Dostoevsky 's Cook (An Angel, an Onion, and a Pair of Boots)



It's only a story, but it's a nice story.  I used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still with me.  It's like this.  Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was.  And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind.  The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire.  So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell God; "She once pulled up an onion in her garden," said he, "And gave it to a beggar woman." And God answered, "You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out.  And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is."  The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her.  "Come," said he, "catch hold and I'll pull you out."  And he began cautiously pulling her out.  He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her.  But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them.  "I'm to be pulled out, not you.  It's my onion, not yours."  As soon as she said that, the onion broke.  And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day.  So the angel wept and went away.  - Fyodor Dostoevsky

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There was a time about eight months after the twins were born that I felt like I really needed (ie. wanted) a pair of rain boots.  I scoured the internet for weeks on end, I watched e-bay like a hawk and finally I bought a beautiful pair of lime green boots - they're the happiest boots I've ever seen. 

When they arrived my children swarmed the door as they do any time the UPS man approaches.  I grabbed the box, declared it MINE and quickly set it aside to open later. When I finally opened them I was greeted by their heavy rubbery smell and marveled at their beauty as my children stood by, their eyes glowing with excitement and anticipation.  I looked the boots over and set them aside. 

My children gasped in astonishment, "You're not going to wear them!?"  They immediately clamored around my precious new boots and began man-handling them in a wide variety of ways. 

In that moment something rose up in me and I blurted out, "No, these are MY boots.  You MAY NOT touch them."  My children looked heartbroken, confused, as I gathered those boots and hauled them off to my room where they stood in line like soldiers awaiting the call of duty, waiting until I was good and ready to enjoy them. 

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It's strange, I know, but I rather like Dostoevsky's onion story.  I like the way it captures the impulse of human greed in such a recognizable way, how cleverly and simply it reveals the way that greed hurts not only the greedy, but all involved.

I love this story in the same way I love the story of Jonah for it too is a story of greed and jealousy to the point of hatred and Jonah too is willing to die rather than let go of his righteous anger.  These stories catch me and I glimpse myself in them as one does in walking by a mirror or store window; in a flash something is revealed in me that I know to be true but am not often willing to recognize. 

I value this story for the way it catches me unawares and raises questions about my possessiveness, the way I protect me and mine and the cost of the things I keep.  No one could truly be as "wicked" as the woman was said to be, but that impulse is something we all know. 

I'm a giving person, as a mother of four one could argue that I give of myself all day every day and it's good and right that a few things should be saved for just me alone.  I would say you're probably right on most accounts, but the next time my husband reaches over into my bowl of chips and I slap his hand away with a snappy, "Get your own bowl," maybe I'll remember this woman and her onion. 

When the words "It's mine, not yours," rise so easily, so reflexively, and in such contrast to the mercy and joy and grace of the moment, I want to notice them, to sit awhile and consider their source, to notice the cost they bring to bear on my own soul and the souls of those around me. 

Help me to remember, God, with grace, the cost of MINE.  Help me to discern what to hold tightly lest I be held, imprisoned by that which I hold. 



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I read this story last month in preparation for a retreat on Giving and Receiving.  It stayed with me, captured me, and rolled me around in its images and irony, its extremes and it's still not finished with me yet.  So here I am, sharing it with you.  What do you think? 

Playing the Love Card (a cure for grumpy bears and grumpier mothers)

One day Bartholomew was grumpy . . . His ears were cold.
"Wrap your scarf around your ears to keep them warm, " said George.

But Bartholomew was still grumpy. His legs felt too stumpy.
"I'll carry you," said George.

At home, Bartholomew's porridge was too lumpy,
his tummy too plumpy, and he was too small.
"I'll feed you," said George.

At bath time, Bartholomew hid. He did not like anything at all.
"What a day," said George. "You've been so grumpy, your legs have
felt stumpy, your porridge was too lumpy, your tummy too plumpy but,
Ba . . . I love you just the way you are."

Bartholomew felt better.
He kissed George and he brushed his teeth all by himself.

"Time for bed, Ba," said George. "We both need a little rest."
"Nah," said Bartholomew.

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My husband and I worked at a personal care home for about two years when we first got married.  When the time came for us to leave one elderly woman told me how much she would miss us.  She said how much she liked and admired my gentle, soft-spoken husband and then she said, "But you, you could be a little grumpy at times."

I let the sting of her well-meaning comment settle a little, then looked her straight in the eye and said, "You're right, I can be a little grumpy sometimes." 

I guess maybe something like that could go on my tombstone, "Here lies a beloved wife and mother who could be a little grumpy sometimes."  It's true after all, there are days when I simply feel far from myself, out of sorts with the world and everything in it.  Days when there's an itch in my soul that I can't scratch, the feeling of something chaffing away at me so that the day itself leaves me fit to be tied no matter how good or bad or in-between it is.  Just ask my kids or my husband, they could tell you about it for sure.

I'm aware enough now at the ripe old age of thirty-five, to know when it's happening, to feel it coming or be able to step back in the middle of everything and see myself with an objective eye.  I know enough to recognize that it usually comes over me because of some rigid unspoken rule I've placed on the day or the moment.  There's nothing wrong with hopes and standards, but when the whole day is conspiring against you (as today happens to be, if you hadn't already guessed) it's best to somehow let yourself and those you love off the hook in some way or another. 

The only way I know to escape this is to surrender to the small grains of love and grace that surround me, to take my eyes off of my goals or dissatisfactions long enough to see something more and to open myself to the love that is True no matter what, whether I'm able to get out of the mood or mess I'm in or not.

You'll forgive me, won't you, if there are days, weeks, months when I play the "love card" with my grumpy old self, when I play it over and over like a favorite worn out record for my kids and my spouse?  Don't we all have days when we and the world we live in are just too "lumpy, plumpy and stumpy" to bear?     

I'll admit that there's something about playing the love card that seems a little weak, like maybe I'm getting too soft on myself, letting my standards slide a bit too far.  Love, really?  Like gratitude, it seems so ineffective, so unproductive, to people who're sold on the likes of power and control and self-improvement. 

Maybe, though, love is the best card we have to play, the only card that can bring us out, set us free from our wretched state of sin and sorrow and, perhaps even grumpiness.  I'm convinced it was one of Jesus' favorite tricks, which of course made plenty of those around him madder than all heck and drew others to him like all grace draws a sin-heavy soul. 

I have to wonder, too, if this isn't what Christmas and the cross that follows are all about, God playing a big 'ol grand love card on our behalf, freeing us to be better than we know ourselves to be.  "I love you, just the way you are," says the manger and the star, the sky full of angels and light.  "I love you," says God, "I love you."

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, Love Divine,
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and Angels gave the sign.

- Christina Rosetti         

     

I Would Like to Buy $3 Worth of God, Please (vol.3)

This is my response to the following quote, the last in a series of three:

I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please. Not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep, but just enough to equal a cup of warm milk or a snooze in the sunshine. I don't want enough of Him to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant. I want ecstasy, not transformation; I want the warmth of the womb, not a new birth. I want a pound of the Eternal in a paper sack. I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please. - Tim Hansel on most Christians' priorities. 

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I understand what Tim Hansel is trying to say here - that too often we want only what's comfortable or convenient of God, which is true.  I have a problem, though, knowing what to do with this observation.  It somehow seems to send me veering off into guilt (well, I guess I'm really not good enough after all) and subsequent striving (because I'm not good enough, I will take on self-improvement projects and thereby transform myself). 

 

This is old, old thinking for me, you see, I'm naturally a bit of an extremist, black and white to a fault, do or die, all or nothing. When I was a teenager at a youth rally in a stadium filled with my peers, I responded to the call to be a “martyr” for Christ, a call that naively predated our current era of terroristic martyrdom. I sat with my friends in our high seats with my heart pounding and hands sweating as the altar call came with the instructions to stand and yell, “I want to give my life away,” then make your way with speed down to the front.

I did it; I stood and shouted and ran like the devil was on my tail, as though one more act of courage might finally get me over that fearful line in the sand that I always felt existed between me and the God I longed for. When the choice comes between hot or cold, I’ve always pushed hard toward hot, fanning the flames of faith and devotion, laying on wood until the fire raged pulsing with a life all its own. But over time a fire like that consumes too much and burns those who wander too close to its light.

At the same time, though, I, like the apostle Paul before me, am the chief of sinners, the foremost hypocrite, a real standout in the crowd of double-speaking, fork-tongued followers most of us know ourselves to be. Giving my life away in that stadium packed with sweaty, hormonal teens may have been the easy choice; easier to give my uncertain life away than to embrace it with all of its ambiguity and freedom and potential for disaster or glory.

That simple act of faith was nothing when compared to the taste of daily surrender, daily trust, daily openness to the abiding call of love that I’ve learned in the many years since. Every day now I sit, metaphorically, in that stadium seat, each moment offering choices both false and true, and my heart pounds and my hands grow sweaty as I face the same choice again and again and again.

Yet what I now know to be true is that I was no closer to the love of God when my voice cried out and my feet made their thundering, pounding run toward the stadium’s ground level, than I was the moment before when I sat hunched amidst my friends who’s hearts surely were pounding too. I now know that there’s no falling or running or sinning my way out of the love of God, no surrender of a life that isn’t mine to begin with. 

We don’t need more martyrs, more striving, try-harder sorts of people and God doesn’t need them either. What we do need are people who’re willing to embrace and be embraced by the presence of God in whatever guise it comes – even in the $3 bag if that’s what’s offered or what our hearts can bare.  I think of people like Paul and Moses who counted themselves lucky to have seen less of God; a blinding light or a heavy cloud passing over a mountain’s crevasse was more than enough for them. God appears most often in the small, the whisper, the enigmatic response and blessed are those humble enough to recognize him there. 

I don't have many opportunities for grand gestures of faith these days, but moment by moment I'm choosing surrender.  I'm seeking out the small scraps of God, the hem of his garment, the crumbs that fall from the breaking bread of communion. These I can gather by the handful, feasting on the tiny morsels, spreading them around and sharing what I find.

I know now that I don’t have to “sell out” to God, because God has already “sold out” for me; I know that the answer to a faith of passive resignation isn't  greater self-control.   Though I spend a lifetime trying, I’ll never gather up all there is to be had of the One who gathers us all.

God, in this season when we await the One who comes to us in the tiny, frail package of human flesh, help us to be willing to receive you as you are. Teach us the art of surrender to the you and may the words of our hearts ever be as faithful and willing as Mary, "Let it be unto me."  

Coats (May Warm Be Enough)

The More We Own The Less We Have to Name

If we had only one coat, we would call it Warm,
but if we got another, it would not be Warmer,
      just our other coat,
and if we bought, borrowed, stole
      or rescued from the trash
a third, fourth, or fifth coat,
if our closets held so many coats
jackets, parkas, capes, stoles, mantles and mackinaws
that if we changed them daily from October through April,
rotating cashmere, leather, fleece and down,
scarlets and peacocks, blacks and browns,
if we had coats to cover the entire tundra
      and with it all our ancestors
who ever felt the chill of His absence,
none of these would be Warmer,
none of these would be Enough.

- L.N. Allen

We have a whole room in our house lined with pegs and devoted to the storage of coats - a startling array of outerwear designed to help ease six people through four seasons worth of weather and everything in-between.  In that small back room, a former porch now closed in, there are more coats for us all than Baskin Robbins has flavors - a coat, you might say, for every palate. 

I also have a whole room in my memory devoted to the coats of my past, a musty closet so full that the door will hardly stay shut anymore.  If you were to dig your way cautiously in to that dark closet in the hallway of my brain you might find, way in the back, the mustardy-golden wool coat with large toggle buttons that I thought was oh-so-trendy in high school.  Hanging near it, or cast forgotten onto the floor, lies the bright orange and navy blue windbreaker that matched so well with my eyes, but made me feel like a construction worker every time I wore it. 

The dark wool pea-coat I bought at the salvation army in college would still be there hanging stiffly on its hanger.  It was ungodly heavy, decked out with two rows of silver buttons and appeared to me to be a real cast-off from the Navy.  Nearby would be the thin yellow rain coat I bought for a camping trip with my then boyfriend who later became my husband, as though the purchase of a coat between us somehow sealed the deal. 

Hanging toward the front, still usable, would be the burgundy knee-length coat that makes me feel a little like a rock star every time I wear it.  This is the coat that caused my husband to suggest in a gentle tone when I returned home from buying it, that maybe we should consult each other before making big purchases. 

I have too many coats (maybe I always have) and my husband and children do too.  Lately I'm hunting for a back-up winter coat for my daughter.  I've made multiple trips to a variety of stores, ordered two online and returned, all because I don't like the way her bright pink parka from last year is starting to show some wear. Walking into Old Navy on yet another scouting trip I noticed a box for donating old coats as you buy a new one and I thought, "Why not keep your old coat and buy a new one to donate?" I didn't do either, though, not that day nor since. 

The coats we wear, like much of our clothing, are often a symbol for identity, announcing to the world our interest in outdoor sports or our need to hide behind something long and warm that covers us.  Our coats hold us, warm us and I have to restrain myself every year to keep from buying an over-abundance of fleeces and hoodies at yard and consignment sales, so great is my desire and my pleasure at covering, clothing, my children.

I have too many coats as our back room will tell you and many days I'm convinced that this is more of a burden than a blessing.  I wonder what these coats might tell me if I were to listen to them one by one.  Certainly they would speak of my vanity, my desire to fit in or stick out in equally competing measures.  They might mention also, perhaps shyly, my fear of the cold and how holding myself too tightly rigid only makes the shivering that much worse.  They would probably want to know why I don't go out more often, to enjoy the cold or the rain or the wind, especially now that I have them to keep me.   

Gracious God, we in our frail humanity fear the cold, the wind, the rain.  To put it more plainly, ever since that incident in the garden, we fear exposure.  Forgive us, please, if we go a little overboard in covering ourselves and the ones we love.  Help us to bear, oh Lord, your stripping.  Teach us to welcome the first breath of frost and its burning sting.  Help us to learn to let Warm be enough. 

I Would Like to Buy $3 Worth of God, Please (vol. 2)

This is the second in a three-part series of posts based on the following quote:

I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please. Not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep, but just enough to equal a cup of warm milk or a snooze in the sunshine. I don't want enough of Him to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant. I want ecstasy, not transformation; I want the warmth of the womb, not a new birth. I want a pound of the Eternal in a paper sack. I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please. - Tim Hansel on most Christians' priorities.

This second post was written by my friend, Tom Kaden. Tom came on staff at Engage Community Church when I was associate pastor and filled in for me when I took leave to have the twins.  About six months later Tom and his wife Sarah found out they too were having twins, so our families now mirror each other, since they also already had two older children.  They welcomed two beautiful baby girls into the world about six weeks ago.  Tom continues to lead at Engage and has also started a non-profit counseling ministry called Someon To Tell It To.  Tom and his business partner Michael blog at Someone to Tell it To. 

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There is a three letter word that maneuvers its way into our vocabulary and it is quite possibly more damaging and destructive to our well-being and the well-being of those around us than most of the four letter words our society deems as immoral.  This three letter word rears its ugly head nearly every time we ask our children to clean their play rooms; it rears its ugly head nearly every time we are asked to do something uncomfortable or painful by our boss or co-worker (even if it isn’t voiced out loud); it even rears its ugly head in the lives of those of us who call ourselves faithful followers of our “Lord” Jesus Christ when we read passages in the Bible which make hairs stand up on the backs of our neck.  If you haven’t guessed it just yet, then you just lost at our game of hangman.  The three letter word I am thinking of is the word: BUT…!!!

Maybe you are sitting at your job and a co-worker just asked you if you could help him with a minor issue he is faced with on his computer.  You are in the middle of an important project and you have a looming deadline hanging over your head.  Guess what word just popped into your head?  It’s that destructive word: BUT…!!!  “I’ll help you BUT…I really need to get this project done first.  Or, maybe your spouse asked you to help change a diaper (or two), but your favorite team or show is on television and you don’t want to miss a minute of it.  There it is again, that damaging word: BUT…!!!  “I’ll help you, BUT…can it wait until the next commercial?” 

 

Do you resonate with those examples?  If not, how about this one?  This morning before you started your quiet time of meditation on the Gospel of Mark, you prayed out loud, “Lord, today I recommit myself as your disciple.  You are the Lord of my life.  Direct my path today.”  After you are finished, you pick up your Bible and continue your study on the Gospel of Mark.  Today’s passage is the story of the Rich Young Ruler.   You read the story and your eyes read verse 21 as quickly as possible where Jesus says: 21"You lack one thing; go, sell what you have, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me."  

 

“BUT," you think, "…surely, not I Lord. Surely that passage isn’t meant for me. I’m barely making enough money to support our family of five. I know this passage reads, sell everything you own and give to the poor, BUT…I have a family to feed. I can’t give out of nothing!”  There it is again, that three letter word which has so much become part of your vocabulary that it leaves you further and further from experiencing the truth of the Gospel in your own life. 

 

The truth is the three-letter word BUT could be used for good in our lives.  It doesn't always carry with it such negative connotations if used as another reminder of how the Gospel has changed us and the model that has been laid before us.  For example, in Philippians chapter 2, Paul says (of Christ):

 

⁶ Who, being in very nature God,
    did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;
⁷ BUT, he made himself nothing
    by taking the very nature of a servant,
    being made in human likeness.
⁸ And being found in appearance as a man,
    he humbled himself
    by becoming obedient to death—
        even death on a cross!

Notice in this passage how Paul uses the three letter word “BUT”, yet he puts a much more positive twist on it.  He reminds us, as he was reminding the church hundreds of years ago, that Christ Jesus, even though He was equal with God, set aside His rights--to serve us.  He willingly chose to not use that fateful word as a roadblock to loving others, but instead as the foundation for His goodness, grace, and compassion. 

 

So maybe for us the takeaway is this: Yes, you have a family of five to feed on very little income, BUT…God has given you something or some way to love, bless, and serve His kingdom.  Yes, your spouse just asked you for a second time to change your daughter(s) diapers, BUT…this time in your daughter(s) lives is fleeting and these moments will end soon and there will always be another game or another show to watch.  Yes, your co-worker just asked you to help him with his computer glitch for the third time today, BUT…God has given you an amazing opportunity to use your gifts to be a blessing to your co-worker in a way that maybe no one else in the office can.

Today I am reminded of Christ’s example of humility and grace and openness to God’s transformative power.  I am reminded of the great length He has gone and continues to go to extend His unconditional love and mercy to us.  This changes everything because our motivation isn’t a means of trying to earn God’s love and approval and it’s also not just about us as individuals which the negative use of the word BUT often implies.  Christ used the word BUT not as a way to close doors or miss opportunities to extend love, compassion, and grace; instead, used the word as a means of opening His very life and ours to the amazing grace, abundant compassion, and absolute love.         

[Stay tuned for my take on this quote and, as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts too.  I'm sure Tom would enjoy hearing your comments. If you like this piece, take a few minutes to explore the blog posts on his website - you won't be disappointed.] 

I'd Like to Buy $3 Worth of God, Please (vol. 1)

Over the next several days I'm hosting a series of three posts on the following quote:

 I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please. Not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep, but just enough to equal a cup of warm milk or a snooze in the sunshine. I don't want enough of Him to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant. I want ecstasy, not transformation; I want the warmth of the womb, not a new birth. I want a pound of the Eternal in a paper sack.  I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please. - Tim Hansel on most Christians' priorities. 

This first post was written by my friend, Matt Tuckey.  I got to know Matt through shared time on our church's board.  I always appreciate the depth of thought and feeling he brings to everything he does.  Matt is the Associate Executive Director of our local YMCA and blogs at Living Openhanded  and Y Thoughts. He has two boys, ages fiveand seven, and a wonderfully talented wife.  My own faith journey has been made easier and less lonely by the presence of Matt and his wife. 

 

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Some contend that a crusade is in effect on the Christian faith or, at least, on the morals and values our society. Perhaps, but more so I see a culture that is very amiable to religion given that it's practiced within the parameters currently deemed appropriate. I work in the health and wellness industry and I consistently see the inclusion of spirituality as a widely accepted key ingredient to holistic wellness. Certainly what's generally accepted by society is spirituality in it's most general sense. Whatever one sees as truth is ok, as long as you're connecting to something beyond yourself.

Current best practice says that our lives should reflect the makeup of a salad with a healthy mix of nutrient rich greens, diverse fruits, low-fat protein, and a few sunflower seeds sprinkled atop. In the same way, it's projected that our lives should include a desirable dose of emotionally rich experiences, diverse community for social health, physical exercise, and some type of spirituality sprinkled atop. Perhaps, but this isn't the makeup of life that truly redeems, restores, and recreates us. Instead, it's fast food life that tastes good and fills us, but doesn't sustain us. It's $3.00 of God.

In many ways my life has been built around the constructs of control. I've navigated my ship and crafted my destiny. Or so I thought. This illusion of control was rooted in a lie that I told myself long ago. "Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat..." This line was made famous in the 1995 film, Heat. The film followed a thief and the detective that pursued him, both lonely broken men isolated by this mantra that defined them. Unfortunately, this idea rooted itself into my magical world of controlled environments, relationships, and situations. It was safe. I was able to toss together my life with a mix of what I wanted on my terms, complete with a bit of God sprinkled atop. My $10 life included an evenly proportioned $3.00 of God. The destiny I pursued was ecstasy, not transformation.

God isn't positioned to be consumed in a drive thru. God isn't a value meal to be efficiently devoured on the way to the next appointment. God isn't an evenly proportioned part of our holistic wellness. And, God isn't a healthy topping sprinkled upon our lives. God wants to be the dressing. God wants to saturate all that's in our lives. God doesn't want to be an ingredient, but rather the taste that defines every other part of our lives. God wants to explode our souls, transform our hearts, and to completely make us new. 
 
It's in our faith that we find wellness. As Matthew recounts the story of Jesus' life, he tells of three occasions where faith is the verge of the miraculous. (See Matthew 8:10, 9:21, 9:29). In each account, an individual comes before Jesus dragging with them a faith-saturated life that's a broken remnant of what they'd dreamt. And in each story, Jesus changes their reality on the spot. This transformation happens not because they've strategically positioned themselves to appropriately request favor or because they've created a life that has an open slice for Jesus to enter in, but only because they're dripping with faith.

I've learned that my illusory world of control wasn't sustainable. I'm learning that God desires mercy not sacrifice. I'm learning that God wants my trust and faith so that I might find rest. I'm learning that, as Tim Keller says, Jesus isn't at the top of the stairs staring down to me directing me to ascend to Him, but instead Jesus is the stairs.

It's safe, culturally acceptable, and comfortable to purchase $3.00 of Jesus. Countless people do it every Sunday. I've done it for too long. For a control freak like myself, it's scary to pray for a life saturated by God. This means change. It means surrender. It's daunting to imagine a life rooted in trust and faith without my vain attempts at control. It's easy to dismiss this type of life for those who can't handle their own. Yet, it's what God dreams for us, his children. A life reliant on Him is one He knows brings us to our fullest sense of who we were created to be - magnificent beings that shine like stars in the universe, all-stars of the highest order.

I am thankful that God hasn't granted me my subtle desire to have a life void of relationships that I could walk away from in 30 seconds flat. I don't know why God's tilled my heart over the past few years to uproot the lies and replant seeds of purpose, sprouts of faith. It hasn't been easy. But, I believe that God's up to bigger things. I believe He's using my humble story in some small way as he continually drafts His story. I believe that He's reorienting my life because I'm loved and accepted and forgiven. I believe that God is saddened when I pursue only $3.00 of Him, a limited portion of all that's good. And I believe that He reclines and laughs heartily as I write this, because He's brimming with excitement about what He's doing, about the stories He's interweaving with redeeming grace. I believe His smile is large as He looks upon us with anticipation, knowing what's to come before we do, understanding that when we're immersed in Him, we're sinking wonderfully in grace.

God, may I never undervalue you again. May I see all things through your eyes. May I pay full attention to what you're doing all around. May I never be comfortably complacent, but always hopefully challenged. May I continue to stand arms outstretched and openhanded in the showers of grace. Immerse us, saturate us, and soak us in all that you've imagined for us. May we never settle for less than You. May we always desire more of You.

[Stay tuned for two more takes on this quote to be posted over the next couple of days.  I'd love to hear your take on it too . . . and I'm sure Matt would enjoy hearing your comments.  If you like this piece, take a few minutes to explore his blog posts - you won't be disappointed.] 

I Don't Want to Miss the Feast (Today @ Sheloves/Magazine)

I'm grateful to have a post published today over at SheLoves/Magazine.  (For all of my male readers, don't worry, only the first part is about breastfeeding!)  I'd love to hear your comments either here or there and, as always, feel free to share.

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I sat on the couch, a baby under each arm, and prepared to nurse my five-month-old twins. I steeled myself, braced against the pain–the feeling like shards of glass and fire shooting through my breasts – as their hungry little mouths latched on. The fierce latch I’d been so grateful for when they were newborns now filled me with anxious dread.

I’d nursed my older two without problems, but a few months in with the twins I began to experience intense pain. My skin was cracked and bleeding and each feeding was misery. I saw two different doctors and tried multiple prescriptions before finally learning I had an intraductal yeast infection. I spent months downing rounds of oral medications and applying lotions and creams. I searched the internet for solutions. I treated both babies with syringes of liquid medicine, at times giving eight doses a day between the two of them.

Click here to continue reading this story about sitting as an act of surrender . . .  . . .


Do you struggle to find time to "sit down" and enjoy life?  Is there any particular discipline or life-practice that has helped you with this?