This past month was "Pastor's Appreciation" month. It just might be my family's favorite four weeks out of the year, made fun by the fact that our church appreciates us well. This last Sunday, all six of us sat in the living room floor and read a huge stack of notes and letters that had been given to us by our congregation that morning. They had been handed to us in a huge bucket the church had titled our "love tank." And those letters really did fill our love tanks.
Some were short, some were long, all were encouraging, and all were precious.
My children have only ever known the life of being pastor's children, and I believe they handle it well. My husband and I have worked hard to help them understand that while they are our "first church," we also serve a body. And that service will require sacrifice and will require it often. They have become used to Dad needing to step out of the room to answer a phone call or leave for the office again after he's already come home for the evening because someone needs him. They understand that much of the weekend, when they are home from school, is his busiest "work" time. They have made peace with the truth that their parents "jobs" involve ministering to people's hearts, and people's hearts still have needs after regular business hours.
So, it was a joy for me to include them in the reading of the letters. To see them receive the encouragement, thanks, and respect that came through the lines of the many, many pages. It was a joy because I knew they were being able to see their dad's sacrifice, as well as the sacrifices we make as a family, are worth it.
Yes, they will always come first. And they know they have complete access to us, whenever they need us.
But, they also now they are appreciated for the way they share us.
And all because people took the time to put pen to paper and let their thoughts be known.
Such a simple act. Such profound results.
Whose love tank do you need to fill today?
My pastor husband made me ask myself a startling question in his sermon on Sunday. It caused me to pause. It caused me some discomfort. It caused me to keep asking it of myself until I had an answer.
Am I growing in maturity?
I am obviously growing older. My ability to bounce back from a night spent sleeping on the floor testifies of that.
But, am I maturing? And much more specifically, am I maturing in my spiritual life?
I like to think of myself as a mature Christian. I have for years now. But, that simple question caused me to dig deep and sincerely evaluate my own growth. It's not enough to be a "mature" Christian. I need to be a "maturing" one.
And over the last three days, the Lord has been gracious to help me answer the question. Yes, I am maturing. But, I could be maturing faster if I would allow Him more room to work. And that's going to cost me something.
It's going to cost a little more self-honesty.
It's going to cost some humility.
It's going to cost some time.
Because there are some trouble spots in my Christian walk. Some places that I keep having to "go around the bush" again and again. Some areas that I find myself repenting and starting over once more instead of being able to walk a new road, blaze a new trail in my spiritual thinking.
And it's these spots that need my honesty, some humility, and some time.
When I look back over my spiritual "maturing," I can see I've grown the most when I had an actual plan for growth. When I submitted my thoughts to the Lord, received His response in return, and we hashed out a new way of looking at something together.
It's this pattern I want to see reproduced in my life. This constant communication with the One who cares about my growth because of His great love for me.
That's why I'll be talking to Him about my trouble spots this week. And coming up with a plan for growth.
Because when I'm growing in maturity, I'm looking more and more like who I was born to be, and less and less like the flesh I won't settle for.
"Meanwhile, Jesus kept on growing wiser and more mature, and in favor with God and his fellow man." - Luke 2:52 (ISV)
Something special has been happening in our house the last few weeks. We've been remodeling our precious girl's bedroom. Out with the old, and in with....the older. My daughter now has a bedroom full of "vintage" furniture. And it's hard to admit it's vintage...because it's my childhood furniture, and what does that make me?
My parents recently moved into a new home, just blocks away from us now instead of a forty-five minute drive. And the move meant a downsize from three bedrooms to two. A couple of days into packing, Mom called and asked if we wanted my old bedroom furniture. I didn't hesitate to say yes. No, we didn't really have room for it. But yes, I couldn't wait to make the room for something so special.
I can remember going with my parents to pick up that very furniture set when I was about six years old. It was already "vintage" then, a hand-me-down from my mom's aunt and uncle. Their last "little girl" had just gotten married and moved away, and they were doing some downsizing of their own.
So, home the furniture came with us. It was white. And feminine. And full of drawers for stowing away all my treasures.
And it was my furniture from then on, right on through my high school years. And then my sister's after that.
My nine year old was thrilled when we brought it home for her, even more so when I showed her my "secret cubby hole" in the desk where I stored my diary. For the last week, she's been a faithful diary writer, determined to follow in my footsteps.
And when I look at that somewhat shabby furniture now, all squeezed into my daughter's room, I can't help picturing all the years of girls it has known.
Girls getting ready in the morning in front of that large dresser mirror.
Girls working through math problems at that desk.
Girls talking on the phone with their feet propped up on that nightstand.
And even while I look at a black haired girl bent over the desk today, I can picture another generation down the road, where it might be my granddaughter who's hiding her diary in the cubby hole.
Beaten up furniture. Every scratch with a story. Every drawer holding treasures of memory.
Sometimes old is better than new.
Author's Note: I am honored to be featuring a piece written by guest blogger, Paige Allen. Paige is an amazing woman of God who has the ability to stir passion in your heart when you listen to her speak. In fact, she recently spoke at a beautiful event in our city as we banded together as women to raise money for a ministry that advocates for those caught in the sex trafficking industry. When I heard her speak that night, my heart was even more moved for the plight of these precious 27 million people around the globe who are being sold for sex. So moved, in fact, that I will be traveling with Paige to minister to women in India this November.
Please take some time to read Paige's report from a previous trip to the country, and allow your heart to be moved as well.
If you would like to partner with me in prayer or financially, you can log on to my You Caring site here. I receive 100% of gifts given at this link towards my trip to India. All gifts are tax deductible, and, if given before October 7, every donor will be entered into a drawing for a Carry Lovely handbag, thanks to their generous donation and tireless work to end sex trafficking. (To receive tax credit and be entered in the drawing, please make sure you leave your contact information on the You Caring site at the time you make your donation.)
If you would like to read more from beautiful Paige, you can visit her blog, Becoming Paige. It's a life-giving source of encouragement for women, wives, mamas, missionaries, and followers of Jesus in general.
Be blessed as you read her stirring narrative:
I had the privilege of being involved with a retreat in India at one of the most amazing places I have ever visited. It was an oasis in the middle of crazy India and it housed men, women, and children who have been rescued from the streets and all manners of horror.
The retreat was specifically targeted towards 85 women who were rescued from sex trafficking. Many of these girls were sold or kidnapped into prostitution and others of them were the daughters of prostitutes who also were abused and mistreated on the streets. If you can imagine, I was literally on the verge of tears when I allowed myself to imagine the horrors these girls have faced. Yet, I didn’t see pain or sadness in their eyes, but great hope and joy. There was an occasional flicker of longing or lament, but most of the time I just saw life!
I preached on Friday night about being a daughter and of course in my mind, I envisioned it looking something like what I experienced last year – girls crying, sharing their hearts, praying with the all-wise Americans, etc… Guess what? After I finished what I thought was a pretty good sermon and gave the invitation for prayer, only five girls came forward – yep, that’s it…five. I hate to admit it, but I was about to question God about why He would send me and not use me when Mandi (a fabulous girl from Dallas) started to sing a song acapella – “Child of God.”
I stopped in my mid-complaint as she began to sing because this song was explanation enough from the Lord. You see, God’s revelation to my heart about being His daughter as my identity occurred before I got married, and the story was the focal point of my sermon that I shared that night. Over 8 years ago, the one song that ministered to me in that time was “Child of God,” and it was so instrumental that I even had it sung at my wedding. So, when Mandi started singing this song that is almost 10 years old, the Lord said to my heart…"Paige, you just do what I tell you to do and then trust me to heal their hearts – they are my children.”
I looked out over the sea of women and saw that though they weren't coming up for prayer, some were silently crying, some were writing in their journals, and some were sitting and letting the Father love on them. So, although I didn’t see what I had envisioned, I left with an unwavering knowledge that God is at work in the hearts and lives of these young women.
Later that night, I found out that God wanted to redefine "ministry" for me. He reminded me that there are different seasons – a time to cry & a time to laugh. And after dinner we laughed so much! In fact, I think that perhaps the most good I did that entire weekend was allow the girls to teach me to Bollywood dance…They were doubled over in laughter at times - not sure if they were laughing with me or at me...but the point is - they were laughing!
And as I went to sleep that night, God whispered to my heart, "Paige, they've seen enough tears - tonight I just wanted them to laugh." Who knew my ministry this year would not just be in speaking or prayer but Bollywood dance?!
So, I share a few pics of this fun night, and I ask you to pray for these women, and let these ladies stories...their faces become etched in your hearts. It changed me...and it will change you.
If only we might do our small part to see more laughter replace the pain that MILLIONS of women face across the world.
This morning, my husband and I stood on the front porch and watched our sixteen year old drive himself to school. You would think as many years as we've been sending kids off on their first day of school, we wouldn't have "first day jitters" anymore. But, they're still there.
New year. New grade levels. New friends. New habits. New teachers.
We are sending our most valuable treasures out into the world to be taught and shaped and mentored by teachers who didn't bring them into the world, wash their clothes this weekend, or put the breakfast on the table this morning. Teachers who care about them, but aren't their parents. Teachers who want to see them succeed, but don't have a lifetime of equity built with them. Teachers who can't focus on four children like we do at our house, but have an entire classroom to take care of.
And that's why I take a few minutes today to bless my children on the first day of school, but also the teachers who are entering my children's lives today:
I bless you to see the value in each of your students, the God-given gifts in each one.
I bless you with patience in your heart today, and that it will be expressed in your face and in your voice.
I bless you with joy today, the kind of joy that can laugh at the moments that didn't go your way and exalt in the moments of success.
I bless you with peace in your classroom today, the kind that can be felt when students walk in the door.
I bless you with the ability to make learning a contagious source of wonder.
I bless you with the skills to communicate well with your students, their parents, and your peers.
I bless you with renewed vigor and energy, enough to go home and still have an enjoyable evening with your family.
I bless you with wisdom and creativity to solve the problems that come your way.
I bless you with conversations around school that encourage you and lift up your spirit.
And I bless you with a new-found passion for your job, the job that is shaping the next generation.
Amen.
Our oldest turned sixteen last Sunday. It's taken me a week to wrap my head around that.
Sixteen.
I remember turning sixteen. I remember writing in my diary that night that a woman had told me she wished she was sixteen again. I felt sorry for her and told my future self not to live looking backwards.
And now my son is sixteen.
He was born two weeks early, we brought him home wrapped up in a blanket on a hot August afternoon, we blinked, and now I'm calling to schedule his driver's test.
And I'm so proud.
And I'm so thrilled.
And I'm so sad.
And I'm so very desperate.
Desperate to remember the here and the now because I never thought I'd forget how soft his baby skin was or what his toddler voice sounded like, but now they are memories that are hard to conjure up. And I don't want today to become the hard to remember moments of tomorrow.
And yet that's how life works. Time really does march on. Memories really do fade. And we are left with the new here and now.
So my sixteen year old self might have had the right idea. I can't live looking backwards, trying to hold on to the moment that was meant to be enjoyed in the moment.
But, I can love this moment. And I can love the next moment.
And I can treasure the young man who will be pulling out of our driveway all alone this week. And I can tell my arms that are aching to hold the baby version of him one more time that it's not over.
It's never over.
There will always be the here and now.
And when the here and now moves into eternity, I know beyond a shadow of doubting these arms will find their way around this boy of mine and his brothers and his sister.
And I'm really going to love that moment.
Our vacation is over.
We're back at work. Our son is in two-a-day football practices. Our daughter started back up with piano lessons. The eight-inch high lawn has been mowed. Life is back in rhythm.
And still my heart is treasuring our memories.
The 3,000 miles of car time, listening to music together and playing the license plate game.
The Smoky Mountain beauty and the quiet cabin we called home for a week.
The family board game nights after long hikes and a soak in the hot tub.
The morning our kids officiated our family church service.
The many new food experiences we introduced our children to (hello Irish food!) and the many, many candy shops we visited in little mountain towns.
The fun of seeing a son tackle a rock wall.
The delight of seeing my daughter get eye to eye with the largest butterfly she had ever seen.
The trees, the mountain paths, the waterfalls, and the whispered "wows."
The early morning silence as I drank my coffee on the cabin porch with the people I love more than life still asleep in the stillness.
And yes, we are back in the rhythm of real life. But, it's a richer life than it was before.
It has a new layer of memory. A new depth of togetherness. A deeper longing for hollowed out quiet in the midst of the everyday noise.
So, I find myself praying an old prayer, but with more fervor than before.
Lord, don't let the drums of "real life" play so loud in our ears that we can not hear your voice. Tune our hearts to you so that we never miss a moment of "wow." And keep calling us aside, to the stillness and to the sacred.
