This

I am one of those Christians who doesn't think God is enraged when the questions come His way.

One of those Christians who thinks asking, like Mary, "How can this be?" is not an affront.

One of those Christians who wrestles and finds that somehow, God is closer and more dear because of the struggle rather than in spite of it.

But whenever I begin to slide into the place where I kick and scream, I am reminded, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."

Because so many bits of my life make absolutely no sense.

The rhymes don't quit stick. And the reason? Totally lacking.

And yet, I have no doubt that it's God who does the leading. It's God who has taken me-- us-- to those places where we scratch our heads and say, "Not my will, but Yours."

I wondered greatly what God was doing when I saw those two pink lines. A baby? Now? As our fundraising is finally ramping up? A baby? Really? I'm almost 40 for Pete's sake.

It made no sense. It simply flew in the face of what everyone-- most especially Mr. Blandings and me-- expected God to be doing in our lives right then.

And yet ...

It is this little person, this little soul, this little flash of sunlight from the Lord, that has made some of the darkest moments bright here since his birth. It is this little man who has reminded me, again and again, that God's ways are higher, and better, and more perfect than anything I could have planned.

And I am grateful.

Therapy

I am knitting a baby bib right now.

A very simple, very straight-forward, very you-don't-have-to-even-read-a-pattern baby bib.

In easy care, no fuss cotton.

Which says a lot about where I am right now, because normally, knitting is-- for me-- all about the process. It's about the materials (I love the sensory feedback of different fibers), the colors, the new experiences that lead to a finished product I can hold in my hand and muse over.

Right now, I don't need any of that. Right now, I am knitting for the familiarity, for the the reinforcement of the rhythm, for the comfort of place. 

Right now, I am knitting as therapy.

Three weeks ago now, I had just unpacked the very last box due to be opened. We had settled in, inasmuch as we plan on doing here. We had held two full days of school in a room perfectly designed to corral both Oliver and Reuven, to engage Seven, to keep Mani exploring, and to house the resources needed by Jo, Atticus, and Logan. We had shelved our old friends, our books. We had created little corners here and there throughout the house for purposeful play. We had set up home, and we were growing familiar with all that was once so completely foreign and new.

And then, there was a storm. Oh, I admit-- I loved that storm. It was sudden and wild and violent and all the things that make weather so clearly a reflection of how small we are on God's great planet. There was lightning-- lightning! So rare for these parts as to actually terrify Oli. There were long rolls of thunder that simply flowed into one another, creating a growling, angry sky. Rain pounded--pelted-- from the a prematurely black sky. The rhythm beat on the roof was crazy and new to me, but I had no point of reference. Was this how it always sounds here, in this big, echoing house? We stood at the wide back windows and watched as the yard began to grow a garden of puddles, which blossomed into ponds.

It passed, as these things usually do, just as suddenly as it began. The sun shone through parting clouds and I felt myself sigh. 

It was that exact moment that Mr. Blandings decided to check the basement. Just my saying that tells you what happened next. Shouts and shrieks and screams for boots, flashlights, help.

My bare feet hit a soggy carpet. Moments later, rising water lapped at my ankles. As I watched, inches of dark wetness crept towards our sweet school oasis. I remember choking back sobs, grabbing the hem of my skirt and knotting it at my knees. I remember splashing towards the door to that room, an-already floating Woody doll bumping past. I remember seeing Oli's sandpaper letter cards go under. I remember the wooden counting pegs becoming boats. 

I remember asking God why, why, why.

We survived all this, of course. We threw away the Lauri puzzles and book shelves and the Kingfisher Encyclopedia and the Little Golden Books. We cried over the cherished things that were lost, and the sense of safety that was stripped from us. People-- good people, the best kind of people-- stepped up and replaced Magic School Bus books and wooden toy food and even those sandpaper letters. 

We are moving on. Shaken, but moving on nonetheless. 

Everything-- my sense of peace, my comfort level, my known quantities-- have, once again, been thrown into a hopper and spit out scrambled.

And so I knit. Quietly, with an empty mind. My hands do the work, my mind does the wandering. I seek the face of God. I seek the strength to continue encouraging and inspiring the host of faces who look to me. I seek the assurance that He will not strip us down to the places we cannot bear, or deal with us too harshly when our faith falters in the dark moments.

I knit for therapy. And He is there. 

Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal among you, which comes upon you for your testing, as though some strange thing were happening to you.

1 Peter 4:12

Three

I can still taste the longing.

The want tinged with bitterness.

The betrayal every. single. month.

I can still feel the peace.

The reluctant letting go.

The opening of my hands.

I can still remember the refusal to admit it.

The terror/awe/fear/delight.

The sheer joy.

And here she is, now, today. Three years old. Every inch of her a miracle-- just like every other child who has ever been conceived, no matter the circumstances.

But this miracle? This one is ours. This one was gifted to our family even after words failed and hearts were made whole again.

This one sits at my table and sings "Amazing Grace." This one is the pickiest dresser ever. This one dances all day, every day.

This one is Seven, and it's her birthday. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for bringing her to us. And thank you to every loyal reader who remembers the days of brokenness and prayer and who walked alongside me. Celebrate with us!

The dull ache

The pain of losing my grandfather isn't quite so breathtaking now. I knew this would happen-- expected it-- and yet, it makes me feel a bit like a traitor.

How can it have only been 4 months, and already, you are forgetting?

Then I remind myself, I am not so much forgetting as remembering. Remembering to live. Remembering to embrace today. Remembering that I was blessed to ever have my small white leather sandals standing atop his heavy, black, all-season work boots while we danced in the barn.

 I still measure the journey of the last few months by the milestone of his passing. I suspect that February 18 will always be "the day Papaw died." I just don't know how I will ever forget that. But then again, maybe. Maybe some day it will just be a vague, "He passed in February" or, "It was late winter. Not yet early spring." I don't know if I should hope for this or if I should pray that the date stands there, stark. A memorial in its own right.

Today, as I was scrolling through photos on my computer, I saw this image: 

And again, washing over me like a flood were the memories.

This was the last day I saw him alive. 
This was the day I drove my Mamaw's van for the first time. (She had never, ever let me drive one of her vehicles before.)
This was the day I fed him a quarter of a piece of chicken-fried steak and two bites of rice pudding.
This was the day I called back home and cried because I had missed Logan's first molar coming out.
This was the day I slipped my phone number to the nurse at the front desk. "I know you have local numbers to call for emergencies. But please ... please ... if he ever asks for me ... please?"
This was the day I read to him from the book of Matthew.
This was the day he almost remembered my name. Almost.
This was the day I walked to the van, but lingered, standing in the heat of the Kentucky sun, watching the shadows move in his room as the nurses helped him into bed, and I hated myself for not being the  one to do this-- this simple thing for the man who had carried me as a red-cheeked infant.
This was the day I wished had never happened, but never wanted to end.

On the other side of this loss now, I weigh the freedom that I know my Papaw enjoys as one who professed Christ. I can't for a moment want him back, of course. Back to what? To the shell that betrayed him in his old age? To the failing mind, the hands that refused to cooperate? Back to the strangers that were once the dearest of beloved family members?

No. I don't want him back. I want him to bask in his reward. I want him to once again feel whole, to walk alongside Jesus, and to know what it is to worship fully. I guess that's the work of the healing I've felt for the past quarter of a year. I no longer want him back. But I do miss him. Oh, my heart-- how I miss him.

And I expect I always will.

Sunday morning comin' down

Seasons of life are funny things. Since my family straddles several right now (are we in the "growing family" category? The "parents of teens" camp? Midlife? All of the above?), we find ourselves finding our own norms and making our own rituals and rhythms as the old ones begin to feel stretched. One area where the expansion of our family has been most keenly felt, as of late, has been in our Sunday morning routine.

Our church offers three Sunday morning options: 8 a.m., 9:30 a.m., and 11:15 a.m. For years, we have bounced between the 9:30 and 11:15 options, never quite settling on one but instead letting the events of the morning (and menfolks' ushering schedule) dictate which service we'd be attending. We're early risers, but our love of big, celebratory weekend breakfasts, combined with more than a few small people to wrangle from pjs, to potty, and into acceptable church attire, meant that more often than not, it was 10:30 before we were walking out the door. That meant that Mani, Seven, and Reuven were unlikely to get their normal nap in. It also meant driving home with hungry children who had been up since 6:30 a.m. and were more likely to be whining than singing "Jesus Loves Me."

Fast forward to our arrival home. A frantic rush to pull together a suitable lunch. A crying baby just wanting to be nursed in a quiet spot. A frazzled Daddy halfheartedly assigning clean-up duties. Older kids wiped out and just wanting to find a book and a place where no one will ask them for anything.

And then, it's 3 p.m. A couple of hours, then it's dinner and bed. Where has the day gone? 

In the midst of one unhappy Sunday afternoon, Mr. Blandings turned to me and asked, "We do this again why?"

And I knew just what he meant. Not "Why do we go to church?" or "Why do we have all of these kids?" He was asking why we were doing the same thing, over and over every week ... when clearly, it worked for no one.

So we sat down and thought it over. Why hadn't we ever tried the 8 a.m. service, we wondered. Sure, it was early. But if we ate a light breakfast-- just enough to get by-- we could be out the door by 7:30 easily. Then we could come home and substitute a fabulous brunch for our normal elaborate breakfast. If all worked according to plan, we would still be able to work in naps, and maybe even a few hours of quiet family time that we'd all enjoy. Imagine that!

With a little trepidation, we tried it out. We're creatures of habit, we Blandings, so it felt odd at first. The 8 a.m. service has no childcare option, so we're still one of the only families attending with small children in tow. The difference at this service is that the general population is over 65 and somehow doesn't seem to mind the happy babble of babies nearly as much as people still in the active stages of parenting young kids. The music is a little quieter, the tone a bit more subdued. The first week, we hurried to shush Reuven the second he offered up his indignation at waiting for her early morning snack. Rather than being startled at the intrusion, nearly everyone who noticed (very few folks, it turns out) turned to smile and attempt to elicit the same from him.

In other words, we were very, very quickly more at ease in our church home of 10 years than we have ever been.

In addition to finding a beautiful niche for our family worship, we've also enjoyed the benefit of Sundays being relaxing. No, really. 

We chill out on Sundays now. 

A little pre-planning on Saturday nights (baths for everyone, everyone's church clothes laid out and ready, a simple breakfast of yogurt and fruit or granola and dried blueberries all set) and the morning goes off without any major snags.  

When we return home, Mr. Blandings pulls out board games with the littles. 

The bigs help me assemble brunch in the kitchen.

We all listen to music and sing.

Then we enjoy time around the table.

Tea.

Muffins.

Bacon, fruit, egg dishes, whatever else sounds fun and festive.

And then we have the rest of the day. Enjoying one another. Being together. And celebrating all that's good on a Sunday.

Cake, family culture, & a recipe to boot

A couple of years ago, our family Bible studies slipped from simple, elementary themes and on into deeper theological waters. In other words, they finally gained the traction that one gathers once general knowledge is down pat and real theology comes to the forefront. Another way of putting it would be to say that they got more fun.

And longer. There's always that.

Sitting around the kitchen table, with the hum of the dishwasher as our background music, we have debated elements of the early church, women in ministry roles, and predestination. We do not conduct Bible study as a "Now hear this, children!" affair. Rather, we invite (require?) that everyone bring their thoughts, convictions, and questions to the table. We walk through it together., and we talk until we run out of steam. Not the kind of ruminating one should do without a proper sweet within their reach, in my opinion.

Thus was the Blandings Bible Study Dessert tradition born. When we sit down to chew on the Word, it's with a cup of tea or coffee (your choice) and a little something extra to sustain you through what could be quite a ride.

It's not always a fancy offering. It could be a scoop of ice cream or slices of in-season fruit and a nice cheese. Even these are served with presentation in mind, because the whole point, in my mind's eye, is creating a family culture of gathering, savoring, reveling, and enjoying. This time, I decided, should not be an afterthought, no matter how rough the day has been. It should feel special. It should feel sacred ... because it is.

Perhaps because it is thought of as a privilege-- and something of a story time/tea party/Q&A session-- we don't have rolling eyeballs when Bible Study time rolls around. Quarrelsome littles who have lost the chance to stay up beg to be allowed to linger for our gathering time, rather than being put to bed. In other words, it seems to be working. Our family loves and looks forward to this time together.

And while I can't guarantee that your family will find the same joy in a Bible Study Dessert tradition, I can at leat get you started with a tried and true favorite recipe. This is a classic, adapted to my family's tastes from my Mamaw's recipe. It's requested about once a month here, and is so easy to make that I rarely turn down the asker.

MG's Bible Study Carrot Cake
makes one 9x13 cake

Cake:

4 eggs
3/4 cup canola oil (or coconut oil, for a very moist cake)

1/2 cup applesauce

1 cup white sugar 

1 cup light brown sugar

3 teaspoons vanilla extract 

2 cups all-purpose flour 

2 teaspoons baking soda 

2 teaspoons baking powder 

1/2 teaspoon salt 

3 teaspoons ground cinnamon 

2 cups grated carrots

1 cup crushed pineapple, drained 

1 cup chopped pecans 

Frosting:
1/2 cup salted butter, softened 

8 ounces cream cheese, softened 

4 cups powdered sugar 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Spray a 9x13 inch pan.
2. In a large bowl, beat together eggs, oil, applesauce, both sugars and 2 teaspoons vanilla. Mix in flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt and cinnamon. Stir in carrots & pineapple. Fold in pecans. Pour into prepared pan.
3. Bake in the preheated oven for 40 to 50 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool in pan while making frosting.
4. To Make Frosting: In a medium bowl, combine butter, cream cheese, powdered sugar and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Beat until the mixture is smooth and creamy. Frost the still-warm (but not hot!) cake. Serve immediately. Store leftovers & fridge & serve cold. (My personal fave!)

On Easter

I've had a hard time with Easter this year. Normally, this is the holiday that brings me the greatest joy. Normally, I am the one pulling out all the stops. We prepare throughout Lent, we analyze the walk that lead Jesus from the garden to the cross, I challenge my kids to put themselves in the shoes of Pilate, Barrabas, Judas, Peter. We talk. We pray. We digest.

And then, we rejoice. On Resurrection Sunday, we burst into full bloom and sun ourselves in the absolute peace that comes from knowing that Jesus has overcome.

It is a good season. It is a beautiful holiday. It is everything that I love passing on to my children.

And this year it struck me that, perhaps, Mr. Blandings and I have been doing it wrong.

My planning started out with the same excited hum that I always feel just prior to Lent. I pinned some fun crafts on Pinterest, thought of all the fun hands-on ways that I could draw my little ones in, pictured the bright smiles we all seem to have on Easter morning when we greet one another with the required, "He is risen!" "He is risen, indeed!"

Everything was shaping up to be pretty darn wonderful, right up until the point where I stumbled upon a section of Acts that gave me pause. Don't think I'm daft for asking, but did you realize that the main reason that the church met was to celebrate the resurrection? The focal point of every meeting was what we call communion. Yes, God was worshipped. Yes, letters were read. Yes, the fellowship of believers encouraged one another. But read closely and you get the distinct feeling that if Paul walked into most Protestant churches today, he'd be a little lost. Unless it was the first Sunday of the month, of course. In that case--bring on the crackers and juice!

(I'm not even going to go into what constituted communion in the early church, or the various Protestant denominations today who offer weekly communion. Those topics could fill entire posts of their own, and I'm no expert on them anyway, sooooo ...)

After reading through those sections of Acts which pertain to the gathering of believers, I was nudged into an uncomfortable spot. I took my questions to Mr. Blandings, and together, we discussed, we pondered, we researched, we prayed. We prayed a lot. And in the end, both of us were convicted.

Convicted of what, you ask? Easy. We were convicted of turning the resurrection into a holiday, a special event, something trotted out and celebrated and put back into a box until the next spring. We were convicted of not impressing upon our children daily the message that Jesus suffered, died, and was buried, then rose again in accordance to the Scriptures. We were convicted of being too comfortable with teaching that is more about practical how-to applications and less about the immediacy of the gospel.

This newfound conviction changed the way I am viewing Easter this year--in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it changes much more than just this one season. I will be making Empty Tomb cookies tonight with my children ... but I'll probably do it a few more times this year, too. We'll have those yummy sticky rolls where the marshmallows evaporate to leave a gaping hole ... but why can't they be a random treat throughout the year? "Giving something up" might just become a new way of life around here. And I think that the newfound practice of communion during family worship just might be here to stay. In other words, maybe Easter will be celebrated all year long.

I don't think I'm the first person to be led to this place, and I don't think it makes me "special" or "more of a Chrsitian" than anyone else. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong, either, in pouring love and effort and exuberance into a very special culmination holiday. But I know that two hearts in this household--mine and Mr. Blandings--have both been drawn into a deeper walk with Christ thanks to this calling, and I'm happy in the knowledge that I can celebrate my favorite holiday year-round.

My verse for this season

Some days, I worry.


I worry about whether Seven will maintain her never-astute interest in nursing past the one year mark.


I worry that Atticus isn't just slightly eclectic, but is actually noticeably different.


I worry that Bee is walking to school alone.


I worry that Mr. Blandings will lose his job come election time.


I worry that Jo is too sweet, and the Soccer Mom down the street is right--"normal" teen girls are just nasty.


I worry that Logan has a more serious auditory processing problem than I realize, and he will suffer for my lack of attention to it in adulthood.


I worry that my grandparents are too ill to take care of themselves.


I worry that Mani will have a hard time grappling with the facts of his adoption.


I worry that I'm going to hate the weather in Nepal.

Oli (left) will be 5 in December. Mani (right) just turned 3.

I worry that Oli is never going to claw his way on to the growth charts.


The list goes on and on. If I wanted to, I could probably conjure a concern for each of the 24 hours in a day, and not repeat a single one.


Right now, I am in a season where I am constantly beset by things that, if I gave them power, could cause me immeasurable worry. There's the fundraising, the new high schooler, the preparing to leave the country, the boys careening into new "young man" development, the unknowns of Oli's health and development, Mr. Blandings employment, my sick grandparents, et al.


Everything. There's ... everything.


Finally, realizing that I was tiptoeing into "Hey, Lord, hand that one back over to me because I think I can take it from here," territory, I recalled this verse, and was refreshed:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.--Phillippians 4:6

Every time I try to interest Seven in nursing and fail, I need to pray. I need to thank Him for the past 11 months, and ask that if it's His will, she would keep nursing through the winter. But then I need to lay it down and release the non-existent bands of control that I keep trying to pull around the situation. The same with Bee walking to school. I can't do anything about it. I can't keep her safe, create a barrier around her, or chase away any potential baddies. But God can. When it comes to mind, I should pray. Thank God for her safety thus far, and ask that He keep watch yet again. 


The list goes on and on.


You'd think I'd have learned this lesson. But somehow, it always creeps to the background when my heart starts to worry. God is in control. Pray. Just pray. And have peace.

You've got to read this

I struggle with the middle class, American life that I was born into. Do I enjoy the comforts and freedoms and good stuff that comes my way for no reason at all other than my simply being? Of course. But still ... I know what's out there. I've seen hurt, and suffering, and loss ... but nothing like what the vast majority of the world experiences. I have never tried to console my child as he or she slowly withers and starves in my arms. I have never nursed my husband back to health after he was beaten and left for dead simply because of his faith. I have never lived under the threat of stoning should I stray from my society's mores. 


I turn on my tap, and clean water comes out. A cold snap hits, and I grab a sweater from my stash and slip warmer socks on my feet. My kids want a snack, and I have the luxury of perusing my fridge and pantry to find just the right thing.


Did I mention that I have electricity?


Simple things, right? In the industrialized world, largely, yes.


But do I deserve all of this? Are these riches something that I can enjoy because of something I have done? Something I am? Something I have? Are those unfortunate others who occupy the lowest, dirtiest places of the world any less "good" than I manage to be on a day to day basis? Are they reaping what they've sewn? Do they deserve it?


Don't answer that. Instead, read this. Be challenged. And be thankful.
 

Monsoon season

Mr. Blandings and Bee, whose visa is up for approval again.

For long, burning years, I lived in drought.

My heart yearned, my soul ached, and I suffered, daily, through a thirst that man could not satiate. Lord, please take this desire from me. Give me contentment with where I am. I have three children; who am I to ask for more? Take this burden from me, or give me relief, Jesus.

From the spring of 2004 until the spring of 2008, I anguished. There were periods of blessed respite, times when I felt strong enough to embrace other people's babies, to rejoice at the news of new arrivals in this world, to attend a baby shower without breaking down into tears. I lived for those times. But the rest of my days were punctuated by realizations, anew, of the grief that never quite left me and the God who would neither lift my longing nor fill the cup I extended.

Those were hard, lean years that honed my faith into something that I never could have achieved otherwise. I am thankful, in retrospect, for every tear I shed, every bitterness I had to overcome, and every moment I had to acknowledge that God was God ... and I, most certainly, was not.

And now, of course, I find myself in a different place. If those four long years were ones marked by the desperate, dry drought, well ... the past two and a half have been marked by a different gift altogether. Monsoon.

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. --Luke 6:38

I can see clearly now why the Lord seemed to ignore my pleas for peace in matters of family size; His plan, farther reaching than I could imagine, had to have a firm root in my heart in order for me to truly lay down my own desires and follow His leading. God didn't want me to desire a baby. God wanted me to build a family. And there is no room for self-seeking fulfillment in the building of a family. It's not about "being pregnant". It's not about "giving birth." It's about more than that--the death of self and the love of what God has built for His own glory.

I entered this monsoon season completely unsure of what God would bring my way. With the addition of Oliver to our home, I hit my knees in gratitude. I sang like Hannah. I praised the Lord, who had taken notice of me and turned my tears into laughter. For all I knew, Oliver was the last little one I would ever hold, and you know ... I was fine with that. One was enough. One more little person showed me that my longing was from the Lord, that it was not a vain ambition, but it was something that God had blessed and ordained.

Then there was Mani. I was over-the-moon thrilled, unable to put my elation into words. Finally, one morning a few days after he had come to us, I was reading the story of David accompanying the ark and came to the line where David is said to "dance before the Lord with all his might." And for the first time, I understood that kind of joy. God had heard me, and blessed me twice. What a mighty God we serve!

Who was I to ask or expect anything more from God? I rejoiced in my gifts, gave thanks, and prepared to move into a new season of life.

But God was not finished pressing down the measure.

Mr. Blandings met Bee, and knew she was our daughter.

Then this woman, whose heart had finally accepted that her body was no longer a vessel for bringing life into the world, found out that God had placed His hand of protection over her and a new little one.

From three to seven. Monsoon.

This morning, we received joyful news. Not only am I now at the relatively "safe" 32 week point, at which Seven's little lungs will require so much less assistance were he or she to be born now, but, adding to our joy, is the fact that Bee's visa is up for consideration again. Her interview went very well. So well, in fat, that the embassy has asked her to come back again. There is hope! God is working on our behalf.

He always is, of course. We just often can't or won't see it. During the drought, I cried out to God countless times. Where are you? Why aren't you answering?

He was there. He was answering. Just not in the way I wanted to hear.

Maybe it is the Lord's plan that, as Seven is born, we will welcome Bee home as well. Wouldn't it be amazing to have that full measure poured into my lap all at once? Two adoptions, done. One birth, gifted to you. And a visa, yes. All in a few weeks--not even months--time!

If the definition of a monsoon is a sudden glut of much-needed water, then I am, happily, swimming in it. We know that many people look on in horror as we laugh yet again at God's abundance in this area of our life. Please don't ask us to disparage His timing, His generosity, or His plan. Because we were parched, and now we drink deeply. We asked, and we have received. The Lord has seen fit to pour out His blessings, and we, His humble servants accept them with gratitude!

Faith

From the moment I saw the two pink lines, I began to doubt. I wish it were not so, but it's true: nearly 19 weeks into this pregnancy, and I'm still not convinced that I will hold a baby in my arms come September.

I was very candid earlier with my real, honest reason for submitting to the hCG blood tests after I first learned that I was pregnant; I was terrified of enduring yet another miscarriage knowing that this time, I'd most likely be alone. Mr. Blandings was en route to Nepal. Benny was awaiting the birth of her newest little one. And really, there are very few other people who I'd want to invite into the sanctity of my home when I'm mourning and feeling rotten and calling into question God's plan.

I pictured myself curled into a ball on the couch, crying, verbally coaching Atticus through the process of loading dvd after dvd into the player for the rambunctious littles who had no clue why Mommy was serving cold jelly sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I imagined needing pain meds, but being unable to take them for fear of parenting even more poorly than I already was. I saw myself scraping bare minimum, and having nothing at all left to give.

It was not a pretty picture. In fact, it scared me more than I could even admit at the time.

So I violated what has become my hard and fast rule: no blood tests, no medical confirmation. I called my ob, scheduled a draw, and went in. Then I waited. The first set of results was not promising. Mr. Blandings offered to reschedule the trip to Nepal. "Wait for the second set of numbers," I said, knowing in my heart of hearts that I'd start bleeding before then. And yet ...

The numbers came back promising.

A follow-up ultrasound introduced us to a wriggling baby with a heartbeat.

A subsequent ultrasound showed us a kicking, waving Seven bopping along to the whoosh-whoosh of the watery home God created.

I started to feel wiggles.

And yet ...

And yet, in moments I find that I have precious little faith.

Do I doubt that God's will for me is good? No. Do I doubt that He can open and close the womb at His command? No. Do I doubt that He showers blessings on His people? No again.

But somehow, somewhere, deep inside ... I cannot trust. I simply cannot fully embrace that this one ... this little person ... this baby ... this one will be mine here on earth.

And yes, I'm questioning. Why this one, Lord? Why now? What is different today, of all days?

Please don't think I'm being ungrateful. I'm not. I am over-the-moon thrilled with each wriggle and tap, with every shirt I outgrow, and every chance I have to say "this newest one." I endure my weekly shots with pure joy, knowing that every week, every day, is a gift. I look forward to an aching back. I can't wait to waddle.

But what my heart feels just stops slightly south of my head. Logic pushes its way into the picture and reminds me that nothing in life is guaranteed. God does not promise us days without pain. We are not above loving and losing. Pregnancy does not equal a new family member. At least, not in the economy my household has endured.

Yesterday afternoon I left church feeling somewhat ill. I was sweating, my heart racing, my body fatigued. I was certain that something was wrong, that this was some horrible crash leading to somehow losing Seven. Reading my fears, Mr. Blandings suggested I take a break. Once we got home, I fell into my bed, popped in my earplugs, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I was undisturbed for nearly two whole hours. Finally, I found myself drifting back to consciousness and began taking stock of my physical self. No longer overheated. Heart and mind at rest. Body rejuvenated and ready to rise.

With slightly tremulous hands, I prodded my growing belly, waiting for the dread silence that would spiral me back into more hours of doubt and wonder. As if on cue, Seven lurched. The sudden movement took me totally by surprise. Until now, our little Seven has been a quiet little tap dancer, gently prodding and fluttering here and there, and only with maddening rarity. I took a deep breath and waited. Seven responded again. A giant lunge this time from one side of the swimming pool to the other, with a rapid kick thrown in for good measure.

I realized then that I was crying, even through my laughter.

Seven is o.k. Seven is fine. Just stop it. Stop it and have faith.

I stayed in my bed a few moments longer, pondering the very fragility of it all. True, true--not one of us is promised another day. Not one of us marries with the absolute knowledge that our spouse will remain by our side until we are old enough to dangle our grandchildren on our knees. Not one of us can say with certainty that our children will outlive us, our brothers and sisters will be companions well into our old age, or that we will not be on the other end of a sobering diagnosis that counts our remaining time in weeks rather than years.

Not one of us can dream of holding our newest blessing and know, know with all that we are, that this child will be born complete and healthy and whole, and will prosper like a flower in God's garden.

We try to live as if we can have faith in these things, but we cannot.

Instead, what we have is a heritage far more rich, one that demands that we walk without sight and hold fast to every day as if it were more precious than gold. Right now, what I have is a house brimming with love, a husband who blesses me, five children who bring me daily joy, a daughter in Kathmandu who I long to hold, and Seven. Wiggling, kicking, unseen but still known Seven.

I can live in fear that any of those things will be called away from me. I can be paralyzed by the hurts of the past. I can be robbed by the whispers of satan. Or I can live in faith that God has given me this day, this moment, and this joy. No matter what the future holds, I have this. Today, it is enough.

"What's the point?"

An acquaintance who is--admittedly--just a tad confused by just about everything my family does, contemplates, or stands for found me in the fabric aisle of the local craft store recently. She asked to hear the news: was Bee home with us, or still in Kathmandu?

I filled her in. Beside me, Atticus scratched his neck uncomfortably, thinking of his downtrodden daddy and sister back home, and the one in Nepal whose hugs he couldn't yet receive.

Her face shifted only the slightest bit, revealing much more than words ever could. I could have told you this would happen, her eyes whispered. You just don't know when to stop, do you?

Finally, she composed herself. Placed a consoling hand on my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

"Sometimes you have to ask yourself, 'What's the point?' huh?" she asked.

I rustled in my backpack and found my iPod. With a couple of quick clicks, I found an answer that spoke volumes, despite the dead silence all around us.

Bee and Jo, KTM, Feb. 23, 2010

What's the point?

Simply put, this:

God sets the lonely in families (Psalm 68:6)

If that's not a reason to fight on, I don't know what is.

What's the point, indeed. (harumph)

Denied

I awoke after a restless night to find an email from Mr. Blandings waiting for me. I didn't have to open it to taste the disappointment. In the subject line, he had written one word:

NO.

Bee's visa was denied. As I write this, Mr. Blandings and Jo are gathering their belongings, wadding dirty shirts and pants into bags, and preparing their hearts for one of the hardest journeys they will ever make.

They're coming home, without Bee.

The house is dark and quiet on my end. The boys have yet to stir, and I've spent the hour since I got the news paging restlessly through my Bible, begging the Lord to speak to me. Finally, as I rolled my head back onto my pillow, my eyes settled on the small plaque that hangs near my bed.

Be still, and know that I am GOD, Ps. 46:10

So I am working on being still, and on remembering that while David only needed one of the five stones he had gathered to defeat his giant, the walls of Jericho didn't come down until that final trumpet blast. Could the Lord have done it sooner? Couldn't He have toppled that wall without the silly-seeming parade? Of course He could. But He chose not to.

My heart is breaking for all of us, but mainly it is for Bee. Mr. Blandings will come home a beaten man who will struggle to understand why, who will ask the Lord if he did something wrong, if there was something he missed. Jo will return to me wiser and more compassionate than before, with a heart that now grasps fully what it is to wait upon the Lord, even when your heart's desire dangles before you. I will be here for both of them. So will a houseful of joyous boys, who will only be able to feel so much loss, having not laughed with Bee, or held her hand, or discovered how much she likes to bake. In our home, there are toddler hugs, and games to be played, and always someone who swoops behind you at just the right moment to kiss your forehead and tell you what a blessing you are.

Mr. Blandings and Jo will be beaten, but not broken.

But Bee...

Our poor Bee. She will continue to long for the thing that she has tasted. She will continue to grow in a loving atmosphere that is not quite home, cared for perfectly, but never quite a daughter. When she goes to bed at night, she will wonder. Are they still coming for me? Will this ever happen? Did I do something wrong? Am I not worthy of a family, Lord?

My biggest prayer this sad, dreary morning is that Bee, too, will be still. That God will wrap His arms around her and comfort her. That He will be the rock she clings to as she is rocked, yet again, by disappointment. The Lord sets the lonely in families. I know this much is true; I have seen it with my eyes and experienced it in my own home. God has a family for you, Bee. And He will bring you to it. Be still, and wait on Him.

And we will do the same.

El-Roi

EL-ROI (Genesis 16:1)--meaning "The Strong One Who Sees"

I love the names of God. In fact, I feel a little cheated sometimes as I read through my NIV or NASB versions of the Bible and come across yet another "the LORD" when the context of the reference is clearly alluding to one of the amazing attributes revealed in the small, humble package of a name. It's easy to forget, in a world where titles mean so little, the majesty and power that are summed up in the way God refers to himself--and is referred to by His first followers. He is The One Who Goes Before Us. Our Banner. Our Provider. And, oh, yes ... The Strong One Who Sees.

These past few days, as Mr. Blandings, Jo, and Bee have been enjoying one another in Kathmandu, we have also been engaged in a full-scale prayer effort asking God for nothing short of a miracle: We want Bee's visa, stamped, approved and in hand, in time for her to step onto the plane and come home with her father and sister.

This has been a tall order in the eyes of man. First of all, Mr. Blandings and Jo were unexpectedly detained for a full day on one of their layovers, costing them an entire day's worth of time in Nepal. Then, the disgruntled politics that upend life there from time to time intervened--a strike was planned, and closure of government offices was imminent. And then there was a clerk who was unmoved by the impassioned pleas of a 13 year-old girl wanting to be seen at the embassy in time to leave with her new family. An interview was scheduled, yes ... for the day after her father and sister left the country.

Right now, I could amaze you by saying that God moved the mountains. I could bring a smile to the face of every believer who reads this by telling you that our God came through. He conquered the roadblocks and He moved hearts. All of this would be true.

Or I could sum it up like this:

We are under the wing of The Strong One Who Sees.

Before Mr. Blandings and Jo set foot in the Seattle airport ... The One Who Goes Before Us. Before the strike was planned ... Our Banner. Before the clerk ignored Bee ... Our Provider.

El-Roi has miraculously smashed every obstacle of the princes and principalities. Only one remains as I write this: Bee's interview that will either grant or deny her visa application. It is scheduled to take place at approximately 6:15 p.m. PST today, February 23, 2010. Approximately 12 hours after the interview begins, the journey back to Seattle will begin. The only question is how many Blandings family members will board the plane. Two? Or three?

I ask for your prayers. This entire journey has already displayed the immense power and glory of God. He has done so much, and given so many people who have heard this story the chance to raise their hands to heaven and praise Him. The desire of our heart is that Thursday night, Bee will sleep for the first time in the love and safety of the home the Lord has prepared for her here, with a family celebrating her arrival. We long for this. We ask you to join us in petitioning God that this be made a reality.

Because yes, He is The Strong One Who Sees. But He is also our loving Abba, who delights in our joy and cherishes us as beloved children. And we know that what we ask, He hears.

Thank you, friends. I hope to post tomorrow with news of victory.

Jo, the barbarian

"It took me a little while, but suddenly I saw it clearly. I was experiencing a barbarian invasion. Mariah's heart was beating to the rhythm of the heart of God. And her dreams were way too raw for me. I didn't see it initially, but I was trying to civilize her instead of unleashing the untamed faith within her. After all, I'm her dad. It's okay if I live a life of irrational faith and breathtaking adventure. I want something different for her. I want her to have security and safety--you know, a predictable, boring, mundane life where I never have to worry about her again. In that moment I realized Mariah would have none of that. For her there is only one path. Even at twelve she has already committed to it. Be still my heart, but my daughter has chosen the barbarian way out of civilization." Erwin Raphael McManus, The Barbarian Way

In just a handful of days, my Jo is heading on her biggest-yet God-led adventure: Nepal. Yes, yes ... she's already logged a few mission-miles under her belt. But this trip, this one ...

Jo will be thousands of miles away from me. For the first time ever.

And yes, Mr. Blandings will be at her side the whole time. And yes, we have friends who will surround her, and guide her, and remind her that while some things are acceptable in the U.S., while in Hindu-oriented countries, nice girls just don't.

She is excited. I imagine that the flush of her cheeks is close to what we'll see on the cusp of other important events. Going off to college. Trying on her wedding dress. Sharing the news of a baby on the way. That kind of rosy-cheeked joy brings me the sweetest pain in my heart when I see it.

This is what it means to give your children wings, and hand them back to God.

Because while she's gone, things will happen. Little things, but things I will not see. Jo will be overwhelmed by the chatter of a language that her ears can't interpret. She will delight in new sights and sounds. She will sleep lightly, unable to release the tensions of the day in a sleeping bag on a foreign floor. She will eat foods that she likes and foods that she wishes she could politely pass on, but will not for propriety's sake.

I will not be there.

I will be here, minding boys large (ish) and small. I will wash clothes and mend socks and cook meals. I will write, and read, and knit. I will live the life that I call my own.

The most awfully beautiful part of homeschooling is that I miss nothing. Day in and day out, I miss nothing. Perhaps that makes it all the more bittersweet to send a beloved child off on an adventure of their own? I don't know. But for me, the closeness begets a sense of comfort and joy that I hold on to, knowing that it's season is all too soon coming to an end.

I have made no mention of any of this to Jo. I think that sometimes the worst sin we can commit as mothers is to clip the wings of joy as they sprout in our children by saddling them with a bit of our own longing. Instead of holding her closer and whispering, "Come back to me safely. Don't be gone long," I smile at her as we stand side by side at the kitchen sink and say, "What an amazing adventure God has planned for you! I can feel it!" Instead of biting my lip and telling her how very empty my days will feel without her smile in the sea of faces around me, I kiss her forehead and let her know how delighted her father is to have her as a traveling companion.

On Monday, I will drive my traveler to the airport, drop them at the curb, and drive away. I will catch sight of Mr. Blandings in my rear view mirror, and as always, my heart will swell with pride and love and longing even as a prayer escapes my soul. To have him far from me is a thing that the Lord has asked of me as his wife, and while it pulls at the edges of my most vulnerable places every time I see him off on another calling, I have learned that God is trustworthy and true. My husband comes back to me when his work is done--no matter how dangerous a place he ventures in Christ's name.

But this time, I will see Jo's tall, thin form beside him. She'll have her oversized pack on her back, her beloved stuffed dog under her arm and her iPod headphones strung around her neck. Her posture will be bursting with the tightness and expectation of one about to embark on something beautiful.

I will cry.

Because this is what I have longed for. This is what I have begged of the Lord since, literally, the day I took Him into my heart and asked Him to rule my life. Make these children yours. Call them. Give them no fear. Use them.

Lives worth living, Lord. That's all I ask.

Jo is answering the call. She is only 12, but she is on fire. She sees no reason that her age should stop her from being a tool in the hands of Yahweh. If she has anything to say about it, it won't. Jo has no use for neat, sweet girls who sit under their mother's skirts and wait for Prince Charming. Jo wants to tell people about Jesus. As she reminds me almost daily, the people we walk past in the library may just be going to hell. It's worth the awkwardness or the discomfort or the danger to introduce people to God.

And I--her mother, the one who held her as her first breath filled the lungs the Lord created in her--will rejoice in that passion, no matter how much I want to hide her away under my skirts and keep her to myself. Because God is going to use this girl. She will make people stop, think, and ponder anew who this man Jesus is. She's already doing it.

The leaving kind

It sounds cliché, but when we shared the news of our planned move to Nepal with Mr. Blandings' parents, there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. You may have asked yourself what that Biblical phrase sounds like when transferred from the abstract text on a page to a real, live sound pouring from the lips of an individual. Do yourself a favor--try not to find out.

Truthfully, Mr. Blandings and I have caused such furor before. We have, after all, simply refused to live the kind of lives that fit into safe, tidy boxes. We were the couple that stomped and fumed over the location of our wedding (we gave in on that one). We were the thoughtless ones who got pregnant six months after said wedding. We were the malcontents who left the Catholic Church. We are the black sheep who decided to homeschool. We are the callous branch of the tree that lives thousands of miles away.

All in all, we cause heartache. And wailing. And yes, gnashing of teeth.

Madame Blandings, mother of my Mr. Blandings, has never quite forgiven us for causing her worry. I can't help but picture her wringing her hands from time to time, fretting over what we might do next. One income. No cable television. Adoption from foster care. International travel without an air conditioned tour bus. No prom for Jo. Dear Lord, help them help themselves!

I'm not sure where Madame Blandings went wrong, but her parenting efforts did not turn out a successful lawyer who spends long winter weekends skiing with his 1.5 children and rail-thin, doctor of wife. Instead, her oldest son drives a beater Volvo every day after kissing his wife good-bye and passing his hand in blessing over a rabble of children whose idea of snow fun is lashing salvaged bits of 2x4 from our discard wood pile out back to their rain boots.

Mothers worry. We know this down in our bones; The price of holding a child to your neck and feeling his breathing gradually fall into step with your own is to have your heart intertwined with his forever. You will sit up on feverish nights and pray sickness away. You will wince at hurts real and perceived. You will grieve the losses and dance in the victories. Forever, you will want the best for this little soul entrusted to your care.

But let's be honest--some children worry us more than others. They touch our softest, deepest heart-places and we link with that need in an almost primal way. Quite often, these are the selfsame children who seem programmed--almost from the moment they take their first breath--to chafe and kick against the very emotions that we ourselves can not help but lay over them like warm blankets on crisp nights. Why, Lord, why?

You may have a child like this in your own heart and home. Unabashedly independent, yet still so tender. Curious, but somehow nervous, as if his own explorations might bring him to a place where the whole applecart of his tenuous little being might be upended. Needy. Passionate. Unique.

I have one of these children myself, so I completely understand what Mr. Blandings' favorite aunt told me about his childhood one afternoon shortly before we were married:

"You have to understand, Mary Grace--the very first step Mr. Blandings ever took was a step away from his mother. She wanted to keep him so close, but all he ever did was go beyond her, getting into all kinds of trouble. I don't think she's ever forgiven him for that."

She hasn't. Her son, my husband, is still the little boy who will not behave. He is still escaping from his play-pen, straying into the unsafe places, and finding ways to vex her ... when all she's trying to do is make him happy.

Because surely, if anyone knows the key to a child's happiness, it's his mother, right? I know that I ascribe to this theory. Try this, you'll like it. Read this book, you'll enjoy it. You will tire of that sport, dear. Wear your coat, you'll get cold. How different is this from telling your son he should move back to the city he called home 20 years ago--the city where you still live? How much more peaceful is it to be the mother of children--even adult children--who are accounted for day and night? Who are financially secure? Who have all they could ever ask for? Whose lives are as easy and comfortable as you could ever ask?

While discussing Nepal, Madame Blandings said that we could not understand the kind of pain we have inflicted on her, and I agree. I don't know what it's like to wonder if my son is working, sleep-addled and exhausted, through yet another overtime shift to pay for Christmas gifts this year. I don't have to wonder if my boys are taking eating well, if they are adored as they ought to be, or if they are just a paycheck to a selfish woman who is too lazy to pull her own weight. I'm not there yet. But yes, I am treasuring all of these things up in my heart. Someday, after all, I will be the mother of boys who are no longer boys, but men.

The parting shot in our painful conversation with the elder Blandings' was this--

Tears in her voice, a tinge of anger seeping through, Madame Blandings addressed me, specifically.

"I hope you never go through this, Mary Grace. I hope you never know what it's like to have your kids scattering all over the earth and not even know whose hands they are in."

And this, I think, is the thing I am treasuring up the most.

Because I'll be honest, my heart leaps with delight at the thought of three, five, seven Blandings clans popping up in the hardest-to-reach areas of the globe. My heart mourns the missed Christmases and the birthdays without cupcakes, yes. But on a larger scale, I admit that I dream of being the kind of woman who God uses to multiply not just through biology, but throughout His Kingdom in a mighty movement of seed-planting.

I know in whose hands I have placed my children. And trust me, they are far better off with Him than they would ever be in the safe boxes which I might construct for them.

My prayer is that I can keep this momentum, that my heart stays fixed on this desire. Even as my children grown, and their leashes get longer and longer, and the stakes for their hearts just creep higher ... Lord, never let me forget that risks taken in Your Name are to be applauded, not run through a cost-benefit analysis. Let me grit my teeth through the feats of faith that You might lead my children through as You use them for Your purposes. Let me be the first one to step up in prayer and practice.

And most of all, Lord Jesus, let me never value safe above saved. Especially not when it comes to my own beloved children.

On grace

Do you ever notice that the one person who seems to zero in on all of your faults, the one person who gleefully calls you on the mat, the one person who nags you when you stumble is ...

You?

Yeah, it's like that for me, too. I am my own harshest critic. I am the one who points out my shortcomings, who sighs dejectedly when goals are not met, who brings out the wet noodle when things go undone. I am the one who sees that the floor has not been vacuumed. I am the one who tells guests at the front door to please excuse the fact that I have a living room overrun with small plastic whatnots. I am the one who sees the science book lying there, untouched, and chastise myself for failing to make time. Again.

I strive to be the perfect wife, mother, and homeschooler. Of course, I can't be any of those things perfectly. I'm lucky to even be a good wife to my deserving husband, a passable mother to my fabulous kids, and the kind of teacher that I want to be. I constantly walk around with the knowledge that life is a delicate balance. Ample portions must be placed neatly on each platter. This one is for my husband: I'll give him time, encouragement, love, support, respect, and a house that he will be proud to come home to at night. This one is for my children: I'll give them love, cuddles, discipline, gentle words, security, joy, and fun. This one is for my role as a homeschooler: here I place my self-discipline, my creativity, my intellect, the flames of curiosity, and all the patience I can muster.

All it takes it one slight nudge in any direction for everything to swing out of balance. Too much in the way of fun for the kids, and the self-discipline needed to accomplish those school goals can fly out the window. Too much time invested in helping my husband with the practical stuff, and I might just have to shuffle my kids off in front of the television for a half hour. And wait just one doggone minute here! Where's my plate?!?!

It's a balance. It's hard work. And it's heart work.

I really need to give myself more leeway and grace. I need to make sure I'm in line with God's will, and trust that the rest will follow. I need to tune into Him, and trust that He will provide the details as I move to be the woman He wants me to be.

If only I could quiet that nagging voice. "You're doing it wrong. So-and-so is so much better at that than you are. Are you sure you're cut out for this?"

And here's where I'm going to cut to the chase and throw open the doors to my heart:

Sometimes, the voice I hear isn't my own. Sometimes that voice belongs to my fellow homeschooling moms.

At some point, somewhere along the journey, many of us begin to feel like we've figured it out. We hit our stride (even if it's just for a season), and things are working well. Our husbands are madly in love with us and delight in our every word. Our children are impeccably behaved, cute as buttons, and geniuses to boot. Homeschooling is a joy, and we can't wait to begin each day's adventure in education.

And we start to think that we have discovered the secret. You know--The Way To Do It.

So, of course, we tell others.

We pass on tips on homemaking, housekeeping, being the perfect wife, child training, selecting curriculum, selecting a church, you name it. We rattle off reading lists, mention specific scriptures, talk about speakers we've heard. But instead of simply offering granule of life experience, we add a small caveat to our gleanings. It's usually completely unspoken, but it's there. It's judgement.

If you don't wear dresses all the time, you're not conservative enough.
If you don't have a dozen kids, you're not a good enough mother.
If you don't joyfully submit to your husband 100%, you're not a good enough wife.
If you don't wake up at 4 a.m. for a 2 hour prayer-time, you're not a good enough Christian.
If you don't do school for six hours a day, you're not a good enough homeschooler.

"Did you see how her son acted at co-op? Awful. You know, I'm so glad that we have a first-time obedience policy. My kids never act that way, because they know we mean business."

"I heard they're having marital problems. If she would just stop trying to run the family, they'd be fine."

"I doubt they even actually homeschool at all. They seem to be involved in every activity coming and going."

For some reason, homeschooling and legalism seem to walk hand in hand quite often. And the truth is, legalism is appealing. It seems to offer the one charted course that leads to the safe, soft-focus destination called Perfection. There are rules and order in legalism. There are Scriptures with very definitive takes on very specific things. There are clear-cut right ways and clear-cut wrong ways. Go this way and it will all turn out. Veer off course and-- you're told--you'll hit the rocks. And really, who doesn't want a guide book that promises to make everything in your life turn out just so?

I have struggled with legalism. I have looked at my own life, with it's bruised apple spots, and thought that maybe the answer could be found in a certain attitude toward my husband, or a particular form of femininity. I have watched as my children have grown, and I have feared life's ups and downs for them, wondering if perhaps erecting certain fences in our family might spare them from future pain.

For a season, those things seem to bear fruit. And then, invariably, I hear that still, small voice asking me the question that never fails to bring my carefully constructed perfection crumbling down:
What about grace?

What about grace, indeed? Pursuing righteousness and holiness is a noble and good task. Bathing your family in the goodness of God, instructing your children in His words, being in the world but not of it ... these are all things that the Lord commands us to do.

But He also asks one other thing of us as we walk the path that leads, ultimately, to His mansion for us:

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. --1 Thessalonians 5:11

My fellow homeschoolers, we all fight the feelings of defeat and insufficiency that lead us to look at our days and wonder why God chose us. Please, instead of adding to that chorus of pain with more baggage and assumptions, can't we instead give a good report of one another? Can't we look at the harried mom of two kids who is trying to make it work and pat her on the back without pointing out that we have six kids and are getting by just fine? Can't we quit turning up our noses at the wife whose husband has no interest in being a leader of anything, let alone their home? Can't we drop the co-op dress codes that make it seem as if Jesus wouldn't be caught dead in a room devoid of denim jumpers?

Can't we extend grace?

Because frankly, we need it. We need it from ourselves, we need it from our friends and, most of all, we need it from God. The thing is--the Lord offers it new every morning. It's the rest of us who haven't gotten the memo.

I'm working on grace right now--for myself and for those around me. I'm praying that God gives me His eyes, and His love. And maybe, maybe ... just a little bit of His grace and mercy to pass around.