Date Night, Part One

A couple of years ago, my husband and I realized we needed to step up our date night game.  The kids were getting older, we were getting busier, and it was becoming easier and easier to forget about taking time to be together. 

One on one time. 

Where we dressed up. 

And ate nice food. 

And talked about big people things. 

And laughed.

And had new experiences together.

And came home not just loving each other, but really, really liking each other.

So, now it's something we prioritize, which is harder than it sounds.  And what we've found is that the more time and attention we put into our date nights, the more they lend themselves to heart connections and the more memorable they are.  Not that dinner and a movie isn't a perfectly nice thing to do, but if it's all we ever do, the dates seem to run together in retrospect instead of sticking out as special highlights as one calendar page turns to another.

But, I'll be honest.  It's hard to come up with creative dates again and again.  Which is why I'm a big fan of taking other people's ideas.  So, in the spirit of generosity, "Treasure the Ordinary" will be offering three date night ideas for the next three days, leading up to Valentine's Day.  I pray they might be a blessing to you as you jump start creativity in your relationship. 

And if you happen to be someone who is without a significant romantic relationship in your life right now, might I offer this suggestion?  What would happen if you prayed for God to show you someone who needed encouragement, someone who is alone in this season of their life, and asked them to accompany you on a friendly outing?  You can take these ideas, make them completely platonic, and you might just change someone's outlook on life.


Date Night #1:  "The Something New Date"

• Guys:  Bring your spouse a type of flower you've never purchased before when you come home!
• Go to a restaurant you've never been to before.
• Order something you've never ordered before.
• Tell each other a story you've never told before.
• Go to a bookstore and buy a "how to" kit for something you've never done before.  (Examples:  origami, playing the harmonica, paint by numbers, etc.) Go somewhere and tackle the new project together!
• Stop in for coffee before heading home in a new environment.  This is a great time to try out a new, hipster coffee joint!

My First Love

This is the second post I've written today.  The first is finished.  And it ministered powerfully---to me. 

I realized as I was writing it that it couldn't be shared.  It was just a conversation between me and the God who loves me.

And it was beautifully refreshing.

I'm beginning to understand that when I'm processing something and I seek to "talk it out" too early with a friend, my spouse, or even on a blog post, I can tend to cut short the finished work. 

We all need sounding boards (especially women!), but what happens when I do not allow Jesus to be the first to hear and to speak?  What do I miss by rushing to the input of the world instead of first sitting at His feet?

Yes, I have people who listen and listen well.  They exhort me and edify me, often reminding me of God's truths when I have trouble remembering.  I hold on to them in gratefulness.

But, I do have a first love.

And He has a cup of coffee, sweetened just the way I like it sitting beside Him at His table. 

I'm fairly certain it's my dream house table, a shabby farmhouse type with some vintage linens and plate ware. 

And I have a chair waiting for me right beside Him. 

My first love. 

My love whose eyes light up when I take a seat and put my hand in His.

I Love You Because

My husband and I have pages and pages of lists in our bedroom, and every list answers one question.  "I love you because..."

It was a sweet little tradition we started in college, filling up entire pages with all the reasons why we loved the other one and hiding them as tender suprises.  Through the years, we've continued it here and there, the stacks of lists growing as we entered each new phase of marriage and parenthood.

This morning, as I read the love letter on my shelf from my God, I was stunned by the words of the psalmist in Psalm 116:1, "I love the Lord because..." 

So, God enjoys getting those letters, too!  He likes to hear why his children love Him, why their heart is bent towards Him, so much so that He included someone's list in the pages of Scripture.

My mind has been working on a new list all day.  Lord, I love You because...

And the answers can fill notebook after notebook.

I have no doubt He would love to receive one from you as well.

Soaking

It happens so easily. 

Getting caught up in the details of life.  Forgetting the One who gives me life.  Running about taking care of things.  Neglecting to take care of my own heart.  Making sure all the relationships in my life are well-watered.  Letting the most important relationship grow dry.

And the only solution is to stop.

Stop the running.  Slow the movement.  Be still.

And breathe Him in.

To let the water of His spirit flow over my toes, lap my ankles, pull at my waist, rush over my head.  To choose to be submerged in His presence, leaving the shallow end far behind as I follow Him into the deep.

"Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me."  (Psalm 42:7)

And in that place of worship, I find healing.  Healing for the ache that comes when I stay too long on the shores.  The kind of healing that brings satisfaction to the places of restless longing.

And I remember again how good He is.  And how without Him, I can do nothing.

It's in those moments that He always reminds me. 

I don't have to leave the river.  I could stay.  And let its current carry me to the details of life, to the needs, to those relationships.  

I could live here, in this place in the deep.  I could go deeper.  And deeper.  And deeper still.

Finding My Peace

We found this portrait, drawn on a paper towel by our daughter, and it immediately caught our attention with its pure, simple joy.  When her daddy asked her who it was, she responded without hesitation, "It's Jesus.  He's the Prince of Peace."

It's now my favorite piece of art.

Jesus.  Prince of Peace.

Yes, He is.  And how often I forget it.

When I'm tired.  When I'm cranky.  When my feelings are hurt.  When I feel unappreciated.  When I can't find my keys.

So many little foxes that I allow to spoil my vineyards.  (Song of Songs 2:15)

And still, He is.  The Prince of Peace.  The One who waits for me to realize I find my peace exactly how I find my lost keys.  By asking a simple question.

Where did I leave it?

And in returning to that place that I surrendered my peace, I find Him there, ready to embrace me, hungry to fill me again.

Jesus.  My Peace.

True Love?

I've sat in a quiet house for over an hour this evening.  The kids went to bed a little late, squeezing in the finishing of homework and evening showers.  My tired husband joined them in sleep not long after.  I told him I would be turning in soon, but I haven't been able to follow through.  It's because of the silence.  I needed it.  And if I sleep, I'll miss it. 

There is not one thing I would change about our happy home or the beautifully loud people in it.  They fill every sun-filled hour with giggles and shouts and the thumps of wrestling and questions and still more laughter.  I adore the sounds in our house.

But, my days are so filled with the noise of taking care of the people I love, I sometimes hunger for the silence that takes care of my own heart.  The kind of silence that invites my mind to slow itself into a pause.  The kind of silence that wraps itself around and shields from the laundry undone and the floor unswept.  The kind of silence that beckons my Jesus to speak into the inmost parts of my soul.

It's why I lept at the opportunity to take an hour and a half drive to run an errand for my husband last week.  All alone on my beloved Texas roads, the hills capped with a rare snow.  Sometimes music, sometimes not.  Just me.  And Him.

I read once that you know you have true love if you can sit together for an hour in silence and not feel awkward in the least. 

I think we're there, He and I. 

The Mystery of One Flesh

^"And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again."   - 2 Corinthians 5:15

Sometimes it helps to put Scripture in a personal context.  "And he died for me, that I should no longer live for myself but for him who died for me and was raised again."

It also sometimes helps to focus on only a few words.  "That I should no longer live for myself, but for Him."

I understand this best when I look at my life as a single woman compared to my life as it is joined with another human, creating that mysterious "one flesh."

Before I was married, my choices were just that.  They were mine.  If they stayed that way after marriage, we would definitely have a problem.

Out of love and honor for him, I consult my husband on anything important, and often on things seemingly unimportant.  Out of love and honor for me, he does the same.  Just this morning, as I passed through the living room and saw him in his recliner with his fuzzy morning hair and cup of coffee in hand, I was overcome with the thought, "There's not another person in the world I would rather have joined myself to."  And that is exactly what I've done.  I've joined myself to him.  I am no longer one person making my own choices.  I am half of one flesh, as we make our choices. 

And Paul says it is the same for Christ and His church (Ephesians 5:31-32), which means I am joined to Jesus in the same way.  I no longer live for myself, but for Him.

He has already laid down His life for me, tenderly illustrating His passionate love for me on an intensely painful cross.  He has already proven His ability to be trusted, gloriously defeating sin and the grave through the resurrection.

Oh, my Jesus.  Such a glorious King.  Such a trusted friend.  Such a tender lover of my soul.

Truly, there's not another person in the world I would rather have joined myself to. 

Because that is true, why would I live any other way than for Him?  What could possibly be gained by living for myself?  How could I make even one decision on my own, without considering His desires? 

Out of love and honor for Him, I must not forget that I am no longer one person making my choices, but half of one flesh with the One who loves me most.

"And he died for me, that I should no longer live for myself but for him who died for me and was raised again."

Failing Forward

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”

Theadore Roosevelt

“Citizenship in a Republic,”
Speech at the Sorbonne, Paris, April 23, 1910

I love this quote.  I love it because it's true.  I love it because it's bold.  I love it because it makes me feel better about the many failures in my life.

In thirty-five years of living, I've managed to make quite a few mistakes.  Small ones.  Big ones.  Massive ones.  I've made all kinds.

And while the addage is true that I am not the sum of my mistakes, it is also true that I am the sum of what I have learned from them.

For, over the course of this journey of my life, there has been someone who loves me walking beside me, holding my hand, whispering in my ear.  He is not repulsed by my failures.  I think He may actually have chuckled at a few of them.  He is not put off by my humanity, my weakness, or my shortcomings.  Rather, He is proud that I have lived life in such a manner as to take enough risks to have even made mistakes.  And He will deal with the rest, slowly honing the rugged into the beautiful, gently wooing the stubborn spots into His hands so He can shape them with His goodness.

The only way I can truly fail is to leave the path where He is and strike out on my own.  And I've learned enough through the course of my life to know I will never reach my destination without Him.  On my own, I can't even choose the right check-out lane at Wal-Mart.  How would I live apart from Him?

At the end of my years on this earth, if I have stayed beside Him, with my hand in His, then all my failures will have been turned to work for my good.  They can't help but do it because He makes all things new and all things beautiful.

When a Boy Becomes a Man

My husband is away with our second born this week.  They have gone off to a cabin by a state park to do some hiking together for a couple of days.  This is the second time a trip like this has been taken in our household, and it's one we've been praying about for awhile now.  This is the trip where a Daddy will gently explain what love and intimacy are all about and what was designed by God to be a sacred gift for marriage.  It's the trip when a boy drives off with his father and comes back a young man.

We don't have many rites of passage in our culture.  Childhood has been under attack, its lines getting blurred into the teenage years with exposure to media and the encountering of concepts children weren't meant to have to process.  There is often no clear "passing over" from one phase of life to another.  Rather, it just occurs, and sometimes it is forced before a child's internal clock is ready.

This is why my heart rejoices that my son has grown up with "overprotective" parents who have kept the television off for the last twelve years and carefully monitored what he was exposed to.  It's because of that protectiveness that he will receive the information he needs from a source he can trust to not only be truthful, but one that has his best interest at heart.  Hollywood doesn't care about my son.  It doesn't love him.  It doesn't want to see him succeed.  But, his father does.

And my son will be taught what it truly means to love a woman by a man who has modeled it for him his whole life.  He will learn that true intimacy is not cheap.  In fact, the only way to purchase it is by laying down your life and putting someone else's needs above your own.  He will discover that the world's instructions on how to be a man don't tell the whole story, and then he'll get to hear the rest of that story from the lips of one who has prayed for him before he was born.

And I wonder how many men in Hollywood had a father who did that for them?  And how many would trade their bank accounts if they could go back and experience something just like that?

And I wish I could tell them that it's never too late--that if they didn't have that kind of father, they can be that kind of father.  They just need to meet the Father who has known them before they were born.  For, it is He who writes upon our hearts how to love, and it is His voice that can lead them into true manhood, the epic adventure.

The Perfect Wedding Dress

I made a decision to be a follower of Christ at the tender age of seven, almost three decades ago now.  Decades that translate to so many seasons I've spent discovering His goodness, seeing my life transformed into His likeness.  So many years to watch how He works, tracing the patterns of His grace through time.

And for years I've been following a thread, tracking it from the fruit I see around me back to His heart.  Every time I see evidence of it, I am provoked to amazement, for how can He be this good? 

The fellowship of the believers.  The communion of the saints.  The church as the bride.  All names for the thread I've watched weave itself back and forth for years in the lives of those around me, producing fabric of indescribable beauty and incredible strength.

I noticed it for sure the first time on the mission field to Mexico at the age of sixteen, listening to Spanish speaking believers pray with fervency.  I didn't understand their words, but I had no problem joining my prayers to theirs, knowing the God we prayed to understood us both.

I saw it again the first time my husband and I attended a new smallgroup.  We sat with people we had just met and shared our revelations about Scripture, our questions about the same, and what we saw God doing in our lives.  We didn't know these people, yet they could relate to every word we uttered because He was doing the same in their own journeys.

I celebrated it in the Czech Republic when the wife of a pastor and I prayed together with the help of an interpreter, both of us hungering for the same things and desiring the same touch from God as we lived lives thousands of miles apart.  And again in Poland.  And again in Austria.  And again in Guatemala.  And again in Brazil.

I marvel at it when I pick up a book written by a believer who I will never meet and discover the questions I have asked have already been asked in his mind and the answers I have sought are being freely shared, for the Kingdom of Heaven is all about giving and receiving.

I stand in awe of it when I listen to a living room full of ordinary people pray over a family they have just met, their prayers specific and accurate not because of years spent with one another, but because their hearts are knit together by the presence of the Holy Spirit.

The fellowship of the believers. 

The communion of the saints. 

The church as the bride.

How beautifully He clothes her.

How grateful I am to have been woven in.

Rest for the Weary

Too much.  It's that state of life that occurs when busyness crowds out wisdom. 

I usually don't realize it's happening until my head has had a slight ache for a couple of days, I've forgotten an appointment or two, and my car looks like someone might have been living in it.  It's at these times, if I look a little closer, that I usually realize my patience is running thin and my complaints are spilling over.  The laundry basket is full, yet my kids' love tanks are empty.  The phone has been overused, but the Bible hasn't been touched.

How many days have passed since I've had a sabbath?  For a pastor, Sundays don't mean rest.  We've tried to make Saturdays mean sabbath.  But, how long since we've accomplished it?

I stop to count. 

Not last Saturday.  That was the day of the wedding and the crush of trying to get everyone dressed and smiling.

Not the one before; that was the week we took the trip to visit my grandma, rushing to get home in time for the birthday party.

And it won't be next week, either.  That will be my son's game and the big church event that I've spent weeks preparing for.

And everyday in between filled.  All good things.  All necessary things.  And still all things that leave me dry and spent, with nothing in reserve.

And without a sabbath to replenish, my soul withers and my joy fades.

So, the Lord of the universe knew what He was doing when He commanded me to rest.  He knew my weakness, my fragility, and my need.  He created me so that my strengths would only shine to the measure that I depend on Him, making way for the beauty of who He is to rise up out of my flesh.  He made a way for my heart to connect with His through rest--- rest with purpose.  For He is a God of purpose.

When I was nineteen, I taught a Sunday School class in a little country church.  My class was made up of about five or six little country boys.  I made a timeline and started from the beginning, determined to give them an overview of the Old Testament in one semester.

The first week, I taught on creation.  Day one, God made light.  Day two, God separated the waters.  Day three, God made the earth.  Day four, God made the sun, moon, and stars.  Day five, God made the birds and the sea creatures.  Day six, God made the animals and mankind.  But, on day seven, God rested. 

"And why do you think God did that?" I asked those small boy faces, all looking at me with serious eyes.

There was more than one quiet moment before one little guy ventured, "Well, ma'am, maybe He wanted to give it a day and make sure it all worked."

I admit I laughed before I explained the reason God rested was to teach us how to rest.  He knew it would all work, but He knew the way we would work the way we were designed to work would be to rest, and then to rise again with new purpose.

And when I obey, I discover my mind can think clearly again and my creativity can flow again.  I often find the solutions to problems I have been mulling over are dropped into my lap after a day of rest, His love-gift to my overworked brain. 

And the next day, I have renewed energy to tackle the to-do list, yet I am more in-tune to the needs on my children's faces than before, as if my vision has been cleared from the fog of urgency.

How wise He is, and how loving.  Why do I ever fight Him, thinking my way is better?  My way that leads to burn-out and emptiness-- it could never measure up to the fulness He offers with a hand out-stretched and a lap ready to receive me.

“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)

Ways to rest today:

• lie in the hammock without feeling guilty
• turn off the television
• work on the creative project you've been itching to try
• paint, even if you can't
• read your favorite book in the Bible and journal all the reasons you love it
• make your favorite meal and eat it with your family by candlelight
• bubblebath after the kids are in bed with your favorite music tured low
• snuggle with your spouse and tell each other why you love one another
• have a joke-telling contest with your children
• put on a worship album and listen to the whole thing in one sitting
• ask the Lord why you avoid silence and listen for His answer

The Secret of Contentment

A few days ago, my little one asked me what contentment was. I answered her quickly, the words thrown over my shoulder as we loaded into the car and hurried on our way to the next have-to-be-there-quickly.


"It means to be happy with what you have and not always wanting something else," I told her.  She must have been satisfied with that response because she didn't question me further.


And then I found myself mulling it over for some reason.  Days later, and the word still rolls around and around in the back of my mind.


Contentment.


Paul speaks of it in terms of knowing a secret.  And it is a secret.  A rarely unearthed secret.


"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." (Philippians 4:12)


In every situation.


If the status of my soul does not depend on my siutation, then what does it depend on?  My eyes drift upward on the page, searching, digging for the secret.


"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!  Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.  Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.  Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you." (Philippians 4:4-9)


Rejoice.  The Lord is near.  Present your requests. Think about such things.  The God of peace will be with you.


What a treasure to unearth!  My contentment does not depend on my situation, it depends on where I center my thoughts.  I do not revolve around my circumstances; they revolve around my God.  And my God is near.


I love Him for that.

 

Home

Growing up in West Texas meant cotton fields and burnt grass and thunderstorms and sunsets that reached from one end of the horizon to the other.  It meant dried up tank beds and pump jacks and incessant wind.  It meant tractors and cows, boots and skirts, and slow-talking men in donut shops who still went out of their way to open the door for a lady.  It meant mesquites for trees, cactus for flowers,  and rain showers being the cause for celebrations featuring children in swimsuits running wildly through brown yards and neighbors gathering on porches giving thanks.  It meant unlocked doors, Friday night football games, and Sunday afternoon naps after church.  It meant catching horned toads and going barefoot and staying out until it got dark.  It meant sweet tea and chicken-fried steak, pecan pie and rib-eyes, and gourmet being something that had a sprig of parsley on the side.  It meant people whose hearts were as wide open as the sky.

The older I get, the more I realize this land is in my blood.  When I come home after being away,  I breathe easier and my smile comes faster.  Home, with all its faults, is right here where my heart leaps.

And then I find myself wondering, what will this land be like when He comes and makes all things new?  How will it reflect His beauty then?  What part of Him will be newly birthed in the fields, the trees, the wind?  Will I recognize my homeland and all my old lanes of memory, or will I need a welcome tour? 

And I find a prayer on my lips that when the time comes, He will take my hand and show me how it was meant to be, the old passed away and the new wine running free.

Beauty

I love the way my heart hurts from beauty.


Lightning storms. White flowers. Pine needles on a forest floor. Moss on a river rock. My daughter asleep with her arm wrapped around the pink bunny.


Last summer, as we drove through the mountains of Colorado, my five year old girl began to cry. Her seven year old brother was worried and asked what was wrong? She sniffed, wiping at her tears with the little hand I love to hold. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that sometimes girls have to cry a little when they see beautiful things.” That last word was uttered as “sthings,” with the remnants of her baby lisp making the soft sound I love to hear.


Her brother didn’t understand, but I did. I had just remarked privately to my husband the morning before, “The mountains feed my soul. Their beauty almost hurts me, but I love it.”


I can’t fully explain the urge to cry when I see the art God paints in the sky, hear the music He composes in the thunderstorm, smell the fragrance from His robes still clinging to a rosebud, or touch the softness of the children He gave me. I can’t explain it, but I do embrace it. It’s a perfect melancholy, that moment of introspection producing a touch of pain with the swelling of joy.


I think it may come from the sense that, while I have a taste of His goodness on earth, I don’t have the fulfillment yet. He shares it with me, but from a distance.


There will be a day when I will embrace beauty without that first instinct to pull back from it’s intensity. There will be a day when I look upon all He has made, with Him by my side, and whisper “it’s good” into His ear.


There will be a day when I myself will be pure beauty. Without anything else.


Until then, I will look at the “stingths” and cry. Just a little.