

If you marriage is in shambles or your kid is out of control, if you dream to write a book or go back to school, if you’re in a pit of addiction or a dark ditch of debt, go ahead and ruminate on the vastness of your predicament or how out of reach your dream. It’s the very best way to stay stuck.

7. Believe every negative thing anyone has ever said about you.

And why you’re at it, take all the stuff you think someone might have possibly thought about you but never actually said as total truth. Set those tapes of hurtful words on repeat in your mind. Allow them to take deep root in your heart until every wound and insecurity cripples you. Defines you.

8. Go to bed way too late every night so you wake up really grumpy.

(This helps facilitate #3.) Add poor eating habits and zero exercise to this step for optimal success; depriving your body of it’s basic needs will put you on the fast track to physical, mental, and emotional ill-being. Set yourself up to struggle and fail before you even start.

________________________________________________

Clearly this is a “How To” list no one is going to post on their fridge as a best life plan to aspire to.

But how many days do we live this way? How many times do you get stuck in one of these traps? These perspective pitfalls that sound ludicrous when written out but somehow weasel their way into your approach to life.

I’m committed to Christ . I’m hard set on choosing joy, seeing all as grace from the Giver, living truth by the Word. I say I want to walk the walk not just talk the talk. I read and write and speak for the sake of Spirit-filled encouragement.

Yet, I struggle.

I get stuck in a funk more often than I should. My eyes drift away from God and get stuck on myself more than I want to admit. My heart gets tangled in the weeds of the world.

But there IS hope. For me. For you.

You may not be able to control your circumstances but you can choose your outlook.

A positive perspective is possible. Not by might or will or discipline, but by continually turning your heart to the One who holds your life in the palm of His hand.

You can renew your mind . You can re-fix your thoughts . You can be transformed .

You and me both.

* * *

Which of these snares do you most easily fall into?

How do you steer clear of these “lousy life” traps?

730 Days of Blessing

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 05 Jun 2014 07:00:00 GMT

Dear Jude,

For two years, I’ve been blessed to be your mama! That’s 24 months; 52 weeks; 730 days.

What a gift you are!

Birthdays always make me reflective. As I look back over the last two years, my thoughts can’t help but drift to those first few weeks of your life in my womb. And how woefully unaware I was of the gift you would be.

Because to be honest, sweet son, I was too overwhelmed by my circumstances to take in the overwhelming blessing of being gifted with you.

Your brothers were still so little when we found out about you: Noah two and half and Elias fourteen months. They were a handful! I was frazzled. At least that’s how I felt inside. Life was already so full with the demands of diapers and discipline, wild climbers and miniature wrestlers that I knew anything else added to my juggling act would make me crumble. Anything else pushed in would add perilous pressure.

So when I saw that little pink line that my nausea and fatigue already told me was coming…

POP!

My bubble burst.

The breath sucked right out of me and I was filled up with anxiety.

How am I going to do this?

How am I going to handle three little people three years old and under?

How am I going to meet everyone’s needs and still maintain my sanity?

How am I going to nurse the baby and potty train the toddler while making dinner when Daddy’s out of town?

All the “How am I?”s filled my anxious heart and mind. It became hard to determine in those early weeks if I felt sick because of the pregnancy hormones or because I fretfully bemoaned every unknown.

Then one day I was reading my Jesus Calling devotional and the words leaped off the page and into my heart. Written as Jesus speaking to the reader, I read:

“Anxiety comes from envisioning the future without Me.”

I breathed it in again as if the Holy God was talking just to me:

“Becky, your anxiety comes from envisioning the future without Me.”

The pang of conviction and power of hope washed over me.

Yes. Exactly.

All my, How am I’s were about ME. I felt so insufficient for the journey ahead. But in His grace, God affirmed that I was totally right. I AM insufficient on my own. But with Him, I am able to walk whatever path He leads me on.

Every anxiety-filled picture of life looming with three small children left out the One big God.

I’d like to tell you that after that epiphanic day I was forever perfectly at peace. But that wouldn’t be true. For the next 9 months of waiting for you, Jude, my anxiety ebbed and flowed. I still doubted my ability to mother you and your brothers well. But God continually reminded me that as He was forming you in my womb, He was reforming me, too. Whatever difficult terrain we encounter along the way, He’d be there to guide us through.

And He has.

730 days of seeing God’s faithful hand, God’s beautiful plan in giving me you.

Not every day has been easy.

Not the three months of soul-piercing colic screams. Not the thirty days you couldn’t poop. Not the countless times I lost control of my anger because I couldn’t control you or my three-boy crew. Not the trips to the ER with late-night croup or a banged up face and bulging bump on your forehead.

But I’ve learned that a lack of ease doesn’t mean a lack of blessing.

Every day I’ve been blessed by your baby coos and giggles that have now become astounding words and pure-joy laughter. Blessed by your tiny arms that hug so tight and all your unsolicited kisses. Blessed by how you love your big brothers and adore your Daddy. Blessed by your coy smile and endless curiosity.

But for all the blessings that YOU are for just being you, the greatest blessing I’ve received through you is God drawing me closer to Him.

You’ve made me see more clearly my need for the One who sustains.

You’ve made me reach the end of myself faster so I could fall into the beginning of His grace sooner.

You’ve made me understand that my plans, my ways are always worth laying down for the sake of taking up His.

It’s your birthday, Jude, but I’m the one who’s been given the greatest gift:

Loving Jesus deeper because of loving you.

You are my joy, my blessing, Little Man.

Love you always and forever,

~Mama~

Five Minute Friday: Nothing

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 29 May 2014 07:00:00 GMT

Nothing I have done or wish I did or am trying to do or will one day do can earn me the love of God.

Not my high school grades and accolades. Not losing five pounds or toning my abs.

Not baking wholegrain banana muffins or making a meal for that brand new mom.

Not losing myself in front yard tag or hanging on to my temper.

Nothing good or wholesome or witty or admirable can make me earn His love.

Not writing a post that everyone loves or being known or seen or wanted or esteemed.

Not reading my Bible every single day or being still at His feet to listen and pray.

Not organizing that cupboard or that fundraiser or my thoughts before I speak.

Nothing.

Nothing of the everything that fills my anxious thoughts and striving ways can get me one step closer to God’s everlasting love.

That’s not who He is.

He isn’t a god whose love can be won or earned or bought. He is The God who is love, so knowing Him means being loved.

Yes, my actions can bring Him joy and delight. My obedience will bless His heart and bless my life with the peace of walking in His will. I can make Him proud and gain a “Well done” one day at Heaven’s gate.

But gaining God’s love? That’s His free gift to every man, woman, and child made in His image. God’s love is not available for bribe or barter. It’s not a prize for having the most friends or likes or retweets or religious service feats.

Nothing can can buy His unconditional, lavish love.

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

* * *

I’m joining Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday community to write for 5 minutes without editing, over thinking, or worrying about getting it just right. Today we’re writing on the word: Nothing. Won’t you join us?

These Are The Days

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 27 May 2014 07:00:00 GMT

These are the days so looooong that it’s hard to understand why some say the years fly by.

These are the diaper days and bedtime battle nights.

These days that blur together because the nursings and nightmares leave but moments chopped together to make up a mama’s sleep.

These are the shouting days where you scream right back and then cry in pained shame because you know two wrongs don’t teach what’s right.

These days filled with too many “No’s” and “Don’t touch that’s” to keep track.

These are the days where you need two extra eyes and four extra arms so you can feed the baby while you make spaghetti and fix the Lego masterpiece that the Evil Emperor Zurg just destroyed.

These are the days of endless snack fixing, spill-proof sippy cup spill cleaning, crumb sweeping, and exhausted weeping.

These days when getting sick feels cosmically unfair because kids aren’t a file that can wait on your desk or a project you can pass off. Because somehow you signed the 24/7 contract with no time off allotted as the CEO of your kids who need to run, play, eat, bathe, every day, round the clock whether you’re throwing up or not.

These are the days where your body is not your own. It’s the baby’s nourishment and the toddler’s comfort and the preschooler’s jungle gym, but it’s still soft and squishy because there’s no time to entertain actually going to a real gym.

These are the days.

These days where going to the grocery store or the bathroom alone feels like a luxury.

These days where all the love and the need and the whining and the training make you feel like you can barely breathe.

Yes, these are those days.

But they are also these days…

These are the days where you are a little person’s world. The prettiest, smartest, grandest thing they’ve ever seen and every day dream to be.

These are the days where they fight over who gets to sit next to you in the restaurant booth and want to show you twenty times the empty spot from their first lost tooth.

These are the days of tickle wars and endless kisses, of hugs tight around your neck and “I miss you, Mommy!” wishes.

These are the days that they actually want to hear you sing, to hold your hand, and gently twirl your diamond ring.

These are the days where hot chocolate and mini marshmallows make you the all time greatest hero. You, the Princess, the Mommy Queen.

These days where their eyes light up over dragonflies and kitty cats , bubblegum treats and cheesy goldfishes.

These are the days where you can squeeze their tiny buns and stroke their satin pillow cheeks, where you can learn the curve of their eyelashes by heart and watch their chest rise and fall while they sleep.

These are the days where your kisses have magic healing powers and little faces plaster mesmerized out the window at God’s drip-drop showers.

These are the days where finding worms and spotting rainbows are amazing feats to be applauded.

These days where you are the only one they want when they get teased, or poked, or prodded.

These are the long and trying and precious, time-flying days.

These days I far too often want to wish away.

But then I STOP.

And see.

SEE THE GIFTS ALL AROUND ME . And I want to unwrap them slowly and savor each sweet and sticky, salty nape neck, summer buzz cut moment before it slips away.

I want to laugh over lips dripping with watermelon juice. Memorize each sun-kissed freckle and the coconut smell of sunscreen on skin ready to jump out, run free.

I don’t want to dread the long of these days that I miss out on the delight.

I don’t want to stay stuck in the haze that I miss out on being amazed.

I don’t want the pain and drain to be my main refrain.

I don’t want to erase these days when I could embrace these days.

These are the days that won’t last forever. (No days ever do.)

And I don’t think we’re meant to throw them away. Bemoan them away.

Yes, they are hard. I’m the first to raise my hand and say it!

But can we savor them anyway? Choose joy? Count gifts?

Let our children know that THEY are JOY. THEY are GIFT.

Let’s make sure that these days don’t pass slow or fast without making SURE our children know that IN THEM their God and their Mama take great delight.

How I Thought Being a Mom Disqualified Me from the Sabbath

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 16 May 2014 07:00:00 GMT

I grew up on Little House on the Prairie reruns and flannel board Sunday school lessons. Good and wholesome. But somewhere between Nellie Oleson’s antics and the fabric loaves and fishes, I missed a few key points.

Like what I believed about the Sabbath.

I thought God finished all his making-the-world work in six days, so with nothing to do on the seventh he rested, and we ought to do the same.

As a freckled-nose third grader I envisioned early believers busting their faithful behinds to tend the fields, thresh the wheat, and bake the bread, dawn till dusk, six days a week so on the seventh day they could stop working and sit in holy righteousness.

Though I’ve grown in faith and stature, my understanding of God’s command to rest has remained Half Pint size like my favorite Ingalls family character.

I saw the Sabbath as a simple noun: A place for resting. A thing you do that means doing nothing at all.

As mama to three young children, I counted myself out.

Because the mom job never stops.

There is no end to making meals or changing diapers. Sure, I could let the dishes go undone and the laundry pile up for one more day. But the work of mothering can’t be stored up and finished.

So if it’s impossible to stop working, I reasoned, then it’s impossible to keep the Sabbath.

I thought I was disqualified.

How could I make 24 hours calm and quiet with three wild boys? My sons won’t sit all day and whittle toy trains out of blocks of wood. Their legs can’t help but run; their lungs breathe to shout.

I was disqualified from the spiritual duty (would-be luxury) of a day of rest. Like I didn’t even have a Sabbath chance.

But then I had to ask, Would God really do that?

Would He really give a command that mamas couldn’t keep? And not just mothers, but fathers and farmers, doctors saving lives on Sundays and preachers who spend the Sabbath preaching.

Did God disqualify them all?

No, that can’t be right.

I must have gotten something wrong.

I’m a word girl who learns from writing —I go back and read to find the wrong.

The Holy Spirit shines a light on my mistake.

Noun: PERSON, place, and thing.

I forgot the person.

Could Sabbath mean keeping company with the person of God?

Oh, yes! Breathes my soul.

I wrack my brain for anything else missed:

A word could be a noun and a verb. Like fly. The buzzing thing with six legs, two wings. But it’s also an action! To take flight. Soar!

Defining Sabbath as a state of inaction could be completely upside down backwards.

Rest is more than being sedentary or asleep. Rest is reflecting, remembering. Giving thanks for all the great things God has done! Rest is refocusing. Fixing our eyes on things above.

Maybe I cankeep the Sabbath even in motherhood.

I Sabbath when I plop beside my boys, phone away, just sit and play.

I Sabbath when I prop my feet on the back porch stool, watch squirrels scurry and scribble down the morning’s gifts .

I Sabbath when we hike the canyon. Snapping photos of boys with blue-bellied lizards and spiky-backed caterpillars. I Sabbath breathing in nature’s perfume and marveling over sticks and snakes with my sons.

I Sabbath when we pull back the covers and kids climb in bed for snuggles warm and long.

Maybe as a mom I have this Sabbath thing down better than I thought.

Maybe I’m not disqualified at all.

When a Messy House Is Better than a Messy Heart

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 02 May 2014 07:00:00 GMT

I sprayed the bathroom mirror with Windex and watched the light blue mist trickle down in icicle drips over white toothpaste splatters.

“Come be with me,” I heard God whisper.

“But, but…” my heart immediately stuttered.

But my desk is a mess and I didn’t dust. But I haven’t changed the sheets or chopped the veggies or hung the Happy Birthday sign. But there are crusties on the highchair and crumbs in every corner. But…

“Come BE. With ME,” He called.

I suddenly saw Mary at the Lord’s feet and Martha reflecting back at me in the streaky bathroom mirror.

“You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed,”

Jesus said to Martha.

Jesus said to me.

Yes, there was only one “but” I needed to pay attention to. The answer to all of mine.

BUT only one thing is needed.

Sitting with Jesus. Listening to Jesus.

In two hours and 39 minutes (give or take) my home would be filled with people to celebrate the first birthday of my sweet niece, Abigail Ann. My sister lived out of town and I was excited to host this special gathering to honor her little girl. I wanted everything to be perfectly prepared.

But the Gospel’s words were stirring my heart. I thought of Mary. I thought of Martha.

And I had to ask myself…

Will my guests really notice little boys’ dirty fingerprints polka-dotting the walls?

Doubtful.

Will they complain about the piles of papers on my desk?

Nope.

Will they crane their necks to spy dust bunnies lurking beneath the sofas and side tables?

Very unlikely.

But will they notice a hostess who is neck-tensed, jaw-clenched stressed in gotta-look-perfect, gotta-be-in-control agony?

Absolutely. Glaringly.

I had to ask myself, what does “perfectly prepared” really mean?

So in those precious pre-party minutes of calm while my three boys slept, I stepped away from the Swiffer and Clorox chaos to calm my spirit.

To clean my heart.

Because a messy house is better than a messy heart.

And my heart was messy. Mucked up with distractions and misplaced priorities. I was like Martha. Worried and upset about many things.

I removed myself from the mess in my house and I sat on the back porch with Jesus. Let the breeze touch my skin. Let His Word take precedent in my mind. Let prayer pierce through my preoccupation with self. Let praise pour back from my lips to lift up the One Who Matters.

And time expanded. There was time to do the one thing needed, and then time to do most of the rest. And the undone stuff didn’t matter anymore that afternoon.

There’s nothing wrong with a clean house—shiny sinks and sparkling toilet bowls can speak love and hospitality when prepared unto God.

But if the choice is between the state of your home or the state of your heart, I understand now more than before the better choice.

* * *

Today I’m joining Lisa-Jo to write about “mess.”

Stepping over toys to find the couch and courage for my calling

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 28 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

I didn’t know it was going to rain Friday Night.

I also didn’t know I was going to spend two hours reading.

Rain and reading. Sigh. So much love in my heart.

I love stories. Emotions and people and adventures. Loss and blessing, unknowns blooming into known, all woven together by the hand of the Creator. My heart was made for stories.

I love the sound of water. Raindrops falling from heaven onto rooftop, splashing onto the back porch overhang, fast forming puddles on the uneven side yard. Splish splash. Plink plunk. Dribble dribble drip drip. Whoosh.

A symphony that stirs me.

Oh, how I love being surprised by a perfect night.

(Laughter bubbles from the inside as I type that because I’m also surprised by what “perfect” now means to me. Perfect now means letting go of perfection. Because to get to my cozy spot on the couch I walked past the sink full of dirty dishes, I slid my hand over the batches of payments to post for my part-time job to grab the book that was beckoning me, I sidestepped the overflowing basket of laundry that needed folding, and finally I skipped over a collection of brightly colored kitchen toys strewn across the living room rug that I didn’t make the boys pick up before bed.)

I actually had big plans for productivity, but three children were sleeping and my husband was away and I told myself just a few pages with my feet up after a long day was all I needed to recharge before charging into my to-do list for the night.

So I snuggled down in my fuzzy green blanket and found my place marker in the new book with the cherry blossomed covered: Surprised by Motherhood by Lisa-Jo Baker.

I’ve read Lisa-Jo’s blog about motherhood for about a year so I’ve heard many pieces of her story before. I already had a sense that being a mom wasn’t a dream she had carried since a little girl, but rather an unexpected gift she blossomed into. I knew her mom died a long time ago. I knew she balanced mothering three young ones with a passionate heart for working and serving others.

So the voice that spoke across the pages of this book was familiar. I wasn’t shocked by any twist or turn her story took.

But as Lisa-Jo bravely told her story of being a woman who adamantly did not want to be a mom to becoming one with an unexpected heart-song, soul-call to be a cheerleader and champion for all other mamas, I was surprised by how deeply her transformation moved me. How her story changed me. Called deep to me.

Surprised by Motherhood is brutally real and beautifully transparent about the gritty moments of raising kids that can make us come undone. Oh, how I relate to tempers flaring at strong-wills willing. How you can love so deep you can hardly breathe and yet the mundane drain of a life stuck on repeat can nearly suck all your breath away.

These pages took me back to the days of battling what I read in parenting books against the real-life baby I faced and how the mismatched reality rocked me. But Lisa-Jo’s melodic words also transported me back to the awe-struck wonder of growing new life, birthing new life, living for the sake of loving this new life! A miraculous dance with God who chooses to use a mother’s womb and heart as life source for His children.

But what reached my heart deepest as the raindrops ricocheted off my roof, was Lisa-Jo’s story of calling. That sometimes, most times, we don’t have just one. As intricate as our baby’s dark eyelashes or plump and pink new feet, so has God made our hearts and minds miraculously multidimensional, beautifully complex.

Her story whispered reassurance to my heart that my most precious calling to mother my children whole-hardheartedly doesn’t have to negate a God-given passion for something else.

I am a mother. And I am more than a mother. And my mothering makes everything else that I am and do better, more blessed, than if motherhood was not part of my story.

Lisa-Jo has been called to help rescue girls from human trafficking. She’s been called to drink tea and dance wild with her kiddos, to pray hard over her son on the bottom bunk, and pour affirmation over her blonde-haired baby girl. She’s been called to advocate for heroes mothering a whole community of children in South Africa and to encourage every worn-out because she’s pouring-herself-out mama who also deserves a red cape through the online community.

That’s Lisa-Jo’s story .

God is writing a different one for me.

But reading her journey gives me greater comfort and courage to live mine.

And maybe that’s what has surprised me most about motherhood:

my need to do it in community,

my need to hear other mamas’ stories,

my need to share my own.

And how we are all the richer for it.

When the nails still pierce your heart after Easter

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 21 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

Most afternoons if you drive by my house you’ll find me perched in my yellow, orange, and blue striped beach chair watching Noah and Eli scooter circles around our blacktop driveway, little Jude tracing their trails with his yellow school bus in tow just trying to keep up.

But if there are no boys whizzing by on shiny Razors, no clunkety-clunk of wheels turning fast over pitted pavement, then you will probably find us in the backyard. Digging.

Ride fast or dig deep. Those seem to be the two forces that drive my boys.

One afternoon a couple weeks ago it was a backyard kind of day. White puffy clouds popped against a brilliant blue sky, the bright sun warming us against the cool early April air.

The boys abandoned their favorite digging spot in the flower beds that hug the back porch steps in search of new treasure. They scoured the landscape and finally settled on a patch of untouched territory—the far side yard. Empty save for a winding path of mismatched stepping stones and a mishmash stash of building materials for the vegetable garden we intend to plant, some day.

They plunked down their little buns and array of treasure-hunting tools and got to work. Digging deep and on a serious search. Looking for shiny rocks that could be diamonds. Pursuing petrified wood that could be dinosaur relics.

But instead of sparkly stones or ancient bones, my excavating boys uncovered rusty nails.

One after another.

Treacherous and sharp.

I put the first one up on the wooden fence ledge, just to keep it out of little arms’ reach. But then Noah found another nail. And another screw. “I got one more, Mama,” Eli called out in delight.

Soon I had a collection of dangerous daggers, a small parade of pointed decay.

The boys kept digging, driven by curiosity for the next discovery.

But I didn’t feel very adventurous anymore. Because this backyard game suddenly reminded me of real life pain.

Each freshly unearthed nail on the fence pressed my heart with the reminder of each freshly surfaced sin I’ve been dealing with.

I’m in one of those seasons.

Have you ever been there?

One of those seasons where my relationship with God is growing along with my desire to live more like Christ, yet the more I get to know Jesus, the more I see how far from being like Him I really am.

I desire to be humble.

Yet, I’m more aware of my pride.

I desire to be like a servant.

Yet, I’m faced with my selfishness.

I desire to be full of mercy, breathing grace.

Yet, I’m choking on my judgement.

I desire to be gentle.

Yet, I can not handle my anger.

It’s painful.

Jesus has been my Savior for more than 25 years. I’ve walked with Him as my Shepherd for almost 15. I thought I had let the Great Redeemer reign in all areas of my life.

But apparently there’s still some untouched territory here, too.

Apparently following Jesus means sin-scorched nails are an ongoing part of the story.

Last Friday took me back to the most important day in The Story.

It was Good Friday. I stood in church praising God through age-old hymns about His ultimate sacrifice, the crucified Son-Christ. Jesus’ pain was payment for the world’s sins. Payment for mine. Without that bloody execution there would be no Good News. Just news.

With hands held high in praise I thought about my rusty nails on the fence. The rusted, rotted, rooted in unrighteousness sins I struggle with. I pictured Jesus hanging between robbers, allowing each one of my nails to be driven into his hands and feet.

He died for the world. But He would have died just for one. My nails alone enough to kill him on that cross.

But He didn’t stay dead. No, death can’t conquer Christ! His work of paying the penalty of sin was finished. But the work of redeeming the world had just begun.

Hallelujah to the Risen King!

Hallelujah that Resurrection Sunday came three days later and new life for Christ means new life for me!

This world is still fallen. I still fall and fail. But my failures have been overcome. Resurrection on Easter Sunday means hope for righteousness the other 364 days of the year, every year until Christ returns or takes me home.

I don’t have to be perfect.

I’m never going to be perfect.

Rust-covered nails will get buried now and then in the back corners of my heart. But I can give thanks for the work of uncovering them. I can give thanks for the work of discovering that I need Jesus every day. Give thanks that the Holy God loves me enough not to leave me as I am but to renew me day by day for my good and His glory.

High on a hill Christ hung on a cross and took nails for the glory of God.

Yes, glory through rust-covered nails is possible. Because the nails didn’t stay there.

How to offer up your not enough

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 14 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

Jude is one of my greatest joys.

He’s 22 months old, super sweet, silly, and a little sneaky. He loves hiding under the covers with Daddy for wild peekaboo games. Loves dragging his green stuffed monkey around the house while chasing hard after his big brothers. He loves to be hugged and squeezed and tickled. Loves to wrestle and climb and run in full delight with all his little legs might.

He is pure and winsome.

Utterly adorable.

I am in LOVE with this little boy.

I love his bubbles-from-the-belly baby giggles. Love the way he grabs my face with two hands and pulls me in for super squishy hugs, cheek pressed to cheek by strong-tiny arms clasped tight around my neck. I love the way his eyes light up when he catches me looking at him just because.

And I love his heart to give.

From half-eaten crackers off the kitchen floor to backyards rocks and weeds, Jude is always trying to give me something.

To him each leaf and stone and squishy tomato is a treasure. He doesn’t care if it’s broken or rotten. He doesn’t know that to others his gift would be overlooked or forgotten. He just wants me to have whatever he has. He wants me to delight in each jewel he’s discovered. He wants me to genuinely enjoy each gem he’s uncovered.

And I do.

Not because I need another dirty rock or tomato left too long on the vine. But because I delight in Jude. I enjoy what he offers because I enjoy him .

And if that’s how I feel as Jude’s mama, then certainly that’s how God must feel as our Abba.

Sometimes it seems like all I have to offer God are broken bits and inadequate pieces. I wonder what on earth could He possibly do with my messy life, my imperfect words and heart? What meaning could my meager gifts have? What value could my vulnerable offerings bring?

But then I know.

God doesn’t need my offerings. He chooses to use them.

I can’t give enough. But He chooses to make my not-enough His perfectly-enough.

He didn’t need the boy’s five loaves and two fish . He didn’t need the woman’s last drops of oil and handful of flour . The face value of each sacrifice was about as useful as a dried up flower in a broken shovel.

But God turned these willing hearts and humble offerings into glory.

The people, the things—poor and feeble.

What God transformed them into—full and perfect.

And all who stood witness and received the tangible blessing in turn understood the fullness of God’s power and gave praise for the perfection of His plan.

And today that’s what I need to remember.

To trust that God can multiply my meager gift…as long as I’m willing to give it.

I’m a mama who looses her temper .

I’m a wife who forgets to be grateful .

But I’m also a woman c ommitted to counting each perfect gift from God,

a woman who’s vowing not to let my insecurities and not-enough hang-ups prevent me from offering to Him all that I have and all that I am.

“I will bring you a thanksgiving offering

and call on the name of the Lord!”

And God will use what I give because He delights in me.

“The Lord will take delight in you.”

A Letter to God in the Pain

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 11 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

Your goodness is greater than the grief

The grief that makes us feel so week

Your strength is greater than the sorrow

Sorrow that drains our hope for tomorrow

Your peace is greater than all the pieces broken

Shattered live, shards of dreams unspoken

May we know these truths in the face of each unknown

Your healing grace please do not postpone

May we feel Your presence in the midst of all the mess

Please lavish compassion, reveal Your nearness

And may be trust You, Lord, with full-surrendered hearts

because we know that Your arms are the only place to fall

the only place to start

The Cost of Joy

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 09 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

I rushed through the narrow aisles, navigating my little red cart with professional-shopper precision. Past grandmas stooped over in food label inspection, past mamas wrangling little hands out of frozen treat freezers. This Trader Joes trip needed to be quick.

Just the basics.

Just a few necessities.

Milk, bananas, eggs, and crackers.

My husband was waiting in the car with our three wriggly boys. I think I made record time.

I opened the slider to our silver minivan and slid the brown paper bags under Jude’s dangling feet. Chris craned his neck around to tell me the cute thing Elias said while I was gone and caught sight of the small bouquet of flowers peeking out next to the milk.

“What are those for?’ he asked.

“For joy,” I replied. “$3.99 for joy.”

Later after the wriggles were snuggled sound asleep, after the milk and eggs and bananas were all put away, I took hold of those sweet little flowers. Unwrapped the clear plastic, cut the rubber band wound round the stems. Snipped off angled inches of green. Filled the blue fluted vase given to me by a sweet friend with water and then arranged my joy flowers in their new home. Perched on my kitchen window.

The whole week through I gazed at my little glory vase.

Through the dinner making and temper taming.

Through the little hands washing and dishes sloshing.

Through the morning, noon, and night, I took notice of my red, orange, and yellow blossoms, took notice of this beauty-art grown from earth and picked for pleasure.

Took time to give thanks.

$3.99 was all it cost for a whole week’s worth of joy.

Oh, the mystery of this lifeblood that costs so little, that costs so much.

Costs a smile, costs a second look.

Costs a moment stilled to breathe in gratitude, breathe out thanks.

Costs “I’m sorry” or “Please forgive me.” Costs a whispered breath of “I forgive you, too.”

Costs slowing down to take in each gift: the lizard scurrying across the cracked patio, the child throwing his head back in abandoned laughter, cackling out his boyhood call.

Costs saying yes when you’re called.

Choosing to be joy-filled can cost so little. Choosing to be joy-less can cost so much.

It can cost you bitterness and bitter envy.

Cost you the comparison game—a game always lost.

Cost you relational atrophy and spiritual amnesia and sink-inside-yourself despair or a whole host of other sickly diseases caused by failing to look outside yourself.

Little or much, it will always cost you. And it IS always a choice.

A $3.99 bouquet of flowers were not on my Trader Joes food list of necessities.

But joy IS always necessary for nourishing my soul.

Why I’m a Writer

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 04 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

“The learning often doesn’t come until the writing.”

She wrote these words almost a year before I read them.

I picture Father God—miraculously not bound by time or space—planting this post in one daughter’s heart for the very purpose of encouraging another one many months and miles later. He must have because Sarah Markley‘s words express exactly how I feel as a writer.

And there is such great hope and affirmation in knowing you’re not alone.

When I steal twenty minutes at nap time or stay up way too late into the night to tap out the messy mama moments of my day or the deep stirrings of my soul, it’s an exercise in hearing God.

I’m a writer because I love language. I love the way alliterative pairs perfectly punctuate each other. Love simile and metaphor. Love using words to bring an image splayed before my eyes to life or one buried down in my heart to light.

I’m a writer because I love stories. Love epic ones of love and adventure. Love little anecdotes that make my sides split. I love how people, places, and divine circumstances weave together for a beautiful tale that gives glory to the fingerprints of God.

I’m a writer because I love art. Love beauty and creativity. My heart is stirred by the wonders of God’s creations, in human and earthen vessels both. I love using the art of words to humbly shine a spotlight on The Light, The Artist who breathes life into all the world through giving art and making His art.

I’m a writer because I love to encourage. Love offering hope and cheering you on. I love assuring you you’re not alone on the journey of mama or wife or follower of Christ. And I’m willing to peel back the layers of pretense and posture for the sake of showing you who I really am and Whom I really need .

But most of all, I’m a writer because that’s how I learn. I don’t sit down at the curb-rescued desk my amazing husband refurbished or plop down on the brick red settee on my back porch to pen a lesson. I write to learn the lesson.

Yes, I learn by listening and reading. I learn by doing and observing and contemplating it all through.

But there’s something special about writing. Something about how God made Sarah, how God made me. We’re writers. And I don’t always know the meaning of that trip to Costco or the significance of that spilled milk until I write about it.

When I’m not writing I’m missing out on some of God’s greatest riches.

So I gladly snatch up those last twelve minutes of Jake and the Neverland Pirates or whatever writing moments I can muster, so that I can become more of who God made me—a lean-in-and-learn writer.

* * *

So grateful the writers encouragement of Lisa-Jo, too, and the beautiful community of Five Minute Friday writers, who are all aptly writing today on the word: Writer.

How to Fight Anger with a Robot

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 02 Apr 2014 07:00:00 GMT

It’s one of those days where I almost needed round two of Fritos in my laundry room just to make it through.

It’s one of those weeks where that area of struggle and sin in my life that I thought I had made so much progress in rears its ugly head again and leaves my heart reeling, too.

I’m struggling with anger .

I’m wrestling with right perspective.

I’m aching to live holy, live fully in the freedom of thanksgiving. In the freedom of Christ-first, me-last service.

I’m falling short.

I’m falling into the jaw-clenching, neck-tensing pattern of trying to control what doesn’t need to be controlled. Boys wanting a certain snack or specific bed-time song. Boys laughing and boys shouting and boys stampeding–every sound echoing off every wall. I don’t need to control it all. Be burdened by it all.

My desire to control comes out in the shortness of my answers, in the sharpness of my tone. I’m sure my babies can hear it in my long huffy sighs. See it in the way I crack my neck before I crack out a reply.

I’m grumpy and I’m grouchy and it’s all a choice I don’t have to keep choosing.

Instead of wanting to suppress the boisterousness of boys I could celebrate it.

Instead of cringing over my need for quiet I could join in and make some noise.

We could stomp together. Growl like tigers together. Leap like lions together.

I could model joy by being joyful with them.

Together.

Today, instead of soothing my mama woes with more salty Fritos, I chose to let go and be free. Instead of responding to poor table manners and ugly brother banter with harsh discipline, I chose to redirect with humor.

Mad mommy became Robot Mommy: Food Enforcer!

Soon my crazy, stiff-arm gestures and silly, computerized-voice instructions about chewing food before you speak had us all laughing so hard we could barely stay in our seats.

My mouth was sore from smiling so wide and the ache in my heart had been replaced by one in my side.

It’s hard to be angry when you’re laughing.

Screaming Over Spilled Milk

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 31 Mar 2014 07:00:00 GMT

The milk was cold but my blood was boiling.

White dairy liquid leaking down the front of kitchen cabinets, spilling into cracked-open drawers. A silky pool slick over granite counter top, soaking into cereal boxes.

Soggy cardboard.

Sticky tile.

Wasted nutrition.

Yelling mama.

Ninety seconds ago I stepped away from the boy nicely seated at the table waiting for his second bowl to quickly go help his brother who had already finished breakfast and been excused.

It could not have been longer than 90 seconds.

I stroll back in to this.

“I’m sorry, mama, that I did that,” Elias stammers.

But I can hardly hear his raspy three-year-old voice because I’m instantly yelling too close to his big deer-eyed face.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD, ELIAS? WHHHHHYYYYY DID YOU DO THAT!?!?

But I can hardly hear him explain how he just wanted to do it all by himself like a big boy because my blood pressure is pounding too loud in my ears.

It’s milk. And I’m screaming.

I feel like Paul :

“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”

It’s milk. It’s a mess. Yes. But it’s milk.

My three old knows better. But he’s three. He made a mess. But we was not malicious.

I know this, but still I’m furious.

So now I’m both angry and ashamed.

I send the perpetrator to time out and grab my camera praying that framing up this mess will help me re-frame my furry. Praying I can put my perspective in check with each camera click.

I check instant images that appear in preview on the back camera screen.

I take in the wonder of gravity…laws of nature pulling each drip to the ground.

I marvel at the display of momentum…tiny drops making big splashes.

I breathe.

I remember what my pastor preached yesterday. The truth that answered Paul’s same predicament:

“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus…”

My anger does not define me.

Keeping calm would not have justified me.

“…because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death.”

I grab bath towels and I sop up the spilled milk.

I thank Jesus.

Thank you for your sacrifice.

Thank you for paying the price of my sin.

Thank you that YOU did the work and now I can live free.

Thank you for spilled milk.

I’ve written before about how a whole day of good parenting can feel wiped away by one bad mom moment .

This morning my sin threatened to take me out before the day barely began. Threatened to demean who I am in Christ. Threatened to distract and discourage me from the ways I do love, nurture, and train my boys well.

I threw the milky towels in the washing machine and gave thanks that the washing of my sin has already been done.

10 things I probably shouldn’t share on social media

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 28 Mar 2014 07:00:00 GMT

Here’s ten things you probably don’t know about me, and probably don’t need to.

1. Sometimes I eat old Cheerios off the floor when I’m too lazy to walk to the trashcan. Gross? Yes. Time saving? A little.

2. Rude sales reps threaten to bring out the worst in me. They make me want to pump my tongue full of venom and unleash my wrath. Like the lawn fertilizer guy who came to my door this morning. When I nicely told him that we are renters and not interested in his product, he sneered, “So, you rent the house but not the lawn? Have you seen the weeds infesting your grass?” I politely replied that lawn care is just not an investment that we’re interested in right now. But it took full will power not to release the Snarky Reply Red Dragon. I still think back about that pet store owner I wanted to zing and wish maybe I had. #naturalzinger #byGodsstrengthtonguetamer

3. Sometimes I bribe my boys to take long naps by promising sips of my afternoon coffee. Bribery doe not fall within my parenting philosophy. Nor does offering my children legal, addictive stimulants. But every day all three of my boys nap at the same time (even my 5 year old!) and it’s a glorious hour of quiet that I need. Plus, I only use all natural coffee creamer with no artificial flavors, chemicals, or dyes. So that makes it better, right? #andnohydrogentatedoil #tippingbackthepgoodmomscale #survivalparenting

4. Long toenails totally disgust me. #idon’tknowwhy

5. I feel annoyed when people don’t email me back. Acknowledgement of receipt. That’s all I’m asking for people. #yesiknowyouarebusy #yesiknowi’mnotthatimportant

6. I printed the wrong day on my wedding invitations. I am a writer. I use to be a full time editor. I hand tied bows on 150 invitations. And somehow 150 times I did NOT see that I wrote Sunday, July 29th. We got married on a Friday. #horrifiedbride #daggertoeditorialpride

7. I don’t like cake. I really REALLY like pie and brownies and scones. Muffins and cookies and cinnamon rolls are amazing. But I don’t like cake. Except for cheesecake and pound cake and angel food cake. #maybeidonttknowwhatcakeis #maybeidontknowme

8. I compulsively believe that toilet paper should be installed with the loose end cascading OVER the roll. NOT lost under it. If I’m at someone’s house and their toilet paper is facing the wrong way I’m often tempted to reverse it. Sometimes I actually do. #controlfreakwithoutimpulsecontrol

9. My husband and I sleep with separate blankets. And they happen to be old 80s quilts from his childhood. Affection is one of my top love languages, but I am NOT a cuddle-up-sleeper. I have loved sharing life with my man for the last eight and a half years…just not my blanket. #uglycozy #dowhatworks #happilymarried

10. I started using hashtags before I was on Twitter. Long before I ever composed a tweet, I fell in love with the hashtag. Zest up a Facebook post. Turn regular text messages into witty banter. Add layers of meaning or humor to your message. #writersspicerack #twitterscontributiontomankind

Now, maybe sharing these details of my life on social media crosses the TMI line. But maybe the problem with this post isn’t too much information.

Maybe the problem is the wrong information.

I have recently been pressed in by what the Bible says about the weight of our words and the responsibility we have to wield them well. Now I’m not just referring to how we’re supposed to steer clear of profanity or blasphemy. And I’m not just thinking about gossip or slander or judgmental accusations.

I’m thinking more about how our words are mighty.

How our words have the power to build up, inspire, challenge, and uplift. Our words can encourage, offer hope, and point toward healing. Even in conflict our words can be thoughtful, careful, agents of restoration, beacons of peace.

I often share on Facebook the ridulously cute and silly things my kids say. And I’m all for posting adorable pictures of the little brood that captures my full delight.

But I’ve also used social media to vent about another or toot my own horn. I’ve dabbled in divisive conversations and stuck my nose in other people’s business.

But that’s not how I want to use my words.

If my words are going to be prideful may they point others to the One I’m proud to follow.

If my words are going to be provocative may they provoke people to want to know more about Jesus.

If my words are going to be petty may I count them worth less than a penny. And cast them aside.

Words are mighty. So might we all use them to lavish others with kindness and compassion. Might each word be humbly uttered with gentle patience. Love. Peace.

Whether we shout it from the rooftops or whisper it in someone’s ear, might we use our mighty words to bless all those who hear.

* * *

Joining Lisa-Jo’s amazing community who use their words so well, as we all write this week are on the word Mighty.

How discarded denim can change lives. SOLE HOPE: An invitation to help.

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 26 Mar 2014 07:00:00 GMT

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.

https://youtu.be/EMl-hE9CdZ8

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.

ld 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.

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

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 21 Mar 2014 07:00:00 GMT

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

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 19 Mar 2014 07:00:00 GMT

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

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 11 Mar 2014 07:00:00 GMT

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

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 07 Mar 2014 08:00:00 GMT

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!

Thanks for the Burdened Heart

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 08:00:00 GMT

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

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 03 Mar 2014 08:00:00 GMT

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

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 25 Feb 2014 08:00:00 GMT

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.

No Check Box for Joy

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 12 Feb 2014 08:00:00 GMT

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.

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.”

Dreams for Superhero Sons

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 31 Jan 2014 08:00:00 GMT

Spiderman, Captain America, a Gladiator, and Knight are in their arsenal of costumes.

They have Batman and Superman pajamas and a Buzz Lightyear destroyer Nurf gun.

Wooden butter knifes from their picnic set become swords for epic bedroom battles.

These boys of mine know how to slay dragons, shoot spider webs, defeat imaginary intruders, and have wrestling moves unbeatable by any villain.

If the oldest brother calls the younger one “Bad Guy” the Bad Guy brother may just burst into tears and start chasing the offender with flailing arms and screechy whines, yelling,

“I’m NOT a Bad Guy, brudder. We bofe can be the Good Guys together!”

Though the sibling fussing and fighting that inevitably follows such an accusation and rebuttle often make me cringe with exhausted irritation, I really can’t blame my three year old.

Because being the Good Guy is in his blood.

Boys are created to be warriors, conquerors, knights in shining armor. They are designed to battle and problem-solve and overcome obstacles. They are providers, preservers, protectors.

But while my three sons dream of jumping off buildings and soaring through the sky, I have slightly different dreams for my little heroes.

I dream they will be the kind of heroes who are kind even when it’s unpopular.

I dream they will tell the truth even when it’s costly.

May they show their strength by choosing to show compassion and grace.

May they save the day by picking the unwanted kid to be his class-project partner.

I pray they will arm themselves with the truth of God’s Word.

I pray they will stand out by standing up for what is right.

And, like the nylon-clad, cape-wearing superheros they adore, may my sons always be on the lookout for ways that they can help. May they be known for putting the needs of others above their own. May they be willing to risk it all for the sake of their calling. May they have humble hearts. And may their bravery, courage, and talent point others who might call them Hero to the Only One who truly deserves the name.

* * *

This post if part of Lisa-Jo’s heroic Five Minute Friday linkup . Today word-lovers around the web are all writing on Hero. Don’t think you can write like this in five minutes? Yeah, me neither. But even though I flex the five minute “rule,” I love this community and the encouragement it gives me to search my heart for stories and lessons I might not otherwise take the time to pen.

When There Is Guilt in the Grief

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 28 Jan 2014 08:00:00 GMT

Three years ago yesterday my dad passed away.

It’s amazing what three years can do.

My journey of grief looks so different today than it did during the initial shock of losing my 59-year-old father or throughout that first year of every first without him. First birthday, first Christmas, first anniversary of his death. Such difficult, painful milestones.

The waves of emotion use to come on suddenly, swift and strong. I felt totally unprepared for the torrent of tears that could take over a simple moment of watching my boys put together puzzles or seeing a pack of Necco Wafers at the pharmacy’s candy counter. That first year my thoughts could be nowhere near my dad and yet if I was scrolling through contacts in my phone and came across his number I could quickly come undone.

But today, the seas of grief are kinder, gentler, like softly rolling swells. I may feel a pang of longing when I see Jude’s sweet smile and think about how his grandfather never had the chance to meet this remarkable little boy. Or I can still get teary if Amazing Grace is in the slate of Sunday morning worship songs.

While the pain of losing my dad has faded, the guilt of my grief has also grown dim.

Yes, guilt.

And that’s what is on my heart to share because that’s the part that no one ever talks about.

You see, when I wrote the words for my dad’s memorial service , I felt it was right to honor him by remembering the good. I wanted to celebrate his love for his daughters and the ways he did fatherhood well. It was heart-healing to recall the treasured moments my dad and I shared. And it was uplifting to share those treasures with all of you.

But that’s not the whole story.

The rest of the story reads of a dad who was mostly unavailable. A dad who, while married to my mom, worked more than he raised his girls. After the divorce, a dad who loved showing up for the special events but didn’t engage in the things of regular life.

Sporadic phone calls. Proud-of-me praise. Unpredictable anger.

Later in life the complexities of our relationship were accentuated by my dad’s personal downward spiral. Laid off from a 20 year career. A second failed marriage. Business venture defeat. Deteriorating mental and physical health.

Not every factor was his fault. But naming blame doesn’t always take away the pain. Whether my dad’s demise was partly because of the deck he’d been dealt or primarily due to his own poor choices, the last five years of his life, especially, caused a significant stress on mine.

For many sad years my dad’s life was marked by depression, addiction, despair . My sisters and I were the only ones there to try and help. So when crisis hit my dad and he landed in the hospital yet again, crisis would hit for us, too.

It was draining. No, draining doesn’t really cover the toll that it all took.

And yet, in the last months of my Dad’s life, after he had dwelled in the bottom of his life’s deepest pit, he finally surrendered to God. Wealth, possessions, status, health…all gone. Yes, finally he turned to the only source of life that he could never lose–relationship with his Savior Jesus.

Oh, how it strengthened my faith to see. To see answers to years of desperate prayers! To see that his life wasn’t fixed but his heart was with the fixer, the Redeemer.

Yet, even so…

Even so, after my dad had passed, after the memorial was planned and his apartment was cleaned and his things were sorted and saved or sold, after the tasks of death were done, I was left with more than pain to keep me company.

I missed my dad. But I felt guilty for the missing. Guilty that I didn’t miss him in life when days and weeks and months went by without a visit. In life he had often been a burden. So why should I be allowed to miss him in death?

Then there was the guilt for feeling relieved. I was actually thankful at times that we were spared from another episode in the hospital. Freed from another call that his finances had been flushed. Even thankful that I had escaped another dinner where he loudly smacked down a plate full of food that was surely damaging his diseased heart even more.

I was grieving the dad I lost and grieving the dad I never had.

I felt isolated in my grief from the start. (My friends loved me but not many of my 20-something peers had experienced the loss of a parent.) And this mix of emotions I didn’t expect, couldn’t explain, made me hide even further in my pain and guilt and shame.

But like my dad figured out before he breathed his last breath, there is one who always sees us, even in our hiding.

These last three years, I’ve learned that God can handle my emotions, even the ones I don’t want to have. I’ve learned that not only can I rest in knowing my earthly father is living redeemed , free of his demons, but my Heavenly Father is doing a redeeming work in my life, too.

God won’t change my childhood. I won’t get back all the fatherly love, support, and nurturing I lacked. But those realities have shaped who I am. And there is no shame in wishing things had been different. I think God wishes they had been different for me, too.

But what do I get?

I get to live in this story. The story God is writing in my life.

The story where I’m learning that thankfulness and longing, relief and regret can coexist in one broken but rebuilding heart.

Five Minute Friday: Encouragement

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 17 Jan 2014 08:00:00 GMT

Salty tears ran down my cheeks and a huge grin spread across my face.

The smell of savory barbeque floated on the warm spring air.

A pedestrian passing by probably thought I was crazy–a crying, smiling girl with phone pressed tight against her ear.

But I couldn’t help it. Waiting on the Firestone Grill patio for my tri-tip salad and my sister, I listened to a voicemail–not just a a voicemail– a message containing the most encouraging words my heart had ever heard.

Earlier that week I had the privilege of sharing what God was doing in my life with a group of women at my church. Several friends told me after that I did a wonderful job–words I appreciated hearing.

Now, another sweet friend had called to tell me the same. But more than acknowledging what I did, she affirmed who I was. Her voice reached through the recorded words and touched a deep place in my heart.

She was lavish with her praise. She used so many adjectives I started to giggle. Not for the sake of boosting my ego, but for the gift of seeing my soul.

Yes, one of the greatest gifts is being seen. Truly seen. And this dear friend gave this treasure abundantly.

Her words spoke truth in my life in a way that validated the very best parts of how God created me and spurred me on to live more fully out of the gifting he’s given. Listening to her message made me feel loved. motivated. empowered.

Then my sister came back with a black tray of deliciousness, so I moved on to enjoying my meal.

But this gift of encouragement continued to stir my soul long after that first stream of awe and gratitude tears were wiped away. I feel silly admitting it, but I saved that voicemail and have listened to it many times over the last eight months.

That’s the power of encouragement. Words that give life.

A couple months had now passed since I followed the automated prompt, pressed 9 for saved messages. Until this week. On Tuesday, for no real reason, I listened again to the most encouraging words I had ever heard. (Oh, I laugh, because God always knows the reason.) On Wednesday I was asked to share my story at a large event.

My heart pounded in excitement and fear.

Self-doubt threatened to choke my answer.

But that’s the power of encouragement: it. gives. courage.

I said yes.

* * *

I’m writing with Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday community. We write for the sake of story, beauty, creativity, truth. The task is to write for 5 minutes flat on a single word prompt. In truth, I usually spend way more than five minutes. But whether it’s 5 or 45, this exercise get’s me writing, telling my story—God’s story. And that’s the best outcome for me.

The Truth about Discontentment

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 15 Jan 2014 08:00:00 GMT

It’s sneaky.

It’s sly.

It can slither, creep, crawl, or tip-toe right into your mind and then burrow deep within your heart. Before you even realize it, something pure and innocent can transform into something dark and ugly, while never changing out of its pretty package.

At least, that’s how it happened to me.

That’s how discontentment took root in my life again.

It surprised me. Shocked me.

I mean, how can something other than gratitude take hold of my heart when I’ve spent the last six months counting gifts and choosing joy ?

But there in the middle of Target, between the florescent-lit aisles of picture frames and home decor accents, it hit me. And I had to admit it.

Out loud. To my husband. “I am discontent.”

From the evidence of the last few weeks, he was quick to agree.

It started right after our move. We unpacked boxes and found new homes for dishes, toiletries, and clothes. My husband hung hooks by the front door and my calming lily canvas over the white chunky mantel.

As we found a place for everything in our new space, we saw a need for a few new things. A basket for shoes so we can attempt to keep the beautiful wood floors clean. Curtains to fit the long window in the boys’ room. A welcome mat to wipe our feet.

Then the oven we inherited was broken so we invested in a stainless steel stove. And for the last eight and a half years we’ve crowded around a small hand-me-down’s hand-me-down table, so we also put some Christmas money toward our first new dining room table– a purchase with a purpose–a heart for hospitality, future gatherings of family and friends.

And there was the adorable shelf my husband surprised me with. He knew I wanted something for the void on the bathroom wall and this was the perfect fit. Hooks for the boys’ towels. A spot for some added decor. A shabby-chic finish. I loved it!

New Paragraph

Oh, and maybe some place mats for the new table and mats for cold bathroom floors.

Nothing too extravagant. Not overly excessive.

But the problem wasn’t in the things. The problem was in the seeing. My seeing.

Because I started to see only the holes.

A blank wall that needed art. A bare floor that needed a rug. An empty nook that needed an overstuffed chair. Each time I identified a hole in my house, I allowed one to fester in my heart.

The blessings I once saw faded another shade each time I focused on my longing, my lack. Soon all the pictures of thanks were too faint to see.

And going to amazing places like Home Goods and Target infected the wound further. At every turn I saw another basket or mail organizer or wall hanging or pillow or whatever other artfully-rusted, chalkboard paint-painted, burlap-embellished I-gotta-have-it accessory for my new house. “That would make this room so much more functional and that room so much more inviting,” I thought to myself.

And while browsing didn’t turn to buying, I was still selling myself out.

Letting my joy slip away.

Instead of keeping my eyes fixed on God’s grace-gifts, I allowed greed and ingratitude to steal my focus. That wasn’t my intention. But that is what happened.

And then I remembered the very words I chose to frame and perch on that new rustic shelf:

Yes. My heart remembered, too.

The cure for discontentment? Giving thanks.

The antidote for ungratefulness? Gratitude.

And the echo of Ann’s words from the storehouse of truth in my mind became a balm for this self-inflicted wound on my heart.

“You can have joy any moment you turn hidden greed for more into honest gratitude for now.”

I can still have joy.

The truth is, discontentment snuck into my life even when I thought I was doing everything right.

The truth is, I don’t have to stay in this discontented place.

My attitude, my outlook–my choice.

Yes, instead I will choose gratitude. I will keep learning the secret of being content in any and every situation. (Yes, Paul says contentment is learned . So discontentment must be unlearned.)

I will do both by giving thanks.

Thanks for the hands that hung the shelf. Thanks for the silly smiles peering down at me. Thanks for a work of art, beauty, Truth. All clear pictures of God’s gifts of grace.

Ahh, yes, and always thanksgiving for his Amazing Grace.

* * *

Linking up with J ennifer Dukes Lee for the first time to #TellHisStory.

Visit The Pleated Poppy to get this free Give Thanks printable …a beautiful, needed reminder for every heart.

What I’m Able to See

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 10 Jan 2014 08:00:00 GMT

Some days it’s easy.

The winter sun casting brilliant rays that illuminate a simple garden leaf, transforming something plain into spectacular.

The perfect curve of my middle boy’s pouty cheeks. Cheeks that get all rosy flushed with bed-jumping joy or sleepy heat after a long snuggled nap.

The way steam rises up in swirly mist off my morning cup o’ jo. The way the littlest one squeals in anticipation of our newest tickle game. The way my friend looks in my eyes because she really knows me.

I can see it all. See how each tender moment is an intentional gift. Given from God’s heart to mine.

Our heater goes out and within minutes I’ve collected four space heaters from three sets of neighbors we just met. My biggest one is big-boy brave as he gets his five-year immunizations and he chooses to share his lollipop treat with his brother. Breath in. Breath out.

I can see.

“From the fullness of his grace we have received one blessing after another.” -John 1:16

I can see the truth of God’s Word in the realness of my life.

Some days.

And other days it’s hard. There’s a veil over my eyes, a low cloud, a thick fog. Piles of laundry and stacks of dishes are blocking my line of sight. The light of childhood delight has dimmed and all I can see is the disobedience.

Discouragement.

Self-doubt.

There are days I can only assume that all the God-gifts, all his grace, are hidden in the dusty corners of my house or in the disheveled toy boxes where nobody can find what they’re looking for.

Some days it’s hard. Today is one of those days. I’m having a hard time seeing God.

But I look back to his Word.

“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” -2 Corinthians 4:18

And I’m thankful.

Thankful that my days aren’t meant to be dependent on what I’m able to see.

* * *

I’m writing with Lisa-Jo and the Five Minute Friday community. Today’s word is See.

Advent Joy

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 21 Dec 2013 08:00:00 GMT

I had the pleasure of writing this reflection piece on Psalm 145 for the Advent Devotional my church presented this year. So I thought I’d share it here with you, too. May we each take a moment today to savor, reflect, and remember the joy gift of our Savior King!

They will celebrate your abundant goodness

and joyfully sing of your righteousness.” (v.7)

In the midst of all the merriment, sometimes the Christmas seasons stirs awareness of our longings, our lack. Maybe you are still looking for that job. Maybe that Christmas bonus didn’t come through. Maybe spinning your wheels to secure the best department store deals has left your soul spinning, too. Maybe the strained relationships in your life have left you feeling separated from your Savior. Maybe all that feels abundant is your need.

Scripture assures us that the Lord is “loving toward all he has made” (v.13) and that he satisfies the desires of every living thing (v.16). What amazing promises! But what if that doesn’t just pertain to the desires you are waiting for God to fulfill? What if his abundant goodness is being poured out in your life every day?

The key to experiencing God’s awesome works is not to wait until life feels good. The key is to exalt him, praise him, and celebrate him today! When we take God’s Word as Truth and believe that, regardless of how we feel, he IS good, his ways ARE faithful, and his works ARE wonderful, then we can begin to see the evidence all around us.

A message from a friend with just the words your heart needed to hear. The sound of raining thrumming a winter symphony on your roof. A flickering candle, light dancing on the wall, apple spice aroma filling the house. The assurance that every failure and regret has been wiped away by the Savior’s atoning sacrifice—the Messiah born in the manger. These are all gifts from the perfect Giver, just a few reasons to sing joyfully to the King!

Ponder:

What evidence of God’s abundant goodness can you praise him for today?

Prayer:

“Holy God, you are so worthy of my praise and adoration! Please grow in me an awe of who you are and how you are working in my life so that my heart may overflow with joy and thanksgiving. Amen.”

Mud for My Selfishness

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 09 Dec 2013 08:00:00 GMT

I don’t want to admit it…

But some days, my kids feel like a burden. Some moments, mothering feels like a chore. I feel irritated, inconvenienced, put out.

I don’t want to admit it, really I don’t…but some days the the overflow of my heart is not love and kindness and joyful training for my boys.

I like to rationalize these icky feelings.

I mean, who wouldn’t feel weary after six days of solo parenting while your husband is out of town? Who wouldn’t be a little downtrodden from the demands of meeting the constant, unrelenting needs of three rambunctious boys? My feelings of wanting a little space, a little peace and quiet are valid, right? Plus, fill a tank that’s depleted of patience with a healthy dose of PMS and who’s gonna blame me for feeling like a I just want to play hookie from this mothering gig for half a day?

I just want an easy day. A day where my 4, 3, and 1 year old will all play peacefully without supervision so I can sit and just be. (If you have even one small child, you know that’s not gonna happen, let alone with a trifecta of tiny testosteronies.)

These reasons may be understandable, even justifiable.

But the real reason for my icky feelings about motherhood today is because I am selfish.

As soon as I acknowledged this truth—the root of my struggle—I knew the way out.

The way to combat selfishness is to choose an act of selflessness.

So with a small huff and a sigh, that’s what I did.

And today selfless meant mud.

Letting my boys be boys. Down and dirty. Mud squished between fingers. Caked in every crack.

I needed to let go of my desire for control, convenience, ease. As I laid down my desires for the sake of their delight, I found myself delighting, too. Instead of feeling stuck in my weariness, condemned by my selfishness, I started to feel the warmth of the sun’s shining rays.

I began to feel joy for the boyhood discoveries my little men were making.

I knew there would be clothes and shoes and toys that would need scrubbing and demudding—not to mentioned three filthy little boys. But maybe there was beauty to be found even in dark dirt crusted on denim, ground into soles.

Yes, my soul was stirred with new life at the lavish boyish love for nature’s gifts: an avocado, a tree, a root.

Maybe mud was exactly what their precious souls needed today.

Maybe it was exactly what mine needed it, too.

From Blah to Blessed

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 08:00:00 GMT

My autumn mantel is still in tact. We’re moving in a week and a half, so it just doesn’t make sense to pull out the Christmas decor. I’m longing for my sweet evergreen and holly berry wreath, but I guess there’s an upside to being stuck in a decorating holding pattern…

Because I’m still seeing this every day:

Yesterday was a blah day. Ever have one of those?

I just felt blah. Bluck. Stuck. In a funk .

I felt blah for the constant raucous noise of boys. Blah for changing yet another diarrhea diaper. Blah for the broken garbage disposal and clogged up sink with breakfast oatmeal floaties. Blah for people I love going through seasons of deep pain. Just blah.

And then I read these words. “In everything give thanks.”

Everything…it’s so vague. I see it every day. Say it every day. But sometimes the meaning gets lost on me.

So what would it mean if I replaced the vague with the specific?

In the chaos give thanks.

In the sickness give thanks.

In the mundane mama tasks give thanks.

In the broken appliances, small set-backs, temporary inconveniences give thanks.

In the seasons of praying for the seasons of pain give thanks.

Yes, making it specific makes the difference. Giving of thanks for specific things helped turn my blahs into blessings.

But what’s so blessed about a hum-drum-bummed kind of regular mommy-in-a-funk day?

Blessed because every day is a gift! Every moment is a gift, if I choose to see it and GIVE THANKS for it. I’m NOT perfect at it. But God IS perfecting me through it.

And living in the center of God’s will is ALWAYS a blessing, isn’t it?

(Did you know that to Give Thanks IS the Will of God?!)

“In every thing give thanks, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. ” -1 Thessalonians 5:18

So I gave thanks.

Gave thanks for this little munchkin whose clothes I had to change 4 times.

Thank you, God, for Jude’s smile!

Thank you, God, for a little boy and his big bucket!

Thank you, God, for eyes that shine and crumbs on lips!

And I thanked God for my pirate and my super hero.

For the grace to let three boys eat lunch on the couch.

Thank you, God, for brothers.

Thank you for not leaving me in my blahs,

but helping me see what “everything” is:

Gift. Beauty. Grace .

Everything is Your unfailing love.

Jesus in my bathroom

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 27 Nov 2013 08:00:00 GMT

I sat on the edge of the cold porcelain bathtub. Hot water pounding out of the shower head into the empty tub. Steam slowly filled the bathroom.

I rocked Jude and prayed the warm misty air would soothe his lungs and offer some relief.

Why does croup always hit in the middle of the night? Why does it have to steal my sleeping babe and replace him with a barking seal imposter?

My 17 month old fussed and fidgeted on my lap. He held my hairbrush and his brother’s lime green squirt bottle until he chucked them on the floor in protest of being sick and tired.

My heavy eyelids begged to close, but Jude needed a few more minutes of steamy therapy.

So I began to sing.

The usual soothing bedtime tunes…Jesus Loves Me gave way to Gentle Shepherd which ushered in a chorus of As the Deer.

Then without a conscious thought or decision, I found the words of Silent Night pouring from my lips.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.

Jude’s little jammied body snuggled into mine and his breathing settled.

It was barely November and Christmas was hardly on my radar. But there in my steam-filled bathroom with dingy grout and a pile of little boys’ discarded dirty clothes crumpled on the floor, the words of this classic Christmas carol washed over my heart.

I imagined how the air in that stable where the Christ child was born might have also been thick and steamy from the sweat of labor, the hot breath of animals, the stench of manure. I thought about how this sweet melodic song was really depicting a story that, to the mother living it, could not have been nearly as picturesque as our postcards and nativty scene figurines might make us believe.

I have given birth three times in a hospital (twice with drugs) and, let’s be honest, it was not a pretty picture. How might my new mother horror have been magnified had I been laying on dirty straw instead of a sterile hospital bed with my virgin-delivery husband catching my babe instead of a seasoned doctor?

Silent night. Holy night.

All is calm, all is bright.

Round young virgin, mother and child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly peace.

After the chaos and confusion of birth there was this Holy child. A Holy child whose presence must have masked his mother’s pain, who made that smelly stable holy, too.

Heaven’s peace filled that otherwise ordinary space.

Glories stream from heaven above

Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah

And God whispered to my heart,

I love you. I am here, filling THIS musty, ordinary room. My heavenly peace is available to you, too. I am Holy. Praise me for my holiness!

I didn’t want to be pulled from the comfort of my cozy bed and restful slumber to care for a sick child. But, oh, what a gift it turned out to be!

Because there in my steamy bathroom, Jesus showed up.

And my heart was filled with joy. Not happiness for circumstance. But joy for Christ.

Silent night! Holy night!

Son of God, love’s pure light

Radiant beams from thy holy face

With the dawn of redeeming grace

Jesus, Lord at thy birth.

Jesus, Lord at thy birth!

Wiped Away

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 04 Nov 2013 08:00:00 GMT

Do you ever feel like an entire day of good parenting is wiped away by one bad mom moment?

The homemade wholewheat and oatmeal chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast— erased.

The living room fort you built, the sprawled-out jigsaw puzzles you guided, the choo choo train you constructed— voided.

The way you kept your cool when you discovered the four year old had stolen gum out of your purse and distributed the sweet and sticky treats to his brothers— undone.

The wrestling and cuddling, the singing silly songs while dancing delirium until little boys wrapped round your waist squealed in delight , the lunch making and floor sweeping and diaper changing, the giving children quiet playtime so they could see you quiet your soul to commune with your Savior— ever feel like ALL of it was negated by one negative moment ?

If you have, you’re not alone.

Because today, that’s how I feel.

I feel like it was all for nothing because in one moment where the baby was screaming because I wouldn’t let him stand on the arm of the couch and his biggest brother was sulking over not being allowed to watch another show and then the middle one tried to pick up the screaming baby around the neck and he wouldn’t release his headlock vice grip when I sternly instructed him to LET GO, in that one moment, I lost it.

The yell vibrated from my belly and the anger shot fiery darts from my eyes and I put the child with the big deer eyes roughly on the couch and told him over and over how bad and dangerous and mean that was until hot tears were pouring down his satin pillow cheeks all flushed with shame and fear.

And then I cried, too.

Cried I’m sorry, please forgive me.

Cried it to my son. Cried it to the Son.

Elias wouldn’t let go of his brother quickly enough. And I was too quick to let go of my God.

…Recently I wrote about grace . How all the sweet and meaningful blessings that fill up our days are God’s sweet grace in our lives. But the thing is, grace is not just about the blessings. It’s also about the belonging.

Grace is God never letting go.

I felt like all the good and fun, precious and purposeful moments in my day were wiped away by one moment of rage.

But thankfully how I feel isn’t always what is true.

Because the truth is, what’s really been wiped away is my sin. And He remembers it no more.

Five Minute Friday: Grace

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 01 Nov 2013 07:00:00 GMT

It’s seeing 49 pop up on the airline scale when 50 lbs is the checked-bag limit.

It’s dying to read her story because you couldn’t get it out of your mind , and then finding the divine tale among the treasure loot in the best swag bag–the perfect airplane reading for the twelve hour journey home .

It’s being convinced that the red and black stowaway crayolas ruined an entire load of laundry and then finding a post about how to get the crayon out and the crazy method actually worked!

It’s your husband coming home early on the one afternoon he had to himself because he knew that boys smashing raw eggs under the dining room table made you come undone.

It’s tears of joy over an ordinary trip to Costco turned extraordinary .

It’s losing your mind to brothers bickering and then catching the biggest one cuddling the littlest.

It’s praying for two years for the perfect house, the bigger house, while trying to be content in the smallness where the baby has to sleep in the bathroom because there’s just no other room… and then once content, receiving the home long desired.

It’s hearing the raspy words birthed from the three-year-old’s soul that “You’re my bestest mommy ever”–words that don’t remember you lost your patience at all things boyish and yelled at those sweet boys.

It’s clear blue skies and warm October breezes.

It’s baby eyelashes long and dark. It’s afternoons swinging with friends in the park.

It’s hot peppermint tea and the Word in a quiet house.

It’s a friend who really knows even though you’re just getting to know her.

It’s hot showers, water pounding calm down your back. It’s Jesus standing in the gap for everything you lack.

It’s every time He makes beauty out of the mess, every time He gives more when you deserve much less. It’s the light when you thought there would only be dark. It’s the gift that gives joy’s fullest spark.

Grace is cream in my coffee. Hugs tight around my neck. It’s being okay with being a wreck.

Fall leaves in every autumnal hue. Forgiveness for me. Forgiveness for you.

* * *

This post is part of Lisa-Jo’s fabulous Five Minute Fridays. Come check it out.

I Can Tell You By Living It

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 29 Oct 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I’m 30,000 feet above the sprawled out landscape of low-ridged mountains, mocha land covered in winding tan veins of deep ravines. Somewhere over southern New Mexico, I think. Somewhere in between my journey from Greenville, South Carolina back home to Glendora, California.

I look out the oval window next to my F27 seat, watching wispy white clouds stretched like cotton, and I wonder…

Where do I start in telling the story of how God used one evening of dish washing procrastination to set in motion a four-day adventure on the other side of the country that would stir my heart and change my life in ways I had dared not dream?

How do I fully describe the wonder of God’s incredible provision of finances and childcare and prayers that followed His miracle of a ticket to a sold-out conference?

How can I completely capture the beauty and splendor of being in a room of 450 women who follow hard after God even when it’s hard because they are captivated by their Maker, compelled to love their Creator and all whom He created?

How can I craft the right word pictures so that you can see the God-glory of hands held high in praise, the God-grace of hearts bowed low in surrender, the God-gratitude of faces shining Jesus-light in overflowing joy?

How can I convey the thrill of hearing the humble yet radiant Ann Voskamp speak live words of poetry and passion, power and truth? Or the delight of a divine encounter in the hotel lobby where Sarah Markley went from my writer’s inspiration on a page to a gracious friend in real life? Or the blessing of having God’s women pray over me, women like Rici, Shelly, and Laura, who started out as strangers and ended up as soul-sisters I wish I could hug and live life with every day?

How can I impart to you the impact of Allume ?

The answer is, I can’t. Not fully. Not the way my heart is bursting to.

But I can tell you this:

I went to Allume to learn more about blogging. To be encouraged in my craft. To be equipped to execute. To be around like-hearted women who use their love of words to fulfill their Kingdom call.

And God was gracious to accomplish those things.

But what I really learned is that it’s not about growing my readership, it’s about growing my relationship with the Holy God.

It’s not about increasing my blog traffic, it’s about increasing my trust in Him.

It’s not about perfecting my writing, it’s about pursuing the only perfect Writer.

Scheduling my next post means nothing if I don’t first seek His face.

Allume: Real Light Living.

How can I tell you what Allume meant to me?

It will take time. Time to live it.

Live real life while seeking His face so that I can shine His light.

So that’s what I’ll do. And as I do, I’ll continue to share and celebrate the moments that make up the journey.

Creating Beauty

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 19 Oct 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Last night I had planned to joyfully do laundry and worshipfully wash dishes …but then I saw this free printable at A Holy Experience and instead was stirred to create something beautiful.

1 Thessalonians 5:18 has been a theme verse for my life for the past year, plus with Autumn now upon us and all things pumpkin spice and thankful grace compelling my senses to savor this season, I knew right when I saw this beautiful sign I had to display it in my home as a beacon for continuing to count each moment as a gift.

So I was inspired to do a Fall mantle makeover!

This is what it looked like before…

Now, since my creative stirring came at 9 pm last night with my husband out of town and a house full of sleeping boys, a trip to Target or Michael’s was not going to be possible. So I decided to “shop” my own home, scavenging cupboards and collecting decor from different rooms in the house.

And this is what I came up with…

I got out the tall ladder in the garage and retrieved this lovely leaf wreath from the rafters. (I store it with my Christmas decorations and every year I kick myself for not remembering to get it out in the fall…and this year I remembered. Yah!!)

Then I put the Give Thanks print in an old picture frame I found in a forgotten cabinet, repositioned the Give Thanks and Blessings Abound blocks (my favorite!), and snagged this sweet birdie tea light holder from the sill above my kitchen sink. Swapped the little framed mirror from the original look with this pretty amber star from another spot in my house.

And wha-la!!

I think the whole thing came together great. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy and full of thanks to sit on my couch and look at this little collection of beauty.

I love to create. I love beauty. I love to create beauty.

As I was debating whether or not to share this little joy moment in my life as a post or not, I initially hesisitated at the thought. I mean, a mantle makeover is not spiritually deep or profound…it’s just decorating. And is there meaning in that?

And then I heard it. Heard it in a whisper to my heart.

Your love is a reflection of my love. That is who I AM. The Creator of All Things Beautiful.

And there is always meaning in reflecting ME.

Five Minute Friday: Laundry

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 18 Oct 2013 07:00:00 GMT

What if I stopped complaining about it?

What if I stopped feeling overwhelmed by it?

What if I stopped being bitter towards it, beat down by it, and bemoaning every time I had to do it?

What if instead…I started to be blessed by it?

Blessed by the never-ending piles and socks without a match and I just want to relax while the kiddos sleep and not have to fold and fold and fold some more?

Yes. Blessed by all of that.

What if I praised God that I have access to hot water and 900 choices of softeners and detergents lining Target’s walls?

What is I praised God that I’m not stooping down at a river’s edge rubbing fabric between rocks because he’s given me a machine in my garage that does the washing for me?

What if every time I folded a little boy’s dinosaur t-shirt or knee-worn jeans I thanked God for the strong heart that t-shirt covered, the strong legs that run and crawl and jump and climb each moment of each day in that thinning denim?

What if I took off the shackles of duty and responsibility and put on the garment of thankfulness, gratitude, and all-things-are-grace?

Whites and darks and towels and sheets and mismatched piles overflowing out of my closet and every basket in the house. Yep, that’s where I’m at today with my laundry.

But instead of begrudging the chore, may I embrace the challenge of choosing to be blessed.

* * *

Five Minute Friday: Ordinary

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 11 Oct 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Nothing feels glamorous about searching on your hands and knees for soggy Cheerios trapped in the looped rug beneath the dining room table.

Nothing feels spectacular about setting your timer to go off every 15 minutes so you can take your toddler (who may or may not be screaming) to the potty…again.

Nothing feels paramount about performing another rendition of the Alphabet Song in a new accent to keep your kids entertained so you can quickly slap on some makeup to cover the new wrinkles creeping in each day and the dark eye circles that never go away.

Nothing feels significant about making another peanut butter sandwich or quesadilla or blueberry waffle with extra cinnamon sugar sprinkled in the “dragon caves.”

Nothing feels impactful about kissing another booboo or breaking up another fight, about singing the same bedtime song 12 times in one night or helping rebuilding that block tower until it’s just right.

Nothing feels important about changing diapers, brushing teeth, buckling seat belts, or wiping tears, bottoms, and noses.

Nothing feels life-changing about soothing middle-of-the-night bad dreams or satisfying pleas for just one more drink of water please. Or reminding for the thousandth time DO NOT put toys in the light socket or lock you brother in the bathroom or pick up the baby or pick your nose.

Nothing about mud and boogers and pee and poop and vomit and who-knows-what is caked on your shirt and stuck under you nails feels marvelously magnificent or remotely meaningful in the big picture of life.

But that’s the magic.

How we feel doesn’t dictate what actually is.

And the thing is…all this seemingly ordinary stuff makes being a mother anything but.

Five Minute Friday: Write

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I’ve known since I was seven years old. I want to be a writer.

It was Mrs. Barber’s poetry club that did it. I remember the pastel drawing of my favorite stuffed monkey my mom drew for the front cover of my laminated poetry collection. I remember my rhyming poem about a fuddy duddy muddy buddy, my concrete poem about a rainbow, and my haiku about wind.

Even as a scrawny second grader with ragged pigtails and a freckled nose, I knew. Knew that words had power and emotion and life. Knew that stories lived inside me, and that words were the key to unlocking them.

Imagine. Believe. Write.

From second grade to my senior year of college, my answer to the recurrent, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” question remained the same. I want to be a writer.

And there have been several mile markers along the journey that have affirmed I was headed in the right direction.

Mrs. Lunsford, my eighth grade language arts teacher, told my mom at a parent-teacher conference that I was the most talented young writer she had ever taught.

Mr. Allison, my favorite high school English teacher, wrote in my junior yearbook that I could be the next Hemingway or Fitzgerald, or whomever I wanted to be!

So my choice of college majors: Creative Writing, naturally. I declared it before even starting my first class at Cal State Long Beach and stayed true to my writer’s dream my entire college career (unlike one of my roommates who fell into the typical majority and changed her major at least five times.)

And yet…

Here I am…all grown up, and I spend a little time writing, journaling, blogging, but I often feel unworthy to call myself a “writer.” I don’t have a picture book with glowing illustrations displayed in the brightly colored nooks of Barnes and Noble. A collection of poetry with my name embossed on a book jacket is nowhere to be found. No novel or devotional or New York Times Bestseller.

Just a handful of rejection letters from a feeble attempt half a decade ago.

So how could I be a writer? I haven’t lived up to the dream.

…and then these words from her precious heart resonate in mine:

“Sometimes I think we over glamorize writing.

We make it something that must reek of Hemingway, Lewis, or Lamott before we’re brave enough to share it.

Why?

Who says?

You see I think the quiet secret is that you can be a writer and no one needs to recognize your name to make that any more or less true. I think your story matters. The one you write at midnight in 600 word blog posts. The one you scrapbook. The one you piece together for your kids as you fill them in on what grandpa and grandma were like.

You are a writer.

You actually already are.”

It was as if Lisa-Jo wrote them just for me. These words that I have pasted in my Mother’s Notebook , a place where I write.

Yes, I write.

So I’m learning, accepting, that it’s not a dream or a degree, it’s not praise or publication that makes me a writer.

I am a writer…because I write.

* * *

Five Minute Friday: True

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I remember driving in the car with my husband and my first son, all pink and new, along the windy road that curved between the open hills and backs of random homes with farm animals in the suburbs. I remember wincing at each bump in the uneven payment, still wounded from the war of delivering the precious gift now tucked snugly in his Graco car seat.

And I remember crying. Tears just streaming down my new mama cheeks. Crying because once our black Saturn rounded that final curve and then three more short turns till home, it would be time to nurse again. Time to let this new-life Noah latch onto his only source of life-giving food–the latch that made toes curl tight with pain that shot my whole body through.

Crying tears of overwhelmed. Tears of exhaustion. Tears of I never knew that this natural thing would feel so unnatural and I really want it to work but it sucks the joy life out of you to do something eight, nine, ten times a day that feels so awful, so awkward.

I remember my husband touching my knee. Not sure what to do. “You don’t have to keep nursing,” he offered. “We can go get some formula.” He was trying to be sweet, give me freedom, reassurance. But this was something I had to do. For my son. For me.

Seasoned moms said that it would get easier. I had to believe it was true.

And true it was.

* * *

I think back to that day more than four and a half years ago, and wish that I could hug that new, desperately tired, trying to do right mom. Tell her that she would go on to nurse three boys, each for more than a year, and there would be tender moments without pain and the gift of bonding and nourishment and nurturing would be so very worth it.

In many ways I feel like a totally different person now, different mom. Yet there are new things about my current season of motherhood, raising three boys, 4, 3 and 1, that stir in me that same worn to the bone and at my limit cry because I want to do the very best by my sons no matter the cost but some days I can’t help but succumb to the tears because I don’t know if the struggles will get better and if all sacrifice will be worth it.

But I’m guessing that in another four and half years I’ll know that it was and that it did, too.

Five Minute Fridays over at Lisa-Jo’s . Writing on one word for the sake of creative bravery in a community of women who love words and Jesus. Today’s word is True. Come check it out.

I don’t have time?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 25 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

He kept running in and out the back door.

“Mommy, come watch me! Come watch me, Mommy. Come watch me!” he panted over and over with no breath in between.

His cheeks were rosy and I could see a golden sweat-soaked lock peeking out from beneath his his fierce blue and black shark helmet.

“I’ll be out there in a minute,” I told him, trying to muster a little enthusiasm.

But I didn’t want to go out there in a minute. Didn’t he know that this was Daddy’s time to watch him and his big brother ride scooters and bikes and it was my time to clean the kitchen, listen to my soothing Holy Experience piano soundtrack, and enjoy that Jude was happily eating Cheerios and watching me wash dishes while securely strapped into his elephant booster seat?

But the third time Eli’s sweet, persistent pleas echoed across the kitchen walls, the third time I grumbled to myself, I don’t have time for this , I suddenly (thankfully) had a shift in perspective.

I don’t have time to take my hands out of the dirty dish water so I can watch my beautiful boy? I don’t have time to give this living piece of my heart a moment of my attention? I don’t have time to put aside my charge toward productivity to cherish being present with my family?

I recently wrote about my desire to make my washing holy work . But sometimes following the Holy Spirit means stepping away from the washing to go and be with the ones waiting to be loved.

Five Minute Friday: She

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 20 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

She smiles wide each time I see her, not because life is perfect but God is good. She leans in when we talk with eyes that shine understanding, empathy, encouragement, love. She is wise and beautiful in all her years, but counts joy her greatest accomplishment over all the degrees and jobs and accolades.

She’s the first one to ever truly care for my heart, to let me lean in deep, pour out all the brokenness and fears, desires and dreams, knowing love and belonging wait on the other side. She never judges or condemns. Just gently leads though listening, careful question asking.

She was generous when she had little and now she is generous when entrusted with much. She’s always looking for ways to serve, to lighten the load, to let me know I’m seen. She gives without expecting in return, but always returns gratefulness and thanks for any gift she’s given.

She’s not afraid of a messy house or rambunctious kids but invites the sharing of life in the midst of it all.

She chooses her friends carefully so it’s a privilege to be chosen, called friend, invited into the tree of trust. And she is always trustworthy. She does not gossip or break confidence or say disparaging things behind my back.

She uses her words to breathe life, bring joy, offer hope, show understanding, spur you on toward good deeds, demonstrate compassion, empathy, and daily-doses of God’s amazing grace.

She is so very humble –never grumbles or complains about her struggles, never boasts or brags about her strengths. She is a pillar, a rock, a tree deeply rooted in God’s truth and love and grace.

She gives permission to be exactly who you are, exactly where you’re at. She loves me as I am and inspires me to be more of who I was created to become.

She is intentional. Beautiful.

She is the very best, Jesus-shining parts of ALL the women I am so blessed to call friend.

Five Minute Friday: Mercy

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 13 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

They fought me on it even though they love it.

“But my legs will get too tired,” one whined.

“But I just want to stay home,” the other one fussed.

Staying home would be easier. But on this particular day, I knew getting out would be better , for all of us. Getting out would mean stepping out of the traps we fall into where bickering and frustration make us forget how much we desperately love each other . At home, more rules are broken and patience is worn out until the mama almost breaks and turns on the TV, desperate for some peace.

But there’s another way to get peace.

To get out. To breathe deep the fresh air and take in the beauty of all things earthy, green, created.

So I dug deep, ignoring the preschooler pleas for what they thought they wanted and persevered for the sake of what was really needed.

Forty minutes and twenty-two miles later we were there. The Arboretum welcomed us with its wide open gate and rushing waterfall. The curved dirt paths beckoned us to explore. We wound our way to the “slide tree.”

The huge banyan stretching branches to the sky and sprawling age-old roots long and wide and deep across the ground. Nooks and crannies making perfect hiding places. Crevices as wide as bodies creating nature’s playground slides.

Lizards scurrying, birds singing, leaves rustling in the breeze. Too many blessings to soak in for children to bemoan their mama’s “meanness” in whisking them out and away. Too many blessings for the mama to remember to groan over the friends who couldn’t come with, or the tantrums that had to be diffused, or the shoes that had to be baby wiped clean because the four-year-old put his feet in the swamp four minutes in to our out-in-the-world exploration day.

“Brother, brother, come and slide with me!”

“Wait, come and find swords and dragon tails with me, brother!”

Soon they were exploring in the nearby undergrowth, coming out with dead sticks and beaming pride for their treasures.

“Whoa, that’s a BIG one,” each exclaimed for the other.

Smiles stretched wide and the baby squealed in delight and soon was crawling up and sliding down the blessed banyan, wild to be a big boy adventuring, too.

In that sparkling moment of three brothers happy free, I almost felt like that common Arboretum dirt, stuck under nails, smudged on cheeks, caked on knees, was now sacred earth giving birth to childhood wonder and cherished memories.

And as my mama heart swelled with thankfulness for how the beauty and gifts always outweigh the daily-grind struggles, I was struck by this: I don’t deserve any of it.

I don’t deserve the light and joy and beauty overflowing in these moments. The harmony, peace, delight, and belly-laughter glee I surely have not earned.

I fight God even though I love Him. I fall so short. Yet, He daily picks me up. And gives me what is better.

His mercies are new every morning, indeed.

Ordinary Beautiful

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 10 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

If you’ve been reading my blog for very long I hope you know at least a few things about me:

I LOVE God.

I LOVE my family.

I’m NOT perfect and that’s why I need a perfect SAVIOR.

I try to savor each moment,

count each one a gift,

and choose joy in all things,

because that’s what we’re called to do.

And if you’ve ever read anything by Ann Voskamp, like her b estselling book or blog , you would probably guess that I also love her writing, her heart, and her joy dare to count one thousand gifts.

Daily I am blessed by her challenges and inspiration to live fully right where I am.

Like today, with umpteen hours sprawled out before me and feeling the hum-drum-bummed of daily life knocking at my door to take me out with discouragement and ingratitude for the daily routines of naps and meals and training brothers to trade selfless love for their “me first” and “that’s mine” screeching preschooler whines… I knew that I had the choice to ignore the knocks and step through a new door with eyes wide open to find all things joy and grace and gratitude.

“Giving thanks for one thousand things is ultimately an invitation

to slow time down with the weight of full attention.”

– Ann Voskamp

So while playing outside with the boys, I set my camera on macro and set about to find beauty masquerading as ordinary. And beauty I did find.

Color. Texture. Light. Life.

Beauty. Blessings.

“I only live the full life when I live fully in the moment.”

Yes, Ann. Amen!

Me, too.

Washing Day

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 09 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Wash the dishes.

Wash the laundry.

Wash yogurt faces and grimy toes.

Wash three apples, seven carrots.

Wash thirty fingers, one snotty nose.

Wash the toilet from boys’ poor aim.

Wash the floor from milk drip stains.

But what about time to cleanse my soul?

All I can see are the caked on crumbs,

green grass smudges and tracked in mud.

But the state of my heart needs attention, too.

The needs visible before my eyes

are the one first attended to.

Yes, they are real needs.

But what about the real needs?

Seeking God.

Prayer.

Repentance.

Following His call. Asking Him to call.

The dishes and the laundry must be washed

so my family can eat, be clothed.

But how can I feed my soul with more Jesus

and clothe myself in more of His righteousness

with all this washing to be done?

Lord, help me to make the work of my hands

a time for your work in my heart.

Remind me each time I wash away a stain

that your blood has washed away each sin.

Yes, the real washing has already been done.

Now it’s time to let your presence wash over

me with mercies, peace, and strength

made new each day.

So I will scrub for you.

Make my scrubbing holy work.

For you washed away my shame,

my pain of life lived

without you.

So may I make my washing a way to be

with you,

in you.

Every washing day.

Five Minute Friday: Red

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Cinnamon apple candle flickering Christmas on the sill above the sink. My editor’s fine point felt tip pen ready to wield its power. The bows clipped on my black patent leather shoes during my first trumpet recital . The color my nose turns from bitter cold or bitter cries.

The scarlet lipstick and floor-length dress and I donned for Senior prom. The imaginary bow tying the perfect package of boyfriends, grades, and accolades wrapped up to hide the insecurity, pain, and shame inside.

Wooden beads encircling the 10 foot tall pine tree. Cuts and scrapes and bruises from a banged up, skinned up knee.

The hand-knitted beanie made from my sister’s love. Tonka dump truck, Duplo blocks, and Fisher Price Barn–the color of imagination, creation, play.

It’s love and anger and passion deep and desperate. It’s holidays and play days and bringing me back to old school days full of merry cheer and foggy fear. It’s the beauty of little boy cheeks blazing hot from running summer sun. It’s the heartache of a little heart come undone.

It’s the stripes under stars that sing our freedom song. It’s the sun glowing low after a mountain hike long.

But mostly it’s the crimson gift of blood that covers all. It’s God’s heart for the world, His Son, His grace to bring us back from the fall.

Fighting for Joy

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 31 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I wish joy wasn’t so hard to fight for. I wish it didn’t slip through my fingers just when I thought it was finally tight within my grasp. I wish once I found it, claimed it, lived it, chose it, believed in it, embraced it, and savored every tiny bit of it that it would stay that way forever.

But joy isn’t a one time then forever kind of thing. It’s an every day, moment by moment, in this very minute will I see it and be changed by it mystery reality.

It was absent when I woke this morning to the middle boy slamming his bedroom door which woke the baby and roused the stirring but quiet older brother. And I didn’t choose joy when I thought about the hot and humid, long and longer day ahead without Daddy home to help entertain and discipline and be with to make it through.

So I guess I’m glad I’m not stuck in one joyful or joyless state. Because I always want the chance for more. To be more fully full of joy!

And there was joy to be found this morning. J oy for Donut Man’s rainbow sprinkles sugar-stuck to happy lips and tall glasses of icy milk. Joy for boys bantering with sweet and silly voices. Joy for brothers sharing an under-mommy’s-desk fort. Joy for having a mostly-uninterrupted phone call with my sister while boys ran backyard wild. Joy for sagging surfboard swim trunks and tiny buns peaking through to summer sun. Joy for three happy, healthy sons, even when their shrieking screams and whiniest wines make me almost come undone.

There is always joy to be found. Joy to choose.

But the secret is in the keeping on and keeping on and continuing to count the blessings big and small as grace gifts from the Savior’s heart to mine. And if I keep on seeing, choosing, counting then surely joy will tower over the mounds of pain. Surely joy will surmount the mountains of struggle and trial.

Surely the joy beauty will shine through all the muck.

Reading Material

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 29 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I wish I could spend a whole day reading. A whole week would be really magical.

Feet up on the porch. Stretched out on the couch. Curled up with a latte in a Starbucks leather armchair. Just reading.

I love to read.

And I would love to be reading all the great books stacked on top of my printer and the ones in the green bag beside by bed and the ones stuffed in my nightstand and in the back of every deep desk drawer.

I want to start reading The Artist’s Daughter , an intriguing memoir and the MOPS theme book of the year. I want to dig into one of the novels my mom passed on to when me I was collecting stuff for our Goodwill fundraising drive. I want to delve deeper into Wild Things so I can learn the art of nurturing boys . I want to soak up every word of One Thousand Gifts and practice eucharisteo till I’ve been wholly, holy transformed, too. And I want to read my Bible without worrying about the clock. I want God’s truth to wash over me all tired body and wearied soul and drink deep the Word of Life.

But opening a book takes time. Putting eyes on pages and digesting each word seen into understanding takes focus.

My time and focus is mostly spent elsewhere.

* * *

…Oh, but am I reading what I do see?

Am I being purposeful to learn my children? To read all their quirks, talents, desires, and fears? Am I understanding all they have to teach me? Am I laughing at and cherishing and relishing in each of their beautiful stories as they unfold before my eyes?

Some days, yes. Yes, a lot of days I do.

But surely too many moments go by with my eyes glazed over and these three remarkable full-of-life stories become a hazy blur of chaos, needs, redundancy, and messes.

And I forget to focus. Forget to stop and appreciate each amazing page of creative, instructive, and inspiring reading material

right.

in.

front.

of me.

When You’re Depleted, God Can Use Costco to Fill You Up

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 26 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

“Stay in the car while I go get a cart,” I told Noah and Elias with a stern voice and eyes that meant it. I already had Jude strapped on me and I wanted to snag the boys’ double-wide ride just across the aisle. But before I got to our van’s silver bumper, there was a woman waiting with a cart for me. She must have overheard my instructions to the boys. “I remember what it was like having young kids,” she said warmly.

* * *

After flashing my membership card at the door a stylish couple with an adorable toddler with blonde pigtails shot a smile my way. “That use to be me!” the wife said. “This is our youngest and our other two are now in school. I hardly know what to do with myself without all three to look after.” We exchanged a knowing look, from a mom who’s been there to a mom who’s there.

* * *

While deciding which brand of organic whole grain bread to buy, a dashing elderly man stopped his cart next time mine and with a cool Scottish accent said, “What a handsome family you have. Such a blessing.”

* * *

As we were making our way to the last samples stand, coconut granola I think, another sweet senior flagged us down. His wrinkles were deep but his eyes shined with life. “Twins?” he asked pointing to Noah and Eli, sitting side by side. I told him their ages, 4, 3, and 1, and Eli showed off his new silly face. “Do they have a piggy bank?” he asked and then took two crisp one dollar bills out of his pocket, folded in rectangles with perfect creases. The boys’ eyes lit up like the man’s. “That’s for being good helpers for your mama. Take good care and save that in your bank,” he said. I thanked him for his kindness, and for his service, nodding at the WWII veterans cap he wore proudly.

* * *

When we finally made it to the front of the store, there were long lines of carts piled high. I calculated our chances for the fastest check-out and made my way over to the most promising line. Another shopper pulled up at the exact same time. Though we were pushing lunch time and nap time, I told the man to please go ahead. But he kindly insisted I move in front of him, even though my cart had double the stuff. “Thanks a lot,” I smiled. Then when we finally made it to the loading zone, I was straining to reach the avocados that has slid to the depths without squishing Jude who was still strapped on me in the baby carrier. “Can I help you with that? ” the same man asked. And then loaded the rest of our groceries onto the black conveyor belt.

* * *

Is my neighborhood Costco just full of kind-hearted citizens all ready to offer a helping hand or encouraging word? Maybe. Or does God pour out his loving kindness in everyday ways because he sees you always and knows what you need most and when? Absolutely.

Yes, it was a more pleasant than usual trip to the big box store. But more than that, it was gifts of goodness from the Lord’s heart to mine.

It was him saying, I saw you up all night long with a coughing four-year-old and I see your tired eyes and weary soul now. I saw you this morning when you snapped at the kids because your patience was depleted and you forgot to keep your focus on me. But I heard you say sorry to your precious little ones and you are precious to me, too, even when you fail . And I see the day and week and months ahead and it’s gonna be long and you’re gonna feel weak, but I am your strength and I’m always by your side. My goodness never ends, not even in Costco, and I’ll use every stranger you meet to show you more of who I am and how much I love you.

Five Minute Friday: Last

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 23 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

“

Writing is like a mirror, we see ourselves best in what we’ve written.” -Lisa Jo

And that’s why I take 5 minutes every Friday to write without worrying about getting it right. Click on over to Lisa Jo’s blog to hear the whole story of the beauty and blessing of the Five Minute Friday Community.

Today’s Word: Last

* * *

“Me first! Me first!” they both shout.

Whether it’s first to get help with their shoes, first to get their Monster’s Inc. gummy vitamin, first to put a token in their Good Job Jar, first to go down the slide, first to open the door, my four- and three-year-old fight over who gets to be first.

I cringe at their self-first desires.

I know their hearts and minds are young, undeveloped. That’s what these early years of training are for. To cultivate their understanding of right and wrong. To mold their desires toward the things of God instead of the things of this world. But I just wish that putting OTHERS FIRST came more naturally.

I cringe not only because I want my boys to share and treat one another with kindness, love and respect, but because, if I’m honest, their “Me first!” whines are a reflection of my own selfish ways.

I know what Jesus says: “The last will be first.”

But do my actions, my motives, my secret thoughts always show that I believe him? That I obey him?

I put me first when I go for that front row parking instead of allowing the parent behind me to have the prime spot for an easy drop off. I put me first when I plan a playdate that’s easiest with my kids’ schedules and energy levels instead of doing what’s best for my friend. I put me first when I don’t serve my husband with a joyful heart because I really want him to put my needs first. And on and on the things of me first.

But “me first” is not the perspective I want to hold, the attitude I want to embrace. I want to walk the road of ME LAST because that is the journey that takes me closer to Jesus.

Combating the “me first!” clamor first starts with me.

Love, Hospitality, and Jesus’ Padawon

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 20 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I can’t stop thinking about this post since I read it last week.

The message of radical love. The shining truth of blessings through sacrifice. The incredible example of following Christ no matter the cost.

Several lines keep ringing in my heart. Like this:

Our actual theology is best expressed in our actual hospitality.

Hospitality is Life with no Gates.

Hospitality means if there is room in the heart–there is room in the house.

I’ve grappled with the implications of Ann Voskamp’s words .

…So what I believe is best demonstrated by what I do.

This isn’t new. No, I’ve heard this before.

“Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says….The man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it–he will be blessed in what he does.” -James 1: 22, 25

And that’s not all James, the half-brother of Jesus, had to say about it. Speaking about Abraham’s example of doing what God said when he offered his son Isaac on the alter, he declared:

“You see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did.” -James 2:22

Am I listening to God’s Word and then doing it? This is the question.

“Love one another.” It’s all over the Bible. Jesus is in the business of love and he wants us to be his partner, protege, padawon.

Then there is this that also reverberates in my soul:

“ My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”-John 15:12-13

Clearly Jesus is the greatest example of sacrificial love to the point of a gruesome death on the cross for our redemption. Since I don’t believe he’s asking us to lay down our physical lives, what else about “life” might he be asking us, me, to lay down for the sake of loving my friends?

My comfort. My desires. My convenience. My preference. My pleasure. My will. My way.

…

It’s amazing how when you ask God to SHOW you HOW to demonstrate your actual theology though actual hospitality, to show you HOW to love others and lay down your life, HE WILL DO IT!

He gave me the opportunity to extend an invitation to out of town family to stay in our home with us. Yes, we’re already 5 people in a 2 bedroom house and squeezing in 4 more will take some creativity and flexibility, but Hospitality means if there is room in the heart–there is room in the house.

Then God gave me the opportunity to watch my niece and two nephews for several hours. Yes, my husband was working, and yes that meant having 6 kids 8 years oldand under (5 of them boys!). But H ospitality is Life with no Gates.

And that’s just the beginning…

I share this not because I am awesome and always obey when God gives opportunities to clearly follow him. (Because I don’t.) I share this because I am excited about this journey. Excited for what it means to love radically. Excited to put aside my own comfort to follow Christ’s call to love.

It’s absolutely amazing how God is using Katie to radically love children in Uganda. I’m encouraged and inspired by her example.

But in Ann’s beautiful words:

Living radical isn’t about where you live — it’s about how you love.

It’s about realizing– Love doesn’t happen when you arrive in a certain place. It happens when your heart arrives in a certain place – wherever you are, right where you are, dirt road Africa or side street America.

Five Minute Friday: Small

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 16 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

It’s that time of week so I’m linking for another Five Minute Friday ….5 minutes to write without worrying about getting it right. This week’s word: Small.

It’s such a small word. Just one syllable.

Grace.

For much of my life this small word had a small impact. I heard it in church. I knew the Bible talked about it. But grace stayed in a little box tucked inside a larger box labeled Salvation which I stuffed in the big trunk called Jesus. Grace. I knew it was there. That I was somehow saved by it. That it had something to do with being right with God not because of how good I was but how much he loved us. An idea. A concept without credence.

But now things are different.

God has allowed me to take this small word out of the box I wrongly stuffed it in and has planted it in my heart, poured it all over my life. Now I understand that grace is too big to be boxed. Too powerful to be pinned down. Grace is the very nature of God and fills the very breath of our lives.

Yes, it is by grace that I will someday walk next to Jesus–a reality I can barely wrap my mind around.

But grace is not just for the someday. Grace is for every day. Today is grace. It’s every gift, every blessing, every trial he uses to draw me to himself. Grace is little arms wrapped tight around my neck. Grace is tromping on a wilderness trail and seeing one hundred hues of green. Grace is knowing I’m not a bad mom even when I have bad mothering moments. Grace is seeing God fill in the gap for where I lack.

Grace is God’s love lavished without limits, without conditions.

Not enough boxes in the world to contain all of Grace.

Five Minute Friday: Lonely

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 09 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Whenever I see a middle-aged man eating solo at a restaurant, I think of him. I wonder how many meals he ate alone. How many moments he shared with no one.

He never told me he was lonely. But I imagine he mostly was. Though a childhood with a sister and cousins close as brothers. Though a high school and college career earning accolades that surely earned allies. Though twenty years of combined marriage, between my mom and the second. Though three daughters he admired.

Still lonely, I’m sure.

If only he could have unlocked the door that separated the deep pain from the desire to be truly known and loved. I can’t imagine to lose both parents, just barely on the shores of post-adolescence. Nor the pain of addiction, depression, divorce.

I wish I had had the eyes to see more then. Or the courage to act, to ask more about what I saw.

It pains me now to think of all those salads drenched in blue cheese dressing (no tomatoes!) eaten one slow bite at a time with just his loneliness to keep him company. Trapped by or chosen. Either way my heart grieves the life that could have been.

But Dad’s not lonely now. No loneliness in Glory. Thank you, God.

Summer Magic?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 01 Aug 2013 07:00:00 GMT

It’s funny that my last post was about how we call Elias magical, because since then I’ve been seeing and hearing that word everywhere.

Bloggers are writing about it.

Friends are talking about it.

Magazine articles are advertising how to get it…

The Most Magical Summer Ever.

Isn’t summer just so magical? they all say.

As June blossomed into July and now July has melted into August, I’ve thought about this question. I’ve thought about their stories of perfect days at the beach and amazing family camping trips. But to be honest, as I’ve imagined their tan toes sunk in warm sand and faces lit by the warm glow of evening campfires, I’ve thought,

Nope, not so magical over here.

Because summer with a 4, 3, and 1 year old is really just regular life but hotter. It’s still potty training and dinner making. It’s still laundry and dishes and discipline. Nothing feels magical about bedtime battles with a strong-willed child. Yes, it’s summer, but there’s still fussing and whining and brothers bickering and occasionally biting. There’s finishing the day with a to-do list with so many boxes still unchecked and yet feeling so spent that there’s nothing left to give to one more to do.

So is it just me? Am I the only one not having the most magical summer ever?

Then I remember this from Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts:

“Isn’t it here? The wonder? Why do I spend so much of my living hours struggling to see it? Do we truly stumble so blind that we must be affronted with blinding magnificence for our blurry soul-sight to recognize grandeur? The very same surging magnificence that cascades over our every day here. Who has time or eyes to notice?”

Oh, yes. THESE are the questions I should be pondering.

Isn’t the wonder HERE?

Here in the still same but hotter every day.

Who has EYES to notice?

I will choose to have noticing eyes.

So I breathe deep. Take my eyes off the magical gifts of salty, beach-sun fun and crisp, mountain fill-your-soul air enjoyed by others, and place my eyes on the gifts of summer magic given to ME.

Then this is what I see.

Happy brothers posing for a Happy Father’s Day photo. Magical.

Boys so strong like their super hero Dad. Magical.

My first two babies turned into Big Boy brothers, ready for their first day of VBS. Magical .

Captivated by Daddy and a garden hose. Magical .

Boring dirt and a fruitless tree made glorious by God’s streaming rays of sun. Magical.

First time experiencing 4th of July fireworks. Magical .

Chalk on jeans. Chalk on cheeks. Baby in bucket. Magical.

Brotherly love. Magical.

Sun-kissed skin, surf boards, sharks, swim shirts, and sandals. Magical.

Isn’t summer just so magical?

Why yes, it is.

Yes, it is.

Magical and Three

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 13 Jul 2013 07:00:00 GMT

From the first moment I held him, he filled my life with new joy.

Elias Michael, my second son, was born three years ago today. And just like that first moment, my life as his mama has been marked by smiles…not because I have to, but because I can’t help but to.

Not only is Elias sweet and smiley. He is also super silly, deliciously dirty, and full of affection.

Like all small kiddos, Eli has his moments of being moody, whiny, grumpy, and defiant. But overall, he really has the most tender, loving spirit. He loves to give kisses and cuddles, he loves to talk, explore, and accomplish new things.

But the one word Chris and I use most often to describe our terrific toddler is magical.

It may sound strange, but it’s the only word we’ve come up with to explain this intangible quality that Elias has that makes him so very special. Magical embodies how adorable, coy, flirty, innocent, naive, honest, vulnerable, and pure of heart he is.

Magical is what gives us, his mom and dad, an insatiable desire to hug and kiss and squeeze up all his scrumptiousness in awe and love and delight, regardless of how well or poorly he’s behaving. His low raspy voice, his piercing eyes, his creamy cheeks, and gleeful grin— magical!

So Happy Birthday to my favorite three year old! I love you, Elias Michael!

You ARE magical.

And I am so very blessed that you are mine.

Five Minute Friday: Present

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 12 Jul 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot lately…

To be present in the present is a present.

Tongue twister?

Truth.

In other words, to be mentally and emotionally engaged in the moment at hand is a gift.

A gift to my children, my husband, myself, my God. A gift I don’t always remember to give.

Sometimes I’m too caught up in the past. Dwelling on mistakes or wishing for past pleasures. Sometimes I’m too fixed on the future. Waiting for what is to come, either in dread or anxious excitement.

Sometimes I’m even too focused on trying to capture the present moment that I forget to just be present in it. Quick get the camera and document this adorable memory before it’s gone, I think. And while I love photos and videos of my amazing little boy crew…would I remember each gaze, antic, or milestone even better if I just soaked it all in, savored every second as it unfolded before me, around me, within me?

I think of Jude’s laugh. There is nothing like it. Sometimes it rumbles from his little belly. Other times rattles in his throat or snorts out his tiny nose. But every time it’s the sound of joy. Of being fully present, fully engaged in the moment. Whether it’s birthed from my silly game of buzzing bumble bee while changing his diaper, or peek-a-boo behind the door frame at Daddy when I get him after a long afternoon nap. There is nowhere else Jude would rather be in those moments. And try as I may I can never capture the true essence of his gleeful giggle on film.

I just have to be present to enjoy the beautiful present of the present.

* * *

Five Minute Friday: Beautiful

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 05 Jul 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.

Sometimes clichés are cheesy. Sometimes they are true.

I remember coming across a picture several years ago that left me captivated. It was inspiring. Tender. Heartfelt. It was beautiful.

I was so taken by this picture that I set it as my desktop background at work, during my pre-kid days as a full-time editor. I felt blessed to glance up and see this visual masterpiece throughout my day.

But not everyone thought it was beautiful.

In fact, one dear coworker shrieked in startle and disgust when she turned from her nearby workstation and saw this.

More than…

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 03 Jul 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Tears. Happy tears.

I just read this post by Lisa-Jo called When they ask what you did today .

I’m not sure why the water wells in my eyes. I guess I feel stirred. Comforted that I’m not alone. Moved that someone else understands and is brave and beautiful enough to say it to herself, to me, to all of us.

Thanks, Lisa-Jo , for reminding me that I am more than a dish-washer, butt-wiper, meal-maker, fort-fixer, floor-sweeper, and milk machine!!

I am hero. I am mama. All by God’s strength. His alone.

Sunday Scripture: Through Him

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 30 Jun 2013 07:00:00 GMT

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.”

-Philippians 4:13

Five Minute Friday: In Between

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 28 Jun 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I’m linking up again for Five Minute Friday , where an incredible community of women let go of writing rules and should do’s for the joy of just writing. One prompt. Five Minutes. No editing. Check out Lisa Jo’s site for all the details and join the fun!

In Between…

The phrase stirs uncomfortable.

Wedged in between my two big sisters in the backseat of mom’s maroon Isuzu Trooper II. Waiting to be noticed in between high school boyfriends. Wavering in between sizes as my body grew three times carrying three babies. Then waiting three times again–maternity clothes too big, but favorite skinny jeans just a dream– in the blah of in between, trying to shrink back to the body I remember as my own. In between houses, in between best friends, in between churches, in between dreams.

The in between makes me want to hurry up, get to where I’m going, to where I want to be.

Yet, maybe there is something good about the in betweens? Something more than uncomfortable?

I love sitting in between Noah and Elias for special couch snuggles watching Monsters Inc. yet again. Feeling there soft and squishy little boy hands in between mine, hearing their silly comments and funny questions in between their favorite animated scenes.

I love the time in between afternoon and night. Yes, dusk is what they call the in between. Where the Lord’s fading sky masterpiece and cool breeze gifts make back porch dinners the perfect thing for in between play time and bed time.

And really, isn’t all this life we live in between? In between the beginning…formed from dust by the Maker’s hands and then molded in my mother’s womb, and the next beginning…reunited for eternity with the Maker in glory.

Hmmm….yes, all is in between. How will I choose to view the in betweens? How will you?

STOP

Five Minute Friday: Rhythm

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 21 Jun 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Rhythm…

I remember the feeling of tapping my foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Seven-year-old small me sitting in the middle of the big sanctuary stage at my first trumpet recital, trying to find the rhythm, the beat. I must have tapped my black patent leather shoe twenty times before I took the biggest breath my little lungs could hold and blew the first note of Hot Cross Buns.

It’s been 24 years, but sometimes I still feel like that little girl with the crimped hair and missing front teeth, desperately trying to find the rhythm. To know for certain that my feet, my fingers, my heart, my life are centered on the right beat before I make my first move.

But unfortunately three crazy little boys are not the patient audience that attended my inaugural recital. I don’t have time each morning to wait until I feel perfectly prepared before playing my mother song. If I waited, I’d probably be tapping for a long, loooong time.

So I’m learning to find my rhythm in Christ. Learning to listen, desiring to synchronize my steps with the Spirit and trust that as I follow God I will play well the song story He has written just for me.

STOP

This post is part of Five Minute Fridays, a kind of creative exercise flash mob where everyone writes on the same prompt for five minutes all raw and beautiful just for the sake of writing. Click here to check out what others are saying and join in the writing fun!

Dad’s Day

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 07:00:00 GMT

They adore him because they know him.

They trust him because he is trustworthy.

They respect him because he is respectable.

They laugh with him because he is silly.

They wrestle with him because he is strong.

They walk around with tools in their pockets, pencils behind their ears, and black socks pulled high up their ankles because they want to be just like him.

He is adventure and approval.

He is snuggles and security.

He is wild and stern and tender and he delights in who they are and who they are becoming.

He is their Dad. They are blessed.

And I am blessed to watch this beautiful story unfold of a dad and his three boys.

I am Mama. I am Wife.

Yes, I am blessed.

Five Minute Friday: Listen

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I’m linking up with Lisa-Jo for my first Five Minute Friday. The assignment, the gift, is to write for five minutes on the topic given without worrying about self editing or over thinking or finding the right words. Just write. So here I go.

Listen…

Listening. It’s where life happens. It’s where the leaves’ rustle and songbird’s song and squirrel’s scurry combine into nature’s symphony. It’s where shovel into dirt and dump truck wheels on concrete sing a boyhood masterpiece. It’s where God’s still small voice becomes loud enough to hear because I’m still.

Life is in the listening.

Without the listening there’s too much of me talking. Talking that tries to control little boys who were made for moments of wild. Talking that stir up frustration inside because controlling is futile—though training is fruitful. Inner talking that sounds like self pity and says poor me when the day is full of serving and I just want to be served.

But to listen…to listen is to hear the Spirit’s whisper reminder that I’ve already been served the greatest gift by the Greatest Servant. To listen is to hear my Jesus tell me how he was all poured out for me, his child, and if I pour myself out for his children, too, then he’ll fill me back up. Service is not for the poor but for the rich, so I am rich in spirit when I serve.

But some times, lots of times, I don’t listen. I don’t hear those sweet, true, convicting, redeeming, life-giving words because I don’t stop to listen.

Stop. Receive the gift. Listen.

Yes, LIFE is in the listening.

STOP

Thank You, Monday

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Monday mornings can be rough.

Today. Monday. Yes. Rough.

Little boys waking up grumpy after too much fun jumping the afternoon away in their cousin’s birthday party bounce house.

And now before anyone has even gotten out of PJs, there’s been bickering and biting, wailing and whining, crying and complaining, ungrateful grumbling, and disgruntled disobedience.

Ever have one of those mornings? A morning when you just want to send everyone back to bed and pull the covers over your own head and not emerge for a really, really long time?

I know my attitude has turned as sour as theirs and I only want summer sweetness…but sometimes don’t know how to get there.

“Apart from me you can do nothing.” Jesus’ words from John 15 broke through.

Ahhh, Jesus.

My joy dwindling, my mood despairing, my words discouraging…I decided to choose Jesus. And in that choosing I saw silly moments sparkling through the Monday muck.

And I chose to give thanks…for the voices that whine are also the ones that say, “I love you, Mommy.” And the hands that steal toys from a brother are also the hands that hug him. And the time I don’t have alone is the time I am gifted to spend training and being trained by the three little blessings given from God’s heart to mine.

It’s peaceful for a moment now. The baby sleeps. The big boys turn roots and sticks and avocado seeds into wild treasures and jewels unseen. And we’re almost rounding the clock to lunch time and nap time and our favorite time when Daddy comes home.

And I give thanks, too, that Monday mornings don’t last forever.

Hello Monday. Thank you for coming. And I’ll be thankful when you’re gone.

Hello Monday

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 27 May 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I’m linking up with Lisa Leonard for my first “hello monday” post.

It’s pretty simple. Just sharing some hellos as I look forward to a brand new week.

Hello brothers working side by side.

Moments of happy togetherness bless my heart.

Hello reaching.

Jude is reaching new milestones of mobility each day.

Hello investigating.

Elias is Mr. Inquisitive. WHY?? is his FAVORITE question!

Hello delighting.

Watching Noah delight in dirt helps me to see the simple things as special things, too.

Hello Memorial Day.

I’m thankful for the men and women who have served this country faithfully and sacrificed for our freedom with their very lives. You are not forgotten.

What are you saying hello to?

Three Gifts

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 23 May 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Every day these three little guys stretch me, challenge me, tickle me,

climb on me, hug me, kiss me, frustrate and amaze me.

And every day they bless me.

Every day…a gift from God.

Every good and perfect gift is from above…” -James 1:17

Thank you, God, for these good and perfect gifts.

Faith Steps

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 22 May 2013 07:00:00 GMT

In the whirl of life with little kids, days and weeks and years can blur together, each one melding with the next. Through the sleep deprived fog I know that I have nursed babies, made meals, washed dishes, beamed joy over my children, wept alone, laughed and cried with friends, and on and on the things that make up daily life.

Most weeks by the time Friday finally finds its way here I can barely remember what happened on Monday. (Most days by dinner I can barely remember breakfast.) But through the blur I can clearly recall one significant day almost three years ago.

It was a Wednesday morning. September 1, 2010 to be exact. Noah, then a toddler, had splashed milk from his cereal bowl all over my jeans, and another kind of milk had leaked through three layers of clothes to the surface of my teal sweater, thanks to the gift of nourishing my two-month-old Elias. But I was already dressed. And I wasn’t going to be late this time. So I blotted all the milk as best I could and got my little crew out the door.

I walked into the church sanctuary feeling disheveled and disoriented. Uncertain and intimidated. It was my first time at this new mommy group and I didn’t know a soul. But God had prompted me to go. So I went.

I didn’t know what to expect. But I was expectant.

So many times I had prayed, Please God, just one real friend. Just one friend to share heart and life and mommyhood with.

I had no idea how God was going to answer that small plea with relational blessings beyond measure.

I could write a whole series on exactly how God used this mommy group to build authentic, life-giving relationships. How I went from feeling lost and isolated, a new mama floundering alone, to feeling encouraged and hopeful, a mama connected in community and flourishing because of tangible love and support. (And maybe someday I will write more about that.)

But right now I will tell you that this mommy group was a lifeline. A gift. God asked me to step out in faith and when I did, he was faithful to meet my needs. And I am forever changed because of it.

Today is another day I know I won’t soon forget, even when the mommy fog rolls in thick. Today, after three years of Wednesday mornings of fellowship with kindred spirits traveling the motherhood journey together, I walked out of that church sanctuary for the last time.

Not because I have stopped being blessed by that ministry or stopped loving those sweet women. But because God is again asking me to step out in faith.

The wonderful mommies at my table with our crazy scarves at our final tea.

He’s asking me to take what I’ve learned about connecting women, encouraging and equipping mamas just like me, and help invest in the beginning years of a new mommy ministry at my home church. I’m excited for what God has planned. But it’s hard (really hard) to leave the first place where my heart as a mom found a home.

But I know that the significant relationships I built will last. And I believe there are new moms who will walk through our church doors, not knowing a soul, looking for a friend. Maybe God wants me to be that friend.

I don’t know fully what to expect in this next season. But I am expectant.

* * *

What faith steps have you taken? Have you ever given up a blessing? What did God do in the season that followed?

to be Mama

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 07:00:00 GMT

I wiped a hundred salty tears and gave a thousand kisses;

At least two noses wiped snot on me—not within my wishes.

I made breakfast, lunch, (and thirteen snacks?) and now dinner’s on the stove.

To Target, Costco, Trader Joes my mommy van I drove.

My hands are raw from doing dishes, yet there’s still more to be washed;

Like endless training of the two-year-old who keeps saying “Oh, my gosh!”

I painted pictures, built dragon caves, cleaned pee in every room.

And caught myself saying crazy things, like, “You don’t deserve to use the broom!”

When did cleaning become a “privilege” for them, but for me my daily “plight”?

I guess when vacuum attachments are special swords for a special dragon fight.

I folded laundry, changed twelve diapers, then refolded stacks once more—

Sneaky boys stealing laundry baskets to creep like turtles across the floor.

Sometimes I feel like a zookeeper, trying to keep animals in their cage;

Please tell me I’m not raising monkeys and climbing is just a stage.

Then for one moment my world was perfect:

Brothers building towers, babe nursing at my breast.

But then I blink…

And one boy throws a block and the other boy screams

And the baby bites me with his two tiny chompers so I’m screaming, too,

Which makes the baby wail and I just want to rewind time

And hit the pause button on that one precious moment of serenity and sweetness

And leave my life frozen there

FOREVER.

But I can’t.

Because I’m a mama, and my boys are growing fast.

And these crazy chaos days feel loooong, but surely they won’t last.

Soon, little boys who want to kiss me with peanut butter faces

Will be replaced by teenagers with scruffy chins and braces.

The little arms that reach up high and around my neck squeeze tight

Will soon grow manly muscles and sprout tall past mama’s height.

So please, dear Jesus, help me to stop and savor these crazy days,

Help me to remember every boyish giggle and adoring baby gaze.

Help me to delight in all their growing—each funny noise and silly word,

Help me to put aside my to-do lists so each child feels he’s heard.

Help me to look past crumbs and milk drips to see the gifts and not the mess,

Help me to find more words of praise and honor, and criticize much less.

But mostly, gracious God, help me to turn to you each moment of each hour

To find wisdom, patience, strength, and grace—to be Mama by your power.

Always Joy (Part Two)

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 07:00:00 GMT

Two weeks ago I shared with you a recent joy-inspiring moment.

And how good it felt to live out these words from I Thessalonians:

Be joyful always;

pray continually;

give thanks in all circumstances,

for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.

These verses have been the beat of my heart in this current mothering season of my life. Sometimes they are the truth that I live. Other times the reality I aspire to. And, if I’m honest, often the pang of conviction for the person I want to be and commands I want to obey, but don’t.

Some moments are really hard and I forget to be joyful, don’t know how to be thankful for the ick of life. Like a month ago when, instead of going out to celebrate my birthday with a dear friend, I was cleaning up vomit from two sick boys. Or like a few weeks ago when instead of crafting with friends at Mom’s Night Out I was sitting on a hospital bed listening to the high pitched hum of fluorescent ER lights waiting to hear if my baby had pneumonia. Not a lot of joy pouring from my heart in those moments.

But it doesn’t even have to deal with sick kiddos or being kept from something fun for my joyful, thankful heart to get crowded out by discouragement and ingratitude.

It’s the everyday moments that test me, too. The moments when the 4-year-old isn’t listening and the 2-year-old is whining while the 9-month-old is crying and everyone (including ME!) is hungry and tired and I just want them ALL to GO AWAY! (My heart beats in frenzied frustration just thinking about it.)

“Be joyful now, Lord?” my heart asks. “But these challenging children and this hectic house aren’t making me happy!”

“Pray to you now, God?” I question. “In the midst of this chaos when I can’t even hear my own thoughts?”

“Give thanks to you now, Jesus?” I wonder. “For what? The disobedience or the tantrum or the soul-piercing scream?

How can I be joyful and pray and give thanks in a mamas-gonna-go-crazy-just-like-these-kids moment?! And who would expect me to? And why should I?

“…for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

Yes, despite my grassy knoll euphoria of two weeks ago, I definitely don’t have a picture-perfect life or always choose what’s right. But I know my God and I know that His will is ALWAYS good. So that’s what I’m trying to choose. Bit by bit. Day by day. Find joy in and give thanks for the strong minds and bodies and voices of my three amazing boys. Pray and ask God to show me how to live out His word and grow in joy and gratitude for the privilege of being a mommy.

* * *

And this is just the ordinary life of a stay-at-home-mom of little ones. This is not divorce or unemployment or cancer. I count myself blessed that I haven’t had to walk one of those journeys.

I’m also blessed to know some who have and, despite their circumstances, are choosing JOY and PRAYER and THANKSGIVING along the way.

Meet my beautiful friend Alyssa.

Isn’t she stunning? This picture was taken two days after she had a mastectomy for Stage 3 breast cancer.

This is Alyssa rocking the pixie cut when her hair started to thin.

Here Alyssa, with our friend Kathy, pose during chemo for an awesome thumbs-up photo.

And I absolutely love this precious moment captured of Alyssa and her husband, Randy, right after she shaved her head for the very first time.

Can you feel her joy?

Oh, and did I mention that Alyssa is also the mama a 2-year-old little boy and is 8 months pregnant with a baby girl?

I’m sure that Alyssa has bad days. Hard days. Days of questioning and struggle, sadness and pain. Yet she chooses joy and thanksgiving because she knows that God is good and faithful and His love never disappoints!

Alyssa recently posted something on Facebook that I think of often and it helps me to be joyful and pray and give thanks ALWAYS, too.

She wrote:

My personal interpretation of Habakkuk 3:17-19:

“Though I am bald and have one boob

and am pregnant and starting to waddle,

Though I don’t know my future

and sometimes that really scares me,

I’m singing joyful praise to God.

I’m turning cartwheels of joy to my Savior God.

Trusting in Him I take heart and gain strength.”

Always Joy [Part One]

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 08:00:00 GMT

Be joyful always;

pray continually;

give thanks in all circumstances,

for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.

-1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Some moments cause joy and prayer and thanksgiving to gush from my heart.

Like on Friday afternoon when we went on a family hike in Chino Hills State Park.

Beauty everywhere! The blueness of the sky. The crispness of the air. The warmth of the sun when its rays reached down and kissed cool cheeks. Greens of every hue proclaiming their grandeur in lowly moss growing along the earthen path.

And of course the blessing of sharing it with my amazing little boys and the wonderful man I call Husband and they call Daddy.

The best part of the day was when we wandered off the trail to a secluded knoll flooded with tall grass and long sticks. The perfect spot for exploring and sword fights and snacks.

As Chris snapped this priceless picture of our three sons, a digital record of another family adventure, I paused to soak it all in. The chorus of crickets chirping their nature praise. Every blade of grass dancing together to the song of the breeze. The light upon three angel faces, little miracles of God’s workmanship knitted together from me and Chris, yet made in His likeness. Amazing.

And as I savored it all, the Spirit brought Paul’s words to mind and my heart said,

“Yes! I AM joyful! Thank you God for this very moment! I praise you because not only are your gifts good but YOU are good. Good ALL the time, Lord!”

It was such a sweet moment. And I was so thankful for it.

* * *

But not every moment in mothering is so picture perfect. And my response is not always joy and prayer and thanks. More on that soon…

A Golden Moment

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 08:00:00 GMT

Earlier this week I had one of those golden moments.

When you slow down long enough to see a life full of beauty and love.

When sweetness and simplicity outshine stress and complexity.

I had just put Jude down for his late afternoon nap. Dinner was simmering on the stove and I went back outside to be with Noah and Elias…

As I step onto the back porch I hear happy noises of little boys playing. Playing nicely. Together. No fighting over who gets what shovel or truck, no pushing a brother or testing a parental boundary. Just digging happily side by side, filling blue buckets with boyhood treasures. Dinosaur bones and diamond rocks. Earth worms and rollie pollies.

Sigh. They love each other and I love them. My heart is full.

I breath in the crisp air of Southern California “cold”, tuck my hands into my pockets, and snuggle my feet deeper into my worn Ugg boots. I look up and behold a brilliant orange globe peeking through the neighbor’s trees, glowing low on the horizon. God’s fingerprints of love and beauty.

And in that moment, I felt so blessed. Not only because it was a minute of peace and serenity in a day, week, month, years strung together by the challenge and chaos of raising three little boys, but blessed because God allowed me to see it, to savor the gift of that moment.

Breaking Rules

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 08:00:00 GMT

Yesterday I had an epiphany.

I was over at (in)courage reading this blog post . And as I pondered the author’s question about what in life I am making harder than it needs to be, it hit me:

Self imposed rules that are self defeating should be broken.

This deeply resonates with many areas of my life. But the first thing that came to my mind was my self imposed rule about writing.

I wrote here on this blog ONCE in 2012. Why? Because I had imposed this unspoken rule on myself that if I couldn’t write regularly, if I couldn’t pen a post and double, triple edit to make sure it met my ideal literary and grammatical standards, then I shouldn’t write at all. And I couldn’t do those things in 2012. With the (unexpected) blessing of baby boy #3 (third boy in three and a half years) I just didn’t have the time to blog like I wanted to…and I still don’t.

But then it hit me. When I started this blog almost three years ago I named it Moments….from Becky Keife. My heart in starting it was to celebrate the moments that make up the journey . I didn’t call it “Exhaustive Reflections on Life” or “Every Detail in My Days” or “Moments in Perfect Words”…no, just moments.

And I have missed writing. Missed sharing the little pieces of my story that God puts on my heart to share. Because sharing is not only an encouragement to those who read (I hope) but it encourages me. Makes me more mindful, more thankful of God’s hand in my life and fingerprints on my days.

So here I am to say that I will no longer let my own rule defeat me.

More moments to come…

Could Not Imagine

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 07:00:00 GMT

When you’re at the end of your rope…

Call out to God.

Because he hears you.

And he will answer.

I know, because he did for me this week.

Big time…

For the last seven days my husband has been in Hawaii with his volleyball team. I’ve known for months this week was coming. And for months I’ve been dreading it. Home. Alone. With three kids. Three years old and under.

These little munchkins, if you don’t know them. Noah, 3 1/2, Elias, 2, and Jude, 4 months.

I love my boys with ALL of me. But these past four months have been hard. Really hard at times. And that’s with the loving support of my amazing husband, who is an incredible dad and totally hands-on with the boys when he’s home. So if life with three littles is challenging with daddy home most nights for dinner and bedtime and weekend fun, I could only imagine the challenges that lie ahead without him.

But what I could not imagine as Chris’ eight-day trip across the Pacific approached was the wonderful and unexpected ways God was going to bless me and provide for me beyond anything I had asked.

I could not imagine that on the second night of Chris’ trip God would use a friendly acquaintance from church who has a passion for cooking and heart to serve. Tina showed up at my house with delicious enchiladas and rice so I didn’t have to think about what to feed my hungry herd.

You are weary and I see you, whispered God.

I could not imagine that on the third day of Chris’ trip my in-laws would pick up Noah and Eli to spend TWO nights at grandma and grandpa’s house. I hadn’t asked. But their love for the boys and for me moved their hearts to help. Time to work, to clean, to organize, to cuddle my baby, to sit, to be. ALL priceless gifts from Pat and Lelia.

You are burdened and I see you, whispered God.

I could not imagine that on the fourth night of Chris’ trip I’d be enjoying the luxurious gift of a 90 minute massage. A phone call from one of my dearest friends…a passing comment about my ongoing back pain…and a soul sister’s generous heart to lavish me with love. Thank you, Rachael!

Your load is heavy and I see you, whispered God.

And six months ago when I was looking ahead to this week, I really could not imagine that on days four, five, six, and seven of Chris’ trip God would send my sweet friend Alissa all the way from Arizona to love on me and my boys. She cuddled kiddos and changed dirty diapers. She filled our home with the autumnal aroma of pumpkin bread and the tender tones of laughter. She scrubbed my kitchen sink, burped my gassy baby, and entertained all three kidlets while I went away to savor a cup of coffee and time with Jesus. Alissa was the hands and feet and heart of our loving Lord.

Sometimes you feel alone, but I am always with you, he whispered.

In all these unexpected blessings, in all these whispers to my heart, God was shouting:

You cried out to me and I heard you!

I see you, Becky.

And I am with you.

Because I love you.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,

and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Matthew 11:28-30

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine,

according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church

and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.”

Ephesians 3:20-21

Joy in Sorrow

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 08:00:00 GMT

I’ve really been missing my dad. Not only will this be my first Christmas without him, but December 26 (the day my whole family always gathers together) marks the one year anniversary of the last day I saw my dad.

As the Christmas countdown nears, my heart fills with more sadness. So many mixed emotions.

Memories flash of Christmases past…

Breaking open the book of LifeSavers candies he always stuffed in our stocking. Tearing through a package he sealed with an abundance of scotch tape. Dad in his traditional argyle sweater, corduroy slacks, and leather loafers.

But today as the tears flowed and I thought about what this Christmas will be like without Dad, God so graciously reminded me,

Precious Becky, though you grieve not being able to celebrate Jesus’ birth with your dad this year, I REJOICE that he is celebrating the Lord Jesus WITH Him, with Me, here in heaven!

My first Christmas without Dad means Dad’s first Christmas with the Savior.

True joy in sorrow.

Dear Me

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 07:00:00 GMT

Every time I see the cheesy sweet license plate frame that reads, “I Love My Life as Mommy and Wife” I think, “Me, too!!”

And though I wouldn’t trade the blessings of my husband or children for an-y-thing, there are days when being a stay-at-home mom to two HIGHLY ACTIVE toddlers is just plain exhausting.

There are days when getting through the next two hours feels like my Everest. Days when fifteen-month-old Elias is climbing in the oven drawer while almost-three-year-old Noah is coloring on the table shouting “Uh-oh, Noah use crayons! Look, fishy!” Days when Eli learns to scale a new piece of furniture while Noah learns to use the kitchen counter as a jungle gym. Yes, some days the two hours till nap time can feel like a lifetime.

Yet, I have friends more seasoned in life who tell me that the two decades they spent raising children came and went faster than a summer breeze. The days are long but the years are short, they say.

In this stage of life it’s hard for me to imagine that. But tonight, as I was rocking my sweet little boys before bed, I tried to imagine…tried to think about how I might feel two decades from now when my boys are grown. I tried to imagine what 49-year-old Becky might say to 29-year-old Becky to encourage her when she’s struggling to climb the next two-hour mountain. I imagine she might say something like this…

Dear Me,

You’re doing fine. Actually, you’re doing more than fine. You’re doing great. Stop being so hard on yourself, and just remember a few simple things…

Stop worrying so much about what other people think. God has gifted you and Chris uniquely to love and raise and train these children. Use wisdom and follow your heart.

Care less about Eli’s constant trail of cracker crumbs…one day you’ll have time for clean and shiny floors.

Don’t rush rocking Noah each night. Savor each time he asks for one more song. The dishes can wait 15 more minutes, and the day will come when you’ll long to sing another verse of Gentle Shepherd and feel his even breathing.

Rejoice each time Elias reaches his arms up to be held or crawls into your lap. The task he’s interrupting can wait, but the days he’ll want you so near are numbered.

Pause before you scold Noah when he won’t stop running in the house or jumping on the bed, and thank the Lord for his strong legs and adventurous spirit. How you delight in who he is is just as important as how you discipline his behavior.

Take time each day to soak up their sweet smiles and silly sayings. Memorize the curves of their cheeks and the light in their eyes. One day these precious little boys will grow into strong and independent men. They will still love you. But their hugs and cuddles and kisses will never be the same.

And above all else, dear Becky, remember that your loving God is with you every step of the way. Trust him for this blessed journey he’s set you on. Look to him always. He will give you the strength and patience and grace you need every hour, every day.

You can do it! You ARE doing it.

All my love,

YOU

What Is Nothing?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 07:00:00 GMT

I recently found myself opening my refrigerator…

staring inside at this…

and muttering in disappointment…

“There’s nothing to eat.”

No yogurt, chicken, apples, or milk. No yummy leftovers or enticing ingredients for a fresh, delicious dinner.

Nope, nothing to eat. In fact, those words had escaped my lips several times in the past few days. We were overdue for a trip to Costco and the grocery store. And each time I flung open that stainless steel door and glanced over those white plastic shelves, m y desire for something convenient to satisfy my current culinary craving grew…along with my discontentment.

As I stood there this last time, (listening to the low mechanical hum, enjoying a few moments with my personal air conditioner, and mildly imagining that if I waited long enough a teriyaki chicken bowl or slice of boysenberry pie might magically appear,) three simple words surfaced in my mind asking me the question…

What is nothing?

I refocused my eyes on the refrigeration landscape before me, and this time a new picture emerged.

A dozen eggs. A large jar of applesauce. Brown rice and corn tortillas. An unopened block of Tillamook cheddar cheese. Pasta sauce and peanut butter and Rosarita pinto beans.

Do I really believe that is “nothing”?

Instantly, my greedy heart was filled with remorse. How can I be so ungrateful? Men and women and children all over this wide world live with the piercing pangs of hunger. Thousands die every day…and not because they didn’t have a convenient snack. Nothing to them means starvation, a slow and painful death.

Yet, I have been given SO much!

(This little picture doesn’t even include the frozen veggies and fish fillets in the back of my freezer, or the four half-eaten boxes of cereal in the cupboard. Nor the plethora of canned beans in the pantry or the dozens of other edible, nutritional items filling my “empty” kitchen shelves. And my lack of MORE food has nothing to do with access or funds…just a lack of time to buy it.)

“There’s nothing to eat. ” It rolls off the tongue so casually, so flippantly. And I’m guessing I’m not the only one who says it. We all do it. If not about our food, about our fashion. “I have nothing to wear.” If not about our fashion, about our job or bank account or family or house.

The subtle grumblings that slip out of our mouths are a telling indication of the ingratitude in our hearts.

When I say, “There’s nothing to eat…I have nothing to wear…”

I’m really saying,..

“God, your gifts aren’t good enough.

God, your provisions are imperfect.

If it were up to me, Lord, I’d do a better job.”

Lord Jesus, please forgive my ungratefulness. Thank you for the bounty of blessings you have poured out on me. Please increase my awareness of these small ways I allow discontentment to creep into my heart. I know it grieves you in a big way. Grow in me a heart of gratitude, that others might see thankfulness in my attitude and actions, and in so doing, that they might see more of You.

Like the Wind

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 07:00:00 GMT

Grief is a strange thing.

It reminds me of the wind.

Sometimes you can see a storm brewing in the distance. You know that high winds are on their way. You have time to prepare, to brace yourself for the force coming at you. Other times strong gusts appear as if from nowhere. Their strength almost knocking you down.

Then there is grief like a subtle breeze. It grazes your shoulders and whispers in your ear, a gentle reminder that something outside of you is stirring something within you.

It’s been five months since my dad passed away.

Though I’m comforted knowing my earthly father is at peace in the presence of his Heavenly One, still…

I haven’t much liked this journey of grief.

Haven’t liked the days when the ache of loss is wind pushing at my back. When grief is the driving force in my heart and mind. Nor have I enjoyed when it comes at me like a blustery headwind, making it hard to take even one small step toward healing. And the days and weeks with seemingly no wind at all feel like a welcomed reprieve…until a whirly, twirly tornado darts in from my blind spot carrying the force of all the unspoken memories and unexpressed emotions of those quiet, windless days.

* * *

Sometimes I feel like grieving is a foreign language I’m suddenly expected to know. But instead of being fluent I’m stumbling to eek out an intelligible groan. I wish I knew more about grieving.

But I do know a few more things about the wind.

Wind is not always destructive. Its power can be productive, harnessed for helpfulness as by the beautiful sail of a boat on the open sea.

Wind can be cleansing. It can push out pollutants, leaving a clear sky and fresh, breathable, life-giving air.

Wind can be refreshing. The kiss of a cool breeze is renewing relief when the sun’s scorching rays reach down for you.

Yes, grief is very much like the wind.

I don’t fully understand where it comes from or where it leads. Why or how it can take so many forms. I don’t know what course it will take or what purpose it will have on a given day. Don’t always know how to prepare for it or find joy in it or be moved by it.

But I know it’s Maker. I know Him, and I trust Him.

This picture reminds me of the beauty and chaos and peace and movement that comes with the wind.

I’m asking God that my grief would be the same.

More Than Words

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 07:00:00 GMT

It’s often said that a picture is worth a thousand words.

On this Father’s Day, I could use more than ten thousand words to describe the amazing moments in my husband’s fatherhood journey. But, instead, I’ll let these pictures tell some of the story.

Chris, you are an INCREDIBLE daddy to our boys. Noah and Elias love you, need you, appreciate you, and adore you. And so do I. Thank you for who you are and what you do for our family. Happy Father’s Day!

Bummed or Blessed

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 07:00:00 GMT

There was a day a couple weeks back that I really wanted to hang out with a friend. But everyone I called was busy. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, but on this particular day it really bummed me out.

Another boring day at home by myself with the boys, choking down another peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then playing the same games with the same toys while the minutes lurch along like a tired turtle …is how I was feeling about the day.

I just needed someone to help me break up the monotony of routine.

But no one was available.

So I was left to sulk alone.

But in the midst of my sulking I realized I wasn’t alone.

There was an adorable little boy to my right.

And an adorable littler boy to my left.

Why are you bummed about spending time with these two little blessings? The part of me who wasn’t stuck in a funk asked the part of me who was. Don’t be bummed about the way your day didn’t go…be blessed by the way you can make it go!

And with that, I decided to ditch the bummed and don the blessed and I took my two adorables on a date with their mommy!

I strapped on my sneakers and strapped the boys in the stroller and we walked to the little Italian place in the Village. Just breathing in the fresh air on our way there made me feel better. But the huge pay-off came when Noah’s face beamed with pure delight when I said the P-word…pizza! It was the best news of his life!

We sat outside and ate and talked and people watched.

Me and my adorable dates.

After our tummies were full we continued our walk, looking for more beauty and blessings to soak up along with some warm, sunny rays.

Like this yellow blossomed tree. Amazing .

I also loved walking past our church. Love the old stone construction. Love that Noah squeals with excitement when we pass his Sunday School classroom.

And like my little Elias,

at the end of our double stroller date,

I was peaceful and content.

No room for bummed when I’m undeniably BLESSED.

My Shining Knight on a Dismal Day

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 07:00:00 GMT

Last week my husband and I found ourselves in the Emergency Room with our eight-month-old sweetheart trying to figure out the cause of his twelve-day-long fever.

If you’re a parent (or any sane individual) the ER is one of the last places you ever want to be. But on our pediatrician’s urging, we were there and ready to get some answers about our son’s mysterious illness.

I’ll tell you up front that our trip to the ER turned into a nine-hour-long ordeal, at the end of which we learned a lot of things Elias did NOT have, and were left with the less-than-comforting diagnosis of an unnamed virus or bacterial infection. (Praises to God that his fever is now gone and he seems okay!)

But that’s not really why I’m writing.

I’m writing to tell you that in a strange way, the ridiculously long wait and heart-wrenching experience of watching my baby get stuck by needles, a catheter, and antibiotic injection was somehow worth the agony because through it, I saw a different side of the man I married…

I saw the Knight in Shining Armor.

While cooped up in the dingy, disease-infested waiting room for the first four and a half hours of our stay, we witnessed two blatant acts of indecency by hospital workers. Their appalling inaction spurred my husband to take action.

The first incident occurred when a hospital orderly passed a few feet in front of a woman wheezing for breath. She waved her hand to solicit his help. He turned and clearly looked right at her…but kept on walking. Chris and I looked at each other. Shocked. The worker exited the front door and quickly returned with a wheelchair for another nearby patient.

The next thing I know, my husband was gone from the seat next to me and was standing in front of the worker. Chris confronted the man and asked why he didn’t stop to help the woman. Why he saw her pleading wave and walked right by.

T he man’s response: “It’s not my job.”

Chris went on to explain that helping people is his job. In the meantime, the poor woman was still gesturing for help, at which point Chris turned to the crew of staff members huddled behind the reception desk gawking at the scene, and asked them if anyone was going to help her.

“I think she needs some water,” Chris offered.

“She can’t have any water,” was the receptionist’s reply.

Just then, the distressed patient finally found her voice and yelled out that all she needed was a vomit bag.

Again, no one moved.

“Is anybody going to help her?!” Chris exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, we have it taken care of,” shot a cool voice with an icy look from behind the counter.

Sure they did.

Later in the night, a staff member emerged from the treating area and called another name. A small, elderly woman stood and began to gather a half dozen grocery bags piled at her feet. The staffer passed the patient and said to follow her. The hospital worker saw the large load the patient was trying to carry but didn’t offer to help. In fact, she didn’t even pause. She looked and continued her brisk pace.

Again, Chris and I exchanged a look of dismay.

(Earlier we had overheard the EMT who assisted this patient inside relay to the check-in staff that the woman had been in car accident and had a large laceration on her head…information that would have been clearly stated on the chart in the I’m-too-busy-to-take-time-to-care staffer’s hands.)

This time Chris didn’t say a word.

He just rushed to the shaken woman’s aid and took the grocery sacks out of her frail little hands. Together they tried to catch up with the worker, but trailed her the whole way. In broken English, the injured patient thanked my husband a dozen times or more. The hospital employee said nothing.

The events that night both defeated and restored my faith in humanity.

It still makes me sick to my stomach thinking about how those ER workers (who are supposed to be in the business of helping hurting people) had become so calloused to their jobs that they had lost common courtesy, decency, and respect for their fellow man.

Yet my heart swelled with pride for the most courteous, decent, and respectful man I married.

He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He was just doing the right thing.

And on that dismal day, his light shone bright.

Happy Blogiversary to Me!

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 08:00:00 GMT

Well, friends, it’s been exactly one year since my humble little blog began .

365 of days have lent themselves to 48 posts.

(That is, 48 posts that made it from words on my heart to writing on the Web…dozens more still waiting in the mental archives.)

My tiny corner of the blogisphere has become a homey place I look forward to spending time in…sharing my heart and getting to hear from yours.

And it’s been quite a year…

There’s been grumbling and gratitude

and a store clerk with attitude .

The sorrow of death and joy of birth ,

and thoughts on productivity , for what it’s worth.

I’ve preached the power of my walking shoes

and truly wanting whatever you choose.

Love can be shown in really strange ways

and I’m trying to savor all of these days .

I’ve been spiritually revived and found resolve

and as God prompts I’ll continue to blog.

Whether it’s been about the meaningful or mundane, thank you (truly, I thank you) for reading along and sharing in these moments that make up my journey.

[The title of this post is an ode to my “Friend” Monica’s “Happy Planiversary”/”Happy Vegasversary.”]

To Zing or Not to Zing?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 08:00:00 GMT

Today I encountered a person I was really tempted to zing.

(Watch You’ve Got Mail to understand what I mean.)

On my daily walk with the boys we pass a local pet store. To Noah’s pure delight, we stop and admire the puppies prancing in the glass enclosures. Occasionally we go inside to check out the variety of other cuddly creatures. As we came upon the shop today, Noah got super excited and repeatedly asked to see the kitties. He loves kitties.

So I turned the double stroller 90 degrees and entered the little store. The smiling ladies who usually man the front counter were nowhere in sight. The place was altogether vacant. As I was explaining to Noah that the cat cages were empty because all the furry kitties had found nice homes, an unfamiliar woman emerged from the back of the store.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“Oh, no thank you,” I replied. “We’re just enjoying the animals.”

“That’s what zoos are for,” she said sternly.

It took me a moment to realize the implication of her remark.

In an instant I was shocked and sad and angry.

I wanted to say…

“Excuse me? Do you seriously want to deprive an innocent child from the joy of marveling at a fluffy bunny or scaly snake because you’re not sure our presence is going to improve your bottom line? You are a sad, bitter woman to say such a thing. My son loves animals. And today’s browsing very well may have turned into tomorrow’s buying, but you better believe that this is the last time I’m ever coming into your stinky store. Though I walk by here every day, when my sons gets his first goldfish or gofer snake, puppy or parakeet, I am going to trek on down to PetCo and happily give my patronage to a big-business chain instead of your sorry little independent excuse for a quaint small-town store. Good day.”

In other words, I wanted to zing her.

Instead, I turned the stroller around and said,

“Thank you. Have a nice day.”

And walked out.

All the way home I replayed the conversation as it happened, and the one I had wanted to have. I honestly didn’t feel better for having been polite instead of lashing back. I was so irritated that this lady’s attitude was now going to deprive my little boy of a simple daily pleasure. I felt that she was rude and I wanted to repay her with rudeness. And as I walked away I wasn’t sure why I didn’t.

Then the words from the verse I had memorized earlier in the day came to mind:

Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law. -Romans 13:8

Huh, I thought. What’s the application in this context? I’m not indebted to this salesperson. I don’t owe her anything… ”except the continuing debt to love.“

Without forethought or intention, God had used his Word written on my heart to allow me to love this woman with my words…or lack thereof. Not because I’m amazing. (No, I wanted to zing her.) But because he is.

As I continued to reflect on the incident, I began to feel good about my response. Not only do I want to be a good example for my boys, but I also want to be a good representative of the God I love and live for.

What if I would have lashed back with the verbal sewage in my mind and then (somehow) been asked by the woman, Are you a Christian? I would have undoubtedly felt ashamed. Or what if she was having a horrible day? What if she had just lost her dad or was in the middle of a personal crisis or was under financial stress and a harsh word was her unfortunate way with dealing with it all? Though I didn’t feel it in that moment, I’m so thankful that God’s love and compassion somehow permeated my heart and made it to my mouth so that my words did not offend.

* * *

Later in the day I became doubly thankful God helped me hold my tongue…

When my husband got home from work I shared the incident with him. He suggested I inform the store owner of the encounter so they’re aware of their employee’s poor conduct. I thought that was a good idea and told him I’d think about it. But later when I was in the other room he decided to call on my behalf to relieve me of the burden.

He ended up speaking with the woman who identified herself as the store manager and acknowledged that she matched the physical description I gave.

He explained what was said. She was completely apologetic. She didn’t remember saying that and said that she loved kids and welcomed all visitors into the store. She felt terrible that I had somehow misunderstood her and assured that she would never intentionally say that and was so sorry if she hurt my feelings . She asked that I please come back anytime I’d like.

* * *

Hmmm…

I honestly don’t think I misheard her.

But she sounded very genuine.

And really, it doesn’t matter who is right.

Someday soon…maybe tomorrow…I’ll go back to the pet shop.

If she’s there, I’ll talk to her.

And I’ll trust God to lead me through the conversation.

With God as my guide, no zingers needed.

Blessing-in-law

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 08:00:00 GMT

There are many things you consider when choosing a spouse: personality, physical attraction, religious beliefs, life goals, and overall compatibility, just to name a few.

And then there’s the inlaws. Most of us have heard the old saying,

“You’re not only marrying him, you’re marrying his whole family.”

This is usually said as a warning. As in, be willing to welcome (or at least tolerate) all the baggage your future inlaws will bring. Like the uncle with no concept of personal space or the sister who gives backhanded compliments. [Not my personal experience, just random examples.]

For better or for worse, when you marry someone, you are saying “I do” to the whole inlaw enchilada.

Chris and his dad on our wedding day.

So naturally while dating, Chris and I talked about this…knowing that neither of our families were perfect and there were prickly areas on both sides that would require acceptance.

Now, five and a half years after making my vows, I believe that “warning” was less a word of caution and more a word of encouragement. For any inlaw baggage I’ve dealt with has truly paled in comparison to the blessings I’ve enjoyed.

I could write an impressive list of all the ways Chris’ parents have blessed us over the years. But none have touched my heart more deeply than the acts of love and service they have shown me following my father’s passing.

As soon as they heard the news, my father-in-law was on his way to pick up Noah so I wouldn’t have to run after a two-year-old while the shock and pain of my dad’s death was so raw. Taking Noah gave me space to grieve and Chris the freedom to support me, as well as the time we needed to focus on all the immediate tasks of planning the funeral. They are the best grandparents in the world and I was so blessed to know that my son was in their fun, safe, loving care.

The blessings continued when my mother-in-law told me she was going to complete my work for the month to my credit. (I’m a part-time, independent contractor for the company she works for full time.) This meant that I didn’t have to attempt to concentrate on work in the midst of my sorrow or worry about not fulfilling my professional obligation or suffering financially.

Three days later they brought Noah home with his backpack full of clean clothes and a beautiful bouquet of flowers. They offered their continued help and support. Watch the boys during the funeral. Make food for the reception. Whatever we needed, they were there.

They came over early the following Saturday to clean my house . I needed a clean house. I also needed fresh air. So while I took the boys for a long walk, Chris and his parents vacuumed and dusted and scrubbed. I was humbled. And so very grateful.

The next weekend they were back. We were having a huge garage sale for all of my dad’s things. As the sun began to rise, my father-in-law helped Chris set up tables and carry furniture out of the garage. My mother-in-law stayed inside with me and the boys…I couldn’t handle haggling with strangers over the price of my dad’s books or sweaters. When I was ready, she went on a walk with me and the kids and later picked up lunch for us all. They helped pack up all the unsold items and took as many bags as their Honda would hold to the Goodwill.

So many tangible acts of love.

So many selfless acts of service.

(Now I know where their incredible son gets it from!)

Pat and Lelia, the word inlaw no longer fits.

You are my family. My second mom and dad.

My blessing.

(Note: Lelia hates pictures of herself, which is why I’m “blessing” her by not including one.)

Numbers

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 12 Feb 2011 08:00:00 GMT

I’m 29 years old today.

It’s been 15 days since my dad passed away. He was 59 .

2 pieces of my heart run and crawl around outside of me.

Noah is 2 . Elias is 7 months.

I’ve been married to my best friend for 5 years, 6 months, and 13 days.

I cried this morning thinking about how this is my 1 st birthday without my dad. He would have called me and left a message that said,

“Hi, Becky, it’s your dad. Just calling to wish you a happy birthday. I’d love to take you and Chris and the boys out to celebrate if you want. Anytime is good for me. Whatever works with your schedule. No pressure. Love you.”

I did get 2 voicemails, 3 birthday cards, 14 text messages, and 65 Facebook posts from other friends and family sending me birthday wishes.

3 is the number of times I cleaned up throw up and washed bed linens from my poor Noah Bear. I used about 47 tissues to wipe 3 snotty noses and lots of salty tears. (I’m SO over this winter cold season!)

But taking care of sick kiddos by a sick mamma was helped by 1 beautiful bunch of flowers from my amazing husband and 1 delicious bouquet of fruit from my sweet friend.

And when I’m sad, thinking about Dad, God brings Psalm 103 t o my mind and speaks to my heart about how the darkness and redemption in Dad’s life is a testimony to the truth of His Word.

So what do all of these numbers add up to?

Immeasurable blessings.

Infinite opportunities to trust in…to lean hard on the Lord.

I don’t know if I’d call this a “happy” birthday. But I am full of hope.

So, hopey birthday to me.

Remembering Dad

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 08:00:00 GMT

A week ago today, my father passed away.

These are the words I shared at his memorial service.

* * *

As I thought about what I wanted to share today, I thought about many of the things Dad loved:

Coffee, Necco Wafers, and ice cream. Polo shirts and puzzles. Sports, sports, and sports. Dad loved reading John Grisham books and traveling around the world. He couldn’t get enough blue cheese dressing on his salad or meat sauce on his spaghetti. He loved playing croquet at the park and Chinese checkers at the kitchen table. He was always up for a chicken dinner at Knotts or a hot dog at Angel stadium. Dad loved American history, family genealogy, and a good breakfast buffet. But most of all he loved his daughters, his grandchildren, and our faithful God.

Like all of us sitting here today, my dad wasn’t perfect. And I know he wouldn’t want me to tell you that he was. But as I’ve thought back on his life as I knew him, I am truly blessed by so many wonderful memories…so many meaningful moments when my dad was there for me when it mattered most.

When my mom woke up in the middle of the night to find our garage engulfed in a roaring fire, Dad was there to fight the blaze with a garden hose while Mom ushered Annie, Mary, and me (and my favorite stuffed monkey) to safety. He lost a slipper but helped save the house.

When I was a Girl Scout, Dad was there to take me to the Father Daughter Dance. He twirled me in my pink poodle skirt and let me have punch and cookies to my heart’s content.

When I stood for my trumpet solo at the East Whittier Pops Concert or at the free throw line on the basketball court…when I crossed the finish line after three miles at a cross country meet or after 400 meters around the track, Dad was there cheering me on.

He was there for our yearly trips to Big 5 to buy new basketball shoes. He helped me pick out my retro aqua track cleats. And when I earned my Varsity letter, he was there to take me to Sergeants in Uptown Whittier and let me spend as much time as I needed to decide what style of jacket to get and which patches should go where.

And Dad was always there to take us to Disneyland. I don’t know a parent who enjoyed the Magic Kingdom more. Together we zoomed through Space Mountain, zipped around the Matterhorn, and held on to our hats and glasses for the wildest ride in the wilderness. Disney parades and stage shows and churros. Dad was there for them all.

When I needed to tour the San Gabriel Mission for my fourth grade project, Dad was there. And later when it came time to tour college campuses he was there for that, too. Together we weighed the pros and cons of each university and I knew he’d support me in whatever decision I made.

When I spent a college summer in Kings Canyon National Park, Dad and Esther drove the windy mountain roads to come see me work and minister beneath the clear blue skies and massive sequoias.

Birthday dinners at Benihana, graduation brunch at The Ritz, Dad was there to celebrate each meaningful milestone.

And of course he was there on the three most important days of my life, too…he walked me down the aisle when I said “I do” to my amazing husband, Chris. And he held Noah and Elias on the days his grandsons were born.

And like all dads, he was there to teach me things. How to be as competitive as he was at Gin Rummy, Sequence, Pounce, and Risk…though Risk I never won. He taught me that you can never use too much Scotch tape when wrapping presents. Peanut butter and pancakes are a perfect combination. And you can fit any amount of luggage and souvenirs in the trunk of a compact car. “It’s solid geometry,” he’d say. “Solid geometry.”

And at the end of his life, whether he was trying to or not, he taught me more than I ever knew about God’s amazing grace. That there is no valley too dark or pit too deep for the redemptive love of God. Through Dad’s life, I saw the Lord answer what at times I thought were impossible prayers. Dad’s struggles and triumphs, life and death have strengthened my faith in immeasurable ways. And perhaps that is the greatest gift a father can give.

Ralph D. Pickett

October 21, 1951—January 27, 2011

I love you,Dad

More and Less…I Resolve.

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 08 Jan 2011 08:00:00 GMT

I resolve to think more about my health

and less about my looks.

More water,

less Diet Coke.

More exercise when I have the motivation

and more when I don’t.

I resolve to savor more todays

and wish less for possible tomorrows.

More gratitude,

less grumbling.

I resolve to be the spouse, parent, sister, friend I want to have.

More listening,

less talking.

More love, compassion, grace.

I resolve to accept that we don’t have to work more

if we’re willing to want less.

I resolve to view our money and possessions as what they actually are–

on loan from God to accomplish His purposes.

More time in the Word,

less on the Web.

More prayer,

less people-pleasing.

I resolve to spend less energy thinking about what I want to do, ought to do,

and more time just doing it.

More of Him ,

less of me .

I resolve.

Losing Focus

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Today we were doing some final Christmas shopping at the store with the big red bulls eye. As we weaved our way up and down aisles crowded with people and toys, I found myself losing focus of the reason we were buying gifts.

I started playing the comparison game.

How much would so-and-so be spending? Will this present delight or disappoint? Does the scope and grandeur of my gift rise above the unspoken bar of expectations?

I was caught in an anxious guessing game of how others would analyze the price of the present as an interpretation of the value of the relationship.

This is wrong. I know it. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Christmas is not about keeping up with the Jones’s or finding the best holiday discounts. It’s not even about buying the perfect present to satisfy someone’s needs or wish-list of wants.

The perfect present has already been bought. God gave us his perfect son. Jesus bought us the gift of a restored relationship with God by paying the penalty of our sins through his death on the cross.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” –John 3:16

CHRISTmas is about remembering that God loved us so much that he sent his his son to earth and Christ loved us so much that he lived a perfect life and then died, that we, too, might live.

So what about all this gift giving?

When I regained focus, I remembered that Christmas is an opportunity to share God’s love with the family and friends he’s blessed us with by giving out of the resources he’s provided.

When I regained focus, I realized that I can honor God best by being responsible with my finances, buying only what we can afford, and by being joyous in my spirit , giving generously out of love not out of fear of being judged.

I wish I never let my eyes drift from the One who matters most.

But I’m thankful that when I do, he’s always there to meet my refocused gaze.

Does your vision ever get blurry this time of year? How do you stay focused on the true meaning of Christmas?

Reindeer and Snow Flakes and Beads, Oh My!

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 18:00:00 GMT

I spent the weekend finding new nooks and unconventional crannies to display my favorite Christmas ornaments. [Check out the previous post to read why.]

Here are a few more of my clever creations…

I filled this chunky glass vase with the strings of cranberry wooden beads that we usually drape around the tree. Then I topped it with simple bronze ball ornaments and finished with a plaid Christmas ribbon.

On this bathroom shelf I grouped a trio of reindeer ornaments instead of the classic red candle I usually use to fill the cubby.

And I love how this huge red snowflake pops against the crisp white cabinet.

I felt especially inspired when I adorned my kitchen cabinet handles with these pretty holly berry branches. (I really love how they look hugging the limbs of a Christmas pine …but this is a fun way to enjoy their beauty sans tree.)

I placed cinnamon-spice-scented pine cones in this elegant glass hurricane instead of using a large wooden bowl like last year (since it’s now housing my ornament collection).

And that Christmas gift bag ? That’s my fancy way of concealing the pile of mail that normally sits haphazardly on the counter.

Does it feel like Christmas at your house?

What’s your favorite way to deck your halls?

No Pine. No Problem!

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 18:00:00 GMT

So we’ve decided to forgo my two favorite Christmas decorating traditions this year: the classic Christmas tree and the meaningful Nativity scene.

Why would I do such a thing?

His name is Noah.

He is one of the loves of my life. He is almost two. And he is WAY above the jingle bell curve of tactile curiosity!

The thought of putting up a Christmas tree conjures visions of ornament hooks up noses, twinkling lights between teeth, and beaded garland wrapped around his baby brother’s neck. Likewise, I’m certain my beautiful Willow Tree manger animals would wind up in Noah’s plastic Playschool barn; Joseph would surely become the newest Tonka truck driver; and who knows where I would find Mary and the Baby Jesus? [The only spaces I have for the Nativity scene are within Noah’s ever-increasing grasp.]

Knowing my son, he would master self-control over the enticing new decor just before the New Year when we’re ready to take it all down. So to save us a lot of headache and hassle we’re choosing to just avoid the chaos this year.

With that said…I still LOVE decorating for Christmas! So after being inspired by one of my favorite homemaking blogs about finding creative ways to use holiday decor , I decided that my home would look and feel like Christmas this year. I could still enjoy the delight of pulling out all my favorite ornaments, I’d just find creative ways to use them in inventive out-of-toddler-reach ways.

Here’s what I came up with…

This large wooden bowl is usually home to over sized potpourri. Now it displays a collection of rustic Christmas balls, bronze stars, and my favorite giant snowflake.

I hung mini jingle bell wreaths on either end of this cafe mug rack.

Then I propped these sweet angel ornaments and extra large jingle balls on the shelf above.

Love the crackle finish!

I spruced up two metal snowflake lanterns with wooden tree ornaments for a pop of color and texture.

Have you been inspired to use traditional Christmas decorations in a nontraditional way?

Check back soon for more of my creative holiday twists!

Giving Thanks

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Truly, truly, I have so much to be thankful for.

Just one of the things I’m giving thanks for today is our morning family walk.

We bundled up the boys and strolled our quiet neighborhood streets. The sky was bright blue. The air was perfectly crisp. And I don’t think my kidlets could be any cuter!

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;

his love endures forever.

-Psalm 107:1

Passing Moments

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Here are a few things I delighted in on today’s morning walk:

Watching my four-month-old stare up at the clear blue sky, then succumb to sleepy eyes and drift off to sleep.

Saying “Good Morning” to a stranger and seeing him smile.

Listening to my (almost) two-year-old giggle with glee at the men in the trees trimming branches.

Feeling the warm sun on my back and the crisp air on my cheek.

Overhearing a conversation between two gentlemen in their late seventies that went something like this:

You keep up the good work.

Yes, you, too.

Hey, are you still playing that horn?

Hell yeah!

Life is made up of moments. Don’t let joy in the small things pass you by.

Better Than a Desert

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 18:00:00 GMT

I hope living with me is better than living in a desert.

This morning I was stirred by the words of Proverbs 21:19:

“Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and ill-tempered wife.”

In general, I think my husband arrives each evening to a happy family and inviting home. I do my best to listen intentionally as he tells me about his day, offer encouragement and praise when warranted, and then share honestly about the joys and challenges I encountered while we were a part. I know that love is an active choice, not a passive feeling. So I seek to love my husband in action and in word.

It can be easy to critique other people’s marriages… how they bicker about everything, lack appreciation, or try to control one another. I can be glad that I’m not like her, and then start to feel pretty good about myself. Proud about what a fantastic little wife I am.

But I am not perfect. Not by a long shot.

I am not immune to being defensive, responding with a blatant edge to my tone, and even being plain rude. I have allowed tiredness to be an excuse for not being kind. I’ve knit picked about things that don’t really matter and cared more about being right than being loving.

But this is not the kind of woman I want to be. This is not the kind of wife my husband deserves.

I want to be more like this . And this . And this .

No, I don’t have to be perfect. And neither do you.

Just make sure living with you IS better than a desert.

Reviving Wisdom

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 18:00:00 GMT

After days (or weeks) of letting TV, dishes, laundry, sleep, paperwork, grocery shopping, and Facebook consume any quiet, kid-free moment I had, I was finally still enough for long enough to hear God whisper to my heart, “Come, be with me .” And I was just weary enough not to fight it. I knew I needed to obey.

I opened my Bible and read Psalm 19 . These words were meant for my heart.

The law of the Lord is perfect,

reviving the soul.

The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy,

making wise the simple.

My soul NEEDS to be revived . I want to feel alive. I want to walk in cadence with my God, knowing that each step I take is directed by him and he is right there beside me. No more trying to be super-mom, -wife, and -friend on my own strength. No more sulking in the hum-drum of daily life. I was created for a purpose. I want to live life to the full and be fully me.

I NEED to be made wise . Disciplining a boundary-testing toddler. Saving money for my family. Finding the balance between seeking community and seeking simplicity. Getting out yet staying rested. How to love my husband, train my children, and do it well. Yes, wisdom for all these small decisions that make up my life…that’s what I need.

Will my soul be revived by watching one more episode of America’s Next Top Model? Will I find wisdom in reading one more status update?

No, I’ll find what I’m really looking for, what I really need in the perfect, trustworthy Word of God.

10, 20, 30…SHRED!

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 18:00:00 GMT

I’m taking on a 30 day fitness challenge and I’m inviting you to join with me!

Last week I was over at (in)courage and saw this post by Jen from Balancing Beauty and Bedlam . She talked about creative ways to build community, one of which was working out.

Fitness has definitely been top of mind for me lately. Since giving birth to my second son 12 weeks ago, I have been eager to shed these prego pounds and get back to feeling like me. I’ve been watching what I eat and taking long walks while pushing the boys in the mega-heavy double stroller. But I’m still not getting the results I want fast enough. So when I saw Jen’s invitation to 30 days of fitness, I knew this was the kick start I needed.

So what is it and why did I choose it?

WHAT: It’s a workout DVD by Jillian Michaels called 30 Day Shred, which combines strength conditioning, cardio, and abs.

WHY: First, I have 10 more pounds to lose to get back to my pre-prego weight and into my favorite pair of jeans (you know the ones that are comfortable and figure flattering…oh, how I miss them!) Second, I can commit to 20 minutes a day…as a busy mom of two under two, any more just isn’t realistic. And third, 30 days is long enough to get real results, but short enough that I knowI can follow through. (I like to set myself up for success.) Plus, I know that fitting even 20 minutes of intense exercise into my rather intense life would be challenging, so I liked the idea of joining a community of other women who were doing it, too. And when I found the DVD on Amazon.com for $5.99 it sealed the deal!

Today I endured the first day of shredding. It felt good (and bad) to feel my out-of-shape muscles burn, wipe some sweat from my brow, and know that I am one day closer to a do-my-body-good accomplishment!

I’m sharing this with you all NOT to toot my own horn about buying a silly workout video and doing it for one day. I share this with you because I NEED accountability, and I’m thinking maybe some of you might, too. I’ll be updating you at least a couple times with my progress over the next 30 days.

PLEASE feel free to jump in and join me any time!

Only 20 minutes a day away from a healthier you, me, WE!

Keenly Aware

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Have you ever noticed that we are all more keenly aware of our own imperfections than anyone else is?

A friend and her son recently came over for a play date and remarked how clean my house was. She jokingly asked Noah if he was sure he actually lived here because she was certain it was way too tidy to be the home of a toddler.

My house, clean? I was keenly aware of the breakfast dishes in the sink, the layer of grime on the refrigerator shelves, the rust ring in the bathtub, and how well my tile floor hides dirt.

On Saturday I went to my childhood best friend’s engagement party. Several people commented on how good I looked for just having a baby two and a half months ago. A single gal told me I must share my slim-down secrets with her if she ever has a child.

My body, slim? I was keenly aware how the waistband of the only nice pair of pants I could squeeze into was digging into my soft tummy each time I exhaled.

I entertained a new friend for lunch last week and she complimented me on how beautifully decorated my home was. She enjoyed the selection and placement of art and accessories in every room.

My home, decorated? I was keenly aware of the huge blank wall above the fireplace that has been begging for a canvas to cover it since we moved in over a year ago.

Perhaps it’s time to transfer my keen awareness to something other than my imperfections. Maybe I should be more keenly aware of how blessed I am to have a home to weclome friends into and an abled body that has given birth to two precious boys.

Because, really, no one has a perfect home or a perfect body. (Except maybe a celebrity with a professional decorator, cleaning crew, personal trainer, and private chef. And even then, she is probably keenly aware of her imperfect marriage, unhealthy self image, and lack of hope.)

So here’s to being keenly aware that perfection isn’t as important as perspective!

Little Moments

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

"The way she holds your little finger

The way she coos when you are near

The way you calm her every whimper

And cast out all her fear

The way he giggles with excitement

The way he cries when you’re apart

The way his eyes light up with wonder

And his smile melts your heart

"It’s in these little moments

Shared just between each other

That make you know for certain

You were meant to be a mother

Gentle Shepherd

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Since yesterday I told you about one of my favorite bedtime stories, today I want to share another beloved ritual from my childhood…the bedtime song.

After my mom finished reading our stories, she would turn out the lights and sing a song. My favorite was Gentle Shepherd . As she sang, she rubbed my back. Her soothing strokes mingled with the peaceful melody calmed my heart and mind as I drifted off to sleep.

Gentle shepherd,

come and lead us

for we need you

to help us find our way.

Gentle shepherd,

come and feed us

for we need you

for strength from

day to day.

There’s no other

we can turn to

who can help us

face another day.

Gentle shepherd,

come and lead us

for we need you

to help us find our way.

And now I sing this song to my son. Every night I rub his back as we rock and sing.

I have a terrible voice. Truly awful. And I’m not exaggerating. But to my sweet little boy and to my loving God, the notes that I miss matter not because they hear the praise and prayer of my heart.

A Special Place

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Like most kids growing up, I LOVED bedtime stories. Actually, I loved stories any time! But bedtime was always extra special…a time of quieting down and listening to my mom’s soothing voice.

My sister, Mary, and I would sit in our matching twin beds nestled in the nook created by the double peaked ceiling of our shared room in the house my great grandfather built. My mom would perch between us and take our bedtime story requests.

More often than not, we chose The Random House Book of Poetry for Children. There were silly poems and thoughtful poems. Poems that made us giggle and poems that made us shriek. One of my favorite poems was one that made my heart feel comforted and glad.

Home! You’re Where It’s Warm Inside

by Jack Prelutsky

Home! You are a special place;

you’re where I wake and wash my face,

brush my teeth and comb my hair,

change my socks and underwear,

clean my ears and blow my nose,

try on all my parent’s clothes.

Home! You’re where it’s warm inside,

where my tears are gently dried,

where I’m comforted and fed,

where I’m forced to go to bed,

where there’s always love to spare;

Home! I’m glad that you are there.

Now that I’m the mom, I’m inspired to create this kind of home for my kids. A place where they will always know that they are loved. A place they’ll be glad to be.

As someone who struggles with perfectionism, it can be easy to allow the to-do’s of running a home to take precedent over the get-to’s of raising a family.

I get to kiss the boo boo’s and dry the tears. I get to prepare healthy meals and give cozy hugs. I get to be a teacher, playmate, and encourager.

So day by day, I’m learning to let go of being perfect and embrace being present.

I’m Mommy and I get to make Home a Special Place!

It spills out of my eyes.

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Sometimes I’m overcome by how much I love my boys.

Of course, I always knew (in an intellectual, of-course-this-is-logical kind of way) that I would love my own children more than any other.

But sometimes it surprises me how deep and fierce and pure and joyful my love for them is. I’ve only been their mother for a relatively short time. But each day I know my boys is another day I love them more.

Sometimes my love is too much for my heart to hold. It spills out of eyes. It creates the goofiest grin that I couldn’t erase from my face if someone offered me a thousand bucks to do so.

Noah and Elias are my sons. I delight in them. I love them just for who they are.

In loving them I can’t help but have a greater understanding of the Father’s love for me. It’s profound, really.

Watching Noah play or Eli sleep makes my heart smile. In the same way, God’s heart is filled with joy just watching me be me. He loves me not for what I do but for who I am.

Noah, 21 months old

Elias, 2 months old

I could ask for no greater blessing than being a mom.

I’m blessed to love fully.

I’m blessed to be fully loved.

The LORD delights in those who fear him,

who put their hope in his unfailing love.

Psalm 147:11

And So We Walk

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

My walking shoes are therapeutic.

They make me turn off the TV and breathe in fresh air.

They make me forget my tiredness and feel my strength.

As a friend who is in my same stage of life so eloquently said, “walking represents my sanity.”

I strap Elias in the Bjorn and buckle Noah in the Bob and we walk.

Sometimes we walk with a friend. This daily dose of adult conversation refreshes my heart and makes the miles melt.

Other times we walk alone. Just me and my boys, my inner dialogue, and my prayers to God.

I don’t always feel like walking. But when I walk I always feel good.

It’s a chance to soak up the sun. A chance to smile at a stranger.

Walking calms a fussy baby, contains a rambunctious toddler, and gets me one step closer to fitting in my jeans.

And so we walk…

Who’s Got Mail?

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Confession. Growing up I had this quirky habit: I had to open the mailbox before I opened the front door… every time . It didn’t matter if it was a Sunday, a holiday, midnight, or if I knew the mail had already come and I was even the one that had retrieved it. Every time I stood I stood before our green front door, that black metal box hanging on the rough brick wall beckoned me to open it.

What if I missed a letter the first time? What if there was a hand delivery? were the questions that continuously came to mind. But what propelled my irrational behavior most was my love for the ever-treasured personal notecard.

I could pick a hand written letter out of a mailbox lineup in my sleep! The slightly square shape of the envelope, address scrawled in familiar penmanship, and sturdy weight of a greeting card tucked inside. There’s just nothing better.

Nothing better than knowing someone thought of you. Someone cared enough to pick up a pen, find a stamp, and lick an envelope. My first summer in college I worked in Kings Canyon National Park. There was no cell service, no Internet access, and a single payphone for all the employees to share. While it was one of the most challenging summer’s of my life, it was also one of the best, in part because snail mail was my main form of communication with family and friends. I cherished every card I got!

In these (wonderful) days of texting, email, and facebook, the blessing of a written “just because” card is often lost. I admit that as much as I love receiving a handwritten note and as much as I love writing, the busyness of life and the tyranny of the urgent have put my card writing days on the back back burner.

Until now…

In honor of National Day of Encouragement (today!), one of my favorite blogs, (in)courage, recently gave readers ten free greeting cards from DaySpring’s new Hope and Encouragement line. I was one of the lucky recipients of these beautifully designed, refreshingly thoughtful and authentic cards, and I can’t wait to send them out!

Maybe today is the day you’ll get a special note of encouragement. Or maybe it’s the day you should send one.

Wanting…

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Several years ago I was talking with a coworker and asked her if it was hard to be single. She was in her early forties and had never been married. We chatted and she expressed that yes, at one time she had hoped and longed to be married, but now was content with her life and the journey God had taken her on. Then she said something that has always stuck with me:

“It’s better to want what you don’t have than to have what you don’t want.”

The wisdom in that simple phrase has come to mind time and time again when I get caught in the wanting game. I want more sleep, more energy, more time. I want better hair, whiter teeth, and cuter clothes. I want best friends who live on my block and understand me all the time. More money, better communication, a bigger house, kids who never whine, and flatter abs. I want. I want. I want!

And then I remember those words. Especially the last part…to have what you don’t want. What if I had a child with a severe disability or a husband with a terminal illness. What if I had no food for my family or didn’t know how to read. A lack of hope, no one to call a friend, an abusive past…all things I would never want.

How blessed I am to NOT have what I don’t want!

And really, when I think about it, I really do want everything I have. A husband who is smart and funny and my best friend. Two insanely cute and precious little boys. Two legs to walk on and two arms to hug the ones I love. A sharp mind (when I’m not sleep deprived) and friends who care for my heart. The amazing-grace gift of salvation and a relationship with Jesus. Wow. Everything I have I want!

I guess wanting is not such a bad thing…if you want what you already have.

Be content with what you have, because God has said,

“Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

-Hebrews 13:5

Wear What Fits

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 18:00:00 GMT

So I changed the look of my blog. When I saw this new background it just seemed to fit.

While I loved the Old World look and worn, travel journal feel of my old blog template, I decided that didn’t really resonate with this season of my life. The previous design reminded me of pouring over aged books or sifting through antique treasures.

There is no space in my life right now for pouring anything but juice into sippy cups. The only things I have time to sift through are baskets of laundry and boxes of toys.

I liked the idea of the old design, but it’s just not me. This new one is. I am trying to embrace not what I WISH were elements in my current life (like vacations to cobblestone paved European villages or a full night’s sleep), but rather what IS.

Blue is the clear sky under which the boys and I take our daily walk. Green are the beautifully manicured lawns I admire as we stroll our neighborhood streets. And simple and magical is a dandelion wish, which is the kind of childhood I hope to give my sons.

Humility 101

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 18:00:00 GMT

I’m taking a life course called Humility 101. My current instructors are a toddler and a newborn.

Here are a few lessons from today’s curriculum.

Your primary function in life is a milk machine and butt wiper.
You think you know how to discipline your self-asserting toddler, but everything that should work does not.
You realize that you might just blow your entire savings account if someone offered you 24 hours of uninterrupted sleep.
You give everything you have, yet you still feel like it’s not enough.

Knowing that my attitude and actions each day directly effect two little lives that are totally dependent on me is very humbling.

I’m trying to learn how to fully go to God for the strength that I need and accept his grace for my many shortcomings.

These are some challenging days. But I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Your prayers for this leg of the journey are greatly appreciated.

Please meet my humble instructors…

Professor Elias

Professor Noah

My Little Explorer

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Curious. Inquisitive. Brave. Adventurous.

100% BOY!

Noah is 19 months old and loves to climb, explore, and try new things. About a month ago we found a quaint little hidden park in a nearby neighborhood. Noah had a blast discovering every inch of his new favorite playground.

I love my little explorer!

More and more…

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 18:00:00 GMT

Five years ago today I said “I do” to a life-long journey with my best friend.

As a young bride, I was deeply in love with my new husband. But over the past half decade I have learned so much more what it means to love and be loved.

I love Chris more each time I see him thrive at a job he’s passionate about. I love him more when I see him act with integrity and treat others with respect. I love him more when I watch him be an incredible father to our two boys.

Every day, I love him more and more.

Here are a few memorable moments from the day our journey began.

Happy Anniversary, My Love!

Here’s to loving you more and more for another five years…plus fifty more!

Introducing Elias

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 07:00:00 GMT

On Tuesday, July 13, 2010 at 5:18 pm,

God brought another small but spectacular miracle into this world.

I am proud to introduce to you

Elias Michael Keife

7 lbs 3 oz

20.5 in

The whole family adores little Eli already!

We are doing well…

adjusting to this “welcomed change”…

and very blessed by our beautiful baby boy.

Resisting Welcomed Change

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 07:00:00 GMT

Today could be the big day. The day I give birth to my second son. The day my little family of three becomes four.

I am so excited to meet this whirly, twirly, kicking machine who’s been growing inside me these past 38 weeks. I can’t wait to look into his little eyes, caress his little cheeks, let him wrap his tiny hand around my finger. Welcoming baby Elias is a blessing we’ve been praying for, preparing for, and waiting for.

So, why I am resisting?

Last night as I was rocking and singing to Noah during his bedtime routine, I burst into tears. The thought that this could be my last night with only Noah to soak up my love and attention overwhelmed me. I’ve had almost 19 months with my little buddy and now everything is about to change.

Of course, in my head I know that all the joys and blessings, love and laughter Chris and I have experienced being Noah’s parents will only multiply with the addition of Eli to our family. I know that it will be an incredible journey coming to know this new little person and seeing Noah become a big brother. There is much to look forward to. And I am genuinely excited.

But I have always had a hard time with change. Even good change. I like to know what to expect. Probably because when I can anticipate circumstances I feel like I can control the outcome. But here I am again on the edge of a big uncharted sea…mothering a toddler AND a newborn! (Not unknown territory to mankind, I understand…but still a scary adventure for me.)

Had only I prepared more! Had only I made time to reread the parenting and breastfeeding and baby care books I poured over when I was pregnant with Noah. Will I remember what to do? Had only I organized my underwear drawer and hand-mopped the floors and scrubbed the refrigerator shelves. Wouldn’t I feel so much better going into today?

Yes, I’m sure I’ll remember how to care for my new baby. No, I’m pretty sure had I done all those things my mind would just be on the other dozens of items on my never-ending list of to-dos.

So, what now? I don’t know for sure if Elias will make is big debut today. But I do know that I need to turn to my loving God and ask Him to take care of me. Really, that’s what I need to do every day.

With God’s tender guidance I know I can lean into this season of change. I will endure the hard moments and savor the sweet ones. I will trust that He knows what I need, what my husband needs, and what BOTH of my sons need. And He will be faithful to the end.

Simple Pleasures

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 07:00:00 GMT

One of the best things about being the mom of a young child is

getting to re-experience the world through a child’s eyes.

I love watching Noah get excited about life’s simple pleasures.

Things like crayons, Cheerios, orange popsicles, and digging in dirt.

Sometimes I can make life feel so complicated.

Noah helps me get back to the basics.

Unexpected Growth

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 07:00:00 GMT

Several months ago while Chris was doing yard work he chopped down

a very unruly rose bush.

It wasn’t producing many flowers and posed more of a thorny trap

for a curious toddler than anything else.

I hadn’t thought much about this bygone plant until the other day

when I looked out my side kitchen window and saw this:

Because Chris hadn’t taken out the roots, the rose actually benefited from the severe pruning.

From far away it is clearly a small, unimpressive plant.

But up close, it is beautiful.

I wasn’t expecting new growth from forgotten roots.

This made me think…what beautiful thing might God want to grow in me?

Is there an area of my life that I’ve disregarded as a thorny burden

that God could transform into a source of beauty?

Pruning isn’t pleasant.

But the result can clearly produce something that is worth the pain.

Dare I ask God for some unexpected growth in my life?

Dare you?

My Heart Smiles

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 07:00:00 GMT

Motherhood.

I can think of no other “job” that requires so much self sacrifice or

produces so many heart-melting smiles.

When I look at these pictures of everyday moments,

I forget about the sacrifice and only feel the smile.

Noah, being your mommy is my privilege, my joy .

Made My Day

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 26 May 2010 07:00:00 GMT

Noah and I were out running errands today when we stopped at Boston Market for lunch, which was overpriced and NOT very yummy, yet it turned out to be an excellent choice. Here’s why…

First, the man ringing us up at the register commented on what a happy boy Noah was.

While we were eating, Noah was smiling and making silly faces at two workers who were restocking the nearby condiment station. They waved to him, but were talking to each other in Spanish so I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Later, one of the workers came up to our table with several packets of crayons and white paper. With a big smile, he laid them in front of Noah and walked away.

As we were leaving, we passed by two elderly ladies, probably in their late seventies, whom Noah had been flirting with throughout our entire lunch. One of them said to me, “I have to tell you that your son just made my day!”

Wow!

In that moment I felt so proud and happy and blessed. This amazing little boy was making people smile and bringing joy to their day just by being himself. And I am the lucky one who gets to be his mom!

As our day went on, I couldn’t get that woman’s warm, aged smile or her heartfelt words out of my mind. As I thought about how much that small encounter meant to me, I was struck by how God must feel the same way when His kids, you and me, bless one another. What joy and pride He must feel when we bring light and life to someone else just by being ourselves and letting the joy He has put in our hearts shine forth.

Today, Noah blessed another person by being the child God made him.

Sometimes it’s so easy to get bogged down in life by all the day’s to-do’s or your own laundry list of complaints or the little injustices and annoyances that creep into the day. But what would happen if we focused less on that and more on being the person God created us to be?

I hope to follow Noah’s example and allow my inner joy to shine a little brighter. Maybe I can make a stranger’s day, too.

Fountain Fun

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 14 May 2010 07:00:00 GMT

We continued our Mother’s Day celebration Sunday afternoon with Chris’ family at one of our favorite eateries, Pacific Fish Grill in Chino Hills. After enjoying delicious fried zucchini, perfectly golden crispy shrimp, and tender grilled salmon over flavorful rice, we walked over to the main courtyard of the shopping area.

This provided the highlight of Noah’s day…the glorious ground fountain! As Noah’s older cousins sprinted in and out of the sporadically spurting spouts, you could just see the look of desire and anticipation on my little guy’s face.

So, at first Chris tried to let him enjoy the water wonderment without getting wet, like this…

But of course this taste of fountain fun only left Noah yearning for more. As the instinctively protective mother who was kicking herself for not having an extra set of clothes in the diaper bag like she usually does, I was lobbying for Noah and Daddy to come sit with the adults and just watch the other kids. Thankfully, though, my wonderful husband is more in tune with the adventurous spirit of an active male toddler. So he trumped my desire for caution and dryness and let Noah experience the fountain fun to the fullest.

Soon he was a crazy-happy little man running without his shirt on, like this…

A little while later Noah took a brief fountain break to make eyes at a mom and her two little girls sitting on a nearby bench. His flirtatious grin looked like this…

This unexpected fountain fun gave Grandma an excuse to buy Noah a new outfit at a local children’s store. Before we changed him, he posed for a picture with his cousins and looked like this…

Then I wrapped my adorable, shivering munchkin in Daddy’s sweater and got him all nice and toasty, like this…

I’m thankful that I’m (slowly) learning to embrace these kind of unexpected moments.

What special memories we made this Mother’s Day!

A Great Day to Be a Mom!

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 12 May 2010 07:00:00 GMT

I had a fantastic Mother’s Day!

It started off by Chris getting up with Noah so I could sleep in! Woohoo! I was slightly put off when that only lasted an hour…but I couldn’t be disgruntled for long once I saw my grinning toddler running toward me with a big white envelope in his hands. He shimmied his way up on the bed, lunged into my sleepy arms, and gave me the perfect juicy kiss.

Then my husband entered the room with a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers and other perfectly lovely blooms. I love fresh flowers!

By this point the aroma of fresh coffee and a hot breakfast had made its way into our room. Again, a good enough reason to be woken up early.

While enjoying a yummy breakfast with my boys, Noah unexpectedly pulled something out from beneath his highchair tray. Thinking the card, flowers, and breakfast were certainly my whole gift, I was totally surprised when I realized he was holding a gift card to Motherhood Maternity! Then, a few moments later, Chris pulled out a second gift card and explained that the first one was from Noah and this one was from him.

(With only 11 weeks to go before the baby’s due, I was planning on just making the clothes I have work for the rest of the pregnancy. But any pregnant woman will tell you that a couple of new tops that actually fit can produce untold levels of comfort and happiness.)

Later during breakfast, Noah did the sign for “please” for the very first time! (We’ve been doing basic sign language with him since he was a little baby and it always blows me away when he suddenly starts using a new sign.) For my son to be so very polite in asking for more cheese, please…it was a little Mother’s Day miracle. ��

I’m so blessed to have a husband and son who make my feel so loved!

What a great day to be a mom!

{More on our Sunday afternoon fun to come…}

Chicken-Trimming, Cookie-Baking Love

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 02 May 2010 07:00:00 GMT

As I stood in my kitchen tonight, trimming the fat off a huge eight pound pack of chicken breasts from Costco, I was keenly aware of what a great act of love I was performing. Now, great may seem like too strong a word. But the thing is, my husbands hates touching and smelling raw chicken, but he also hates any trace of fat, vein, or sinew. So I have taken on the role of Official Chicken Trimmer for the past 4 and 1/2 years of our marriage–a title I will likely hold for the duration.

Over the years I have often thought about renegotiating the division of labor when it comes to this less-than-pleasant task (and admittedly have not always wielded my fat-cutting cutlery with the happiest of hearts.) But several poultry packages ago I made the decision to stop guilt-tripping my husband over this issue, and instead seize the opportunity once or twice a month to love him through this fairly simple act of service.

So this got me thinking…how else can I purpose to love Chris in tangible, yet perhaps not quite so obvious ways? And better yet, how is my husband loving me? Chicken trimming doesn’t scream romance, but for me it has love written all over it. So are there acts of love Chris is doing that I’m missing because they’re masquerading as something else?

I’m happy to report that, yes, there are many ways my “wonderbul” husband loved me well this week! I didn’t get flowers or a candle-lit bubble bath, but here are a few ways love came to me incognito:

He swept, swiffered, then hand-mopped all the floors so I wouldn’t have to bend over with my prego belly.
He rented a movie in the romantic comedy genre (without me asking) because he knew I would like it.
He hosed down all the patio furniture to eliminate the threat of lurking spiders so we could relax outside and enjoy the beautiful day.

And I’m sure there are many more!

After my chicken-trimming, I decided to continue to the “love fest” and bake chocolate chip cookies at 11 pm so Chris could enjoy a final sweet treat before renewing his healthy-eating-and-exercising commitment tomorrow. Loving feels good.

How have you loved or been loved in a unique way this week?

Wonderfully Random

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 07:00:00 GMT

I love to capture life’s random moments.

Snapshots of an ordinary day.

Reminders of simple pleasures and chances to choose joy.

Here’s a little wonderful randomness from my little man. He makes me smile.

Hope these make you smile, too.

Hey!

What did you say?

Do you smell something stinky?

Hat’s off to me!

Taking Productivity off Her Pedestal

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 07:00:00 GMT

I often struggle with measuring the quality of my day by my level of productivity.

I love lists. Even more, I love checking things off my lists. (I’ve been known to add an item to a list even after it’s been completed, just for the satisfaction of drawing a big checkmark in that box and knowing I accomplished one more thing that day.)

And certainly productivity has its merits. Without it the necessary tasks would never get done and many would find themselves in serious coach-potato status. In fact, the Bible affirms the value of productivity when it talks about the woman of noble character in Proverbs 31 . “She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks…She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.” These are good things and part of being a faithful steward of the people and things God has entrusted to our care.

Yet, sometimes, I, and I think others, can put productivity on a pedestal. I can make it an idol of sorts. So that it is my productivity that gives me validation, significance, and worth. At the end of the day I can look at my lists and weigh the checked boxes against the empty ones and say, “Well done, you!” or “You fell short again. Better try harder tomorrow.” This is not what God had in mind.

For what my lists don’t consider are the unexpected moments, the unquantifiable responsibilities, beauty, feelings, or the Spirit’s leading. This is what I’m learning to lean into.

So today, I did not clean the stove or reorganize Noah’s closet. I didn’t go to Target, call the airline to confirm next week’s flight, or prepare an elaborate dinner. I only did one load of laundry instead of three and there are several emails sitting in my inbox waiting for a deserved reply. So many empty boxes.

But this is what I did do: I read my son Dr. Seuss stories and built 20 block towers. I gave Noah uncountable kisses and fed him a healthy lunch. I scoured the kitchen sink and took out the trash. I sang extra songs at naptime, then listened to my body (and my other growing baby) and took a nap myself. I shared a stack of Mini Nilla Wafers with Noah, to our mutual delight. I went to dinner and Home Depot with my two favorite guys.

I like my house to be in order and all my duckies in a row. I like checkmarks, a visible sign of all that I’ve accomplished. I like knowing that I used my time and energy wisely. But what is wise?

I’m learning to say, “Today was a good day”—not because I was productive but because I was present for my family. I’m learning the wisdom of living for love, not lists.

How about you?

Egg-citing Moments

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 07:00:00 GMT

While we were in Atascedero, Noah enjoyed his very first Easter Egg Hunt! It was so fun watching him find the brightly colored eggs in the grass, excited for each new plastic treasure.

On Easter Sunday, we spent the afternoon with Chris’ family at Vellano Park in Chino Hills. (I love this park!) Another family picnicking nearby had a visit from the Easter Bunny and kindly sent their furry friend over to us later for a picture with the kids.

Cousins Caden, Ezekiel, Ezra, and “Baby Noah”

Later, Grandma and Grandpa set up an egg hunt for all the boys. This time Noah was more interested in his new keys from Aunt Sara. (Probably better that he didn’t collect more candy that “someone” would have to help eat.)

Two Cows, One Laundry Basket, and Lots of Sand

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 07:00:00 GMT

After leaving Santa Barbara, our grand time continued when we arrived at Mike and Mary’s in Atascedero.

Our first adventure led us on a quest for a highly recommended field of wild flowers. I pictured frolicking with Noah among endless spring blooms, encircled by beautiful rolling green hills under a brilliant blue sky. Well…I got my hills and sky. After a solid 40-minute search yielding no such sweeping flower field, we finally decided to turn around and go home. Since Noah was getting pretty antsy at this point, we stopped in front of two friendly cows as our country consolation prize. (Turns out just another mile or two and the wonders of Shell Creek Road would have been ours! Next time.)

When we got home it was Noah’s bath time. On our first night at Mike and Mary’s, this usually fun night-time ritual was met with screaming and protest. Apparently Noah was craving the security of his blue plastic baby tub and the big white porcelain tub was just too scary. Wanting to avoid another pre-bed meltdown, I racked my brain for a solution. He was really too big for the kitchen sink, not to mention that Aunt Mary’s kitchen would surely be drenched afterward. Finally, the mommy ingenuity kicked in. As you can see, the result was a hit!

On Saturday our lovely hosts took us to nearby Morro Bay. We strolled along the boardwalk, perused the cute shops, ate scrumptious halibut tacos and fresh fish & chips, then headed down to the beach.

Noah had a great time chasing waves, playing with his new sand toys, and running like a crazy little man.

Though Chris was close at hand, Noah inevitably took a tumble in the surf. The sunscreen and sand in his hair made a lovely gray paste.

Noah was conked out before we even left the beach parking lot.

It was a lovely day of fun in the California sun!

Santa Barbara Nachos and Gorillas

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 07:00:00 GMT

On Thursday the boys and I packed up the car and headed north.

Destination…Atascadero, to see my sister and brother-in-law.

On our way, we made a pit stop in beautiful Santa Barbara.

And whenever we have a chance to go to SB,

we have to stop at Little Alex’s for

the best grilled chicken nachos EV-ER!! Yum!

Noah also thoroughly enjoyed Little Alex’s.

After our tummies were maxed with Mexican food, we headed over to the wonderfully quaint Santa Barbara Zoo. Chris took me there early in our dating, so it was fun to go back and reminisce about our young love while Noah enjoyed his first zoo experience.

One hightlight from our time there was a great show from this massive gorilla. We watched as he leisurely strolled across the grounds carrying two burlap sacks. Once he found the perfect spot, he then proceeded to fluff each sack like you would a pillowcase and gently lay them on the grass. Our primate friend then plopped down in the ultra-relaxed position seen here. It was quite a comical site!

It was a lovely day filled with lovely family moments.

Fun with Noah

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 07:00:00 GMT

Here are some fun moments from the last couple months.

I’m so lucky to be this little guy’s mom!

The joy he exudes makes every day with him a blessing.

Noah loving that swing.

Playing at the park with his cousins, Charlie and Lucy.

(Lucy off on the big-girl swings)

Noah LOVES his pacifiers!

(affectionately called “foofy” in our house…not sure why)

Warms my heart that my baby loves books.

Hard to believe what a big boy my baby has become.

Noah loves Sid the Science Kid on TV.

Clearly, the live version was not a big hit.

Just one of the boys!

Hanging out with cousins Ezra and Ezekiel.

Happy at Home Depot…what a man!

Changing Dreams

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 07:00:00 GMT

I grew up in a house full of girls—my mom, two sisters, and me. We played dress-up, fought over the bathroom mirror, and got ready for prom. I never imagined myself in a house full of boys. But that’s exactly what’s about to happen.

Yesterday, we found out that baby #2 is another boy.

I don’t want to admit it, but my first reaction to this news was disappointment. I told myself not to get my hopes up, but I was secretly convinced that it was a little girl growing and twirling inside me. I had dreamed of tying pink bows around bouncy pony tails, sipping steamy imaginary tea next to bunny and bear, and teaching my daughter how to make mommy’s scrumptious chocolate chip cookies. Fighting back tears, I said goodbye to my dreams.

And then I realized, these were my dreams…

This amazing little person isn’t being born just for my joy. He is going to be a wonderful new part of our family. Chris’ son and Noah’s brother. I started to see glimpses of new dreams. My boys dueling light sabers and building backyard forts. Father-son fishing trips and family mountain hikes. Noah growing up with a constant playmate by his side…two little buddies sharing life’s adventures.

Having children is not about fulfilling a parent’s dream. It’s about welcoming the perfect blessing God has chosen for you. It’s about being eager to discover who that child is and how you can come along side to grow them up into the person God created them to be.

Photos like these are helping with my changing dreams.

Fifteen

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 07:00:00 GMT

Noah is fifteen months old today!

Fifteen Things

I Love about My Son

(in no particular order):

His light-up-my-life smile
The way he leans in to give Daddy kisses
His curiosity and eagerness to explore
The way he smells after a bath
How he runs with pure joy
His ridiculously tiny buns
The way he says “nana” (banana) in the voice of an angel
His dragon growl
How much he loves reading stories with Mommy
The way he makes strangers stop and smile
His gentle spirit
The best giggle I’ve ever heard
The way he snuggles before bedtime
His kissable cheeks
That he will always be my son and I his mom

Today’s Memorable Moments

Mommy’s Favorite Little Man

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 08:00:00 GMT

This picture of Noah was taken nearly four months ago, but it’s one of my favorites. Those adorable blue eyes stare at me from the side of my fridge each day and it always puts a smile on my face. So, just for kicks, I thought I’d share it with all of you.

Melting Moments

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 08:00:00 GMT

On Saturday I had the opportunity to go with my dear friend, Esther, to a mini women’s retreat called, “Make Space for God.” This is a portion of my reflection from the first session of the day.

But I have stilled and quieted my soul;

like a weaned child with its mother,

like a weaned child is my soul within me.

Psalm 131:2

Noah has been weaned for two months. He no longer needs my physical body for his own physical nourishment. He can now drink from his own Sippy cup and feed himself with his little fingers. Even as a tiny toddler, he is exerting his independence, exercising his own will and wants, and testing his boundaries. But though he wants to adventure and explore new things each day and protests when he doesn’t get his way, still he knows he needs mommy and daddy. Still he clings to me, knows I’m where it’s safe and warm and comforting.

Before naptime and bedtime we rock and sing. Noah melts into me completely. My active, energetic, strong, and wiggly little boy is calm, quiet, peaceful, and still, nestled snuggly in my arms. Usually, he’ll tuck in his arms and curl his small hands in the curve of my neck, just to be that much closer to me, that much more enveloped in my comfort and care. I deeply treasure these moments—these moments of my son surrendering fully to my love.

And so it is with what God desires from us, from me. He has given me the ability, the choice to be loud and busy, to push the boundaries he has set for me. Yes, he enjoys it when in the course of my day I stop and smile at him, ask him a question, have a quick conversation, or check in about this or that. But it’s not unless I stop completely and melt into my Father’s loving arms, surrender fully to his care, that I can really know and enjoy this child-like picture of deep faith and communion with God.

Grumbling to Gratitude

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 08:00:00 GMT

Thank you for this mountain of dishes

You gave me food to eat

Thank you for this pile of laundry

You gave me clothes to wear

Thank you for this file of papers

You gave me work to do

Thank you for this closet of clothes that no longer fit

You gave me a baby to carry in my womb

Thank you for this furniture covered with dust

You gave me a home to care for

Thank you for this tub of dirty water

You gave me a child to bathe

Thank you for this day full of things to do

You gave me a family to serve and love

“Do all things without grumbling or disputing, so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world.”

-Philippians 2:14-15

Lord, help me to turn all my grumblings into gratitude—today, tomorrow, and always. Thank you for every precious blessing you’ve given me. I don’t deserve any of them. Thank you for your perfect provision, your perfect love.

Fresh Air, Fun, and Food

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 08:00:00 GMT

It’s amazing what 90 minutes outside the house can do for the soul.

As a stay at home mom who works part time from her dining room table, it can be easy to get trapped in all the to-dos and forget about the world outside your 1,200 square foot bubble. Dishes, laundry, diapers, chasing Noah, reading stories, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, posting payments, posting charges, dare to shower, dare to nap, bills and emails, and another day has come and gone. This is how most of my days come and go without a breath of fresh air, save for a quick trip to the trash can to dispose of one of Noah’s super stinkies!

Today, I knew I needed something different. Take a chance! Venture out! I heard a voice calling. I remembered something about a music time for babies at this charming little children’s book store in the Village, the one we popped into a couple months ago to buy Noah’s first Christmas book. (This place is almost as cute as The Shop Around the Corner, if you know what I mean.) I looked up the store online, found the info, and made a plan! I left the dishwasher full of clean dishes and Noah and I were off for a little adventure! We walked (well, mommy walked and Noah lounged in his stroller) the 15 minute trek to the store. Then we joined the circle of five other moms and their tiny tots and were led in a series of songs and activities by a very cute and bubbly young blonde. We clapped our hands, patted our legs, and banged on a drum. Noah was very intrigued. Sadly, the fun only lasted 15 minutes. Hmmm….do I have to turn around now and go right back home? We stayed for a bit and Noah tinkered in the little play area–particularly amused by a plastic banana and tiny whisk–and I chatted with a few of the other moms.

I still wasn’t ready to go home to the skimpy leftovers from last night’s dinner waiting for us. Then I remembered this inexpensive Mexican restaurant I ate at a couple years ago that was only a few doors up the street. So off we went for a mother/son date. We shared beans, rice, and limey guacamole. It wasn’t fancy, but it was fun.

We walked back and I was excited to enter my wonderful home again. We were only gone 90 minutes, but it made my whole day.

I can see how this may all sound a little melodramatic, but if you’ve ever been a stay at home mom, I think you understand. ��

Growing Moments

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 08:00:00 GMT

I am always baffled by the strange paradox of time. How each day and particular moments can feel so long, like they’re never going to end. Yet, when you look back over a span of time it seems like it went by so much faster than you ever anticipated, and somehow the weeks and months have melded together, passing by in a blurry swoosh.

This phenomenon has never been more real to me than now as a mother. I remember holding my son as a newborn, miniature fingers wrapped about my thumb, his whole body easily cradled in one arm. How could he ever be bigger than in this moment? Blink. I’m watching my toddler practice his new climbing skills as he repeatedly tries to conquer the couch like it’s his Everest. No more completely dependent tiny blob of joy. Now a little adventurer, already testing his boundaries, exerting his independence, becoming the wonderful person God created him to be.

I’m sure there will be many entries to come about my blessed experience being Noah’s mom. It’s the greatest joy of my life.

Here are a few of the amazing growing moments we have enjoyed together so far.

2 weeks old: Noah’s first walk

3 months old: Trying to hold up that heavy head

6 months old: Learning to love carrots

9 months old: Cuddling with his blanket made by Aunt Mary

1 year old: Chocolate cake. Need I say more?

My First “Official” Post

Hello@Maisey.Pro (Maisey Pro) — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 08:00:00 GMT

I’ve actually been blogging for years. Trouble is, family and friends have a hard time reading all the posts written in my head. As a “writer” (sometimes I don’t feel like I deserve that title), I have put this pressure on myself that if I start a real blog it has to be perfect…perfectly composed, perfectly organizeed, perfectly updated.

I also thought I had to have a really good reason for starting a blog. I was going to start one when Noah was first born to show family and friends how he was growing…14 months behind on that. Then I was going to start one as part of my New Year’s resolution…only 59 days late there. Then, as I lay in bed last night, penning another post in my mind as I willed myself to fall asleep, the words of one of my favorite songs, “Past the Wishing” by Sara Groves, rose to the surface:

"I don’t wish that I could go, I am going

I don’t wish that I could be, I am being

I don’t wish that I could do it, I am doing

By the grace of God I am doing

These lyrics have meant many things to me in many different moments, but in this moment, they mean stop wishing I would open an avenue for connecting with people I care about, stop wishing I would give myself a creative outlet to write. Stop wishing and start doing. So here I am! Wherever this blog imperfectly goes, I hope you’ll enjoy sharing in some of the moments of my life.

becky-kiefe

Why We Need to Stop Special Ordering Christianity

When surrounded by so much noise, are you forgetting to listen to God’s voice?

Coping When Anxiety Is Like Raw Nerve Pain

As Long as You’re Still Breathing

How have you seen God’s greatness displayed in your time of need? Where do you need Him to breathe fresh hope into your present circumstances?

The One Thing You Need to Battle Distraction and Fatigue

Let’s Be Awkward Friends Who Pray

How can we pray for you?

4 Ways to Quiet the Noise

How You Can Spread Light and Mercy TODAY!

How You Can Change Someone’s Whole Day

This is a subtitle for your new post

Learning to See the Gifts

For When God Asks You to Be the Answer

Pulling More Chairs Up to the Table

Big Things from Small Offerings [And a GIVEAWAY!]

Big News

Purposeful Parenting in the Thick of It

The Struggle Is Real . . . But So Is God

When Easter Feels Hard and Hope Out of Reach

When You’ve Got Dry Bones

When You Feel Swallowed by Sadness

What I Learned from Our Botched Camping Trip

the answer to every predicament

" He says, “Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” –Psalm 46:10

Mommy Naps on Sundays

Mommy Anger, Cracked Eggs, and Real Hope for Change [UPDATED: NEW TRIGGERS STUDY GUIDE!]]

How to Show Up for the Grieving

The Power of Conviction and Where You Can Find Delight This Year

This is a subtitle for your new post

The Art of Motherhood and the View from My Windows

Faith Steps and Friendship (Feathers Podcast Guest)

The Power of Rest

When You Feel Like You Failed Summer

How to Savor the Long and Trying, Precious, Time-Flying Days

The Song I Had to Write in a Trader Joe’s Parking Lot

Remembering Your Cornerstone Stories

The Measure of Wealth

The Soil of Friendship: An (in)courage Post

A Letter to My Sons (What I Need to Own and Must Not Forget)

The Debt We Owe Our Sisters: an Urgent Call to Respond to the Appalling Truth of ISIS

When Jesus Points Out a Different Mess

Banana Peels and a Lesson in Perspective

How Mom’s Night Out the Movie Made Me Feel Like a Million Bucks

Why It’s So Easy to Almost Miss the Gift

Dear Blank Page

The Pit of Despair or the Pinnacle of Hope

Unremarkable Beauty: God’s Daily Pursuit of You

The Moments Add Up (and why you shouldn’t give up when you’re thick in the ordinary grit)

Slowing Long Enough to Listen & the Story that Rocked Me at School Drop Off

Fab Friday Recall Roundup [02.20.15]

Why You Can’t Discount the Pursuit of Beauty and the Backyard Gift that Could Save You

Fab Friday Recall Roundup [02.13.15]

How to Start Your Day Centered Before the Ragged Race Begins

Fab Friday Recall Roundup [02.06.15]

Unwrapping the Bad Rap Gift of Technology

Rediscovering Community in Every Life Stage

The HOPE of Knowing You’re Not Alone When Grief Leaks Out (and the Graveside Letter I Wrote)

When the Journey Forward Takes You Back and My One Unexpected Word for the Year

How to Make the Last Two Days of Advent Count without Checking Something Off Your List

Dear Magic of Christmases Past

Mommy, I did NOT put a yogurt in my closet.

When Living Trumps Writing

Friendship Beyond Favors

Spilling into Grace: A Practical Lesson for an Uptight Mama

Day 31: Untidy Closure, Questions, Confessions, and the Ultimate Awaken to Wonder Conclusion

Day 30: A Perspective Lesson from Behind the Lens

Day 29: The View from Up Here

Day 28: The Power of Perspective Changing

Day 27: The Blue Egg Book that Changed Everything and the Comparison Pit It Saved Me From

Day 23: Dinorsaurs, Dingy Couch, and the Power of Thanksgiving

Yesterday was my dad’s birthday. Third year not being able to call him. Third year his gone-ness sinks in a little deeper. becky & chris 462

Day 21: Reaching Past Desperation to Dreams

Day 15: Unlikely Friend, Surprising Wonder

The Wonder of Joy [join me at Deeper Waters]

Day 16: The Word Reaching through Grief

Day 13: Word Wonderful…Join the Listening Journey

Day 12: What Precious Love We See

Day 11: The Wonder I Need

How have you seen God’s greatness displayed in your time of need?

Where do you need Him to breathe fresh hope into your present circumstances?

" He says, “Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I
will be exalted in the earth.” –Psalm 46:10