(IN)Courage

[Judy Harder]

Slow To Anger: Is It Really Possible?
Arianne Segerman



As the summer burns on, I notice my patience is burning too, but burning into non-existence. I find each day more and more difficult to build up patience and wait for my children to find their way. Whether it be their way to obeying the rules, their way to having good attitudes or even their way to being grateful people. This time of year feels like forever.

But there's something that God has been showing me lately that is actually working against this patience shortage. And that is: instead of telling my kids to chill out I tell myself to chill out.

I've noticed more and more that when I stay in a good place (abiding in Christ is my "good place"), I feel peaceful as a mother too. I feel chill. And I don't get as frustrated with the kids being kids (how dare they!). I still see areas where I can direct, for sure. But my own emotions don't have to get all caught up in it.

One of the biggest things that has changed is when I chill FIRST, my children often follow that lead even without realizing it. It's like the whole frenetic energy ball in the room gets the power cord pulled out of it. Everything powers down for a minute. Their individual craziness, even if it doesn't simmer down, doesn't affect me the same way.

It's pretty amazing what kind of power simply telling myself to chill out has had on us. And I didn't even realize I needed to chill out!

My kids start bickering; I chill out first. They don't like the chores I gave them? I chill out first. They don't listen? I definitely chill out first.

I still do all my same parenting, I just precede it with this big 'ol gut check first; and it's like everything settles into place before I get (and instead of me getting) wildly impatient and frustrated.

What was that about being slow to anger...? Oh yeah. {wink}

So tell me, how do those of you who have school-aged kids get through these last few weeks of summer? Our school is starting up in just two weeks!

I'd love to hear your ideas and tips for moms needing that second wind right about now!

[Judy Harder]

A Prayer for All the World's Sons {In Honor of the #RoyalBaby}
Jul 23, 2013 01:20 am | Ann Voskamp



Lord, let there still be a few good men.

Sure, in the end, there's a small chance we'd like no rings through nostrils or studs through tongues or ivory plugs through earlobes, but the only mattering part is that he's pierced by Your love, marked by grace, run through with mercy and one untiring sense of humor. A world tilted as wild as this one needs a little bit more of that.

May he always know True North.

And the way to the laundry basket and the stove and wide open big sky.

Please, Lord, please —  only a minimal number of broken bones and emergency rooms?

But always a heart bit tender and broken so Your love and light can leak out. May the good lines in the books and the movies always make him liquid a bit, the way poetry can water the hard and forgotten places.

When there are guys trying to score, may he remember that real men win by going last and putting others first.

May he be one of the real men who are dead to all ladders, who always go lower, to the least and the lonely and the lost. Everyday.

May he love babies toes and old ladies and loud laughing and unlikely underdogs and Jesus.

Make him one of the Real Men braving the Truth — Because if Christ is The Truth — then where there is Truth, there is Christ, and why ever be afraid of the Truth?

Make him one of those Real Men who knows how to simply say sorry, how to serve without applause, and how to give grace — because Grace isn't some soft, ethereal notion. Grace is a verb, it's a noun, it's a thing, it's concrete, it's like air. Just try living without it.

Make him one of the Real Men fighting injustice — because he knows the peace of Christ.

Make him one of the Real Men taking peer pressure  – because it only makes him stronger in Christ.

Make him one of the Real Man taking responsibility for his body. Responsible men — are response-able. Make this his job. A woman has her's. Have him focus on his. Real Men don't focus responsibility on the women staying "pure" because none of us are pure but focus on the men not pressuring — because no one tries to crush a diamond.

Let Christ captivate him and not the glossy magazine covers of the Walmart checkout. Because Real Men don't objectify alluring women. Real Men edify all women.

Make him one of the few men saturated by the Book, who doesn't care whether that's cool or not, because the absolute bottom line is: Unless a man looks to Jesus, a man doesn't know how to treat a woman.

May he never stop looking to Jesus.

May he feel what he feels, may he wear his heart be on his sleeve, may his life plant a million seeds of happiness before he's planted.

And may his face always be willing to face the wind, may his knees always be willing to bend, and may every one of his steep inclines, incline him more toward You.

This world needs to more than a few good men to tilt and lean a lot more wildly like that.

In the name of the Son who will never leave our sons...

Amen.







Q4U: What's your prayer for this world's boys?

One prayer for the new boy of Prince Will and Princess Kate?

Tell us about life with boys and its blessings and challenges?

(Email and RSS Readers — come join the conversation here?)

Written for you with love, by Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience ....

[Judy Harder]

 Waste of Time
Jul 24, 2013 01:20 am | Bonnie Gray



Photo by Artiom Gorgan
It was our second playdate.

Technically, it was my four-year-old son CJ's playdate.  I was there visiting with the mom at the breakfast table, sipping water.  She was asking how my book writing's going.  I tell her it's not easy, not like handing in homework.  Not even like writing at work either.

"It's hard to write on a blank page," I confess. "There's so many ways of telling a story.  How do I know which way is right?"

"It's like being an artist," my friend adds.

"How about you?" I ask.  "What do you like to do that's artistic?  Do you like to write?"

"I like to write," she pauses. "But, if I ever had the time — which I don't — I'd want to paint."

My friend doesn't know I've been on an anxiety-ridden journey to uncover the shadow artist in me.  I'm suspicious now there is one in her.

"Oh, you like to paint," I echo.  "What do you like to paint?  Can I see?"

She tells me she used to paint in college.  But, she hasn't painted since.  Really?  ...Not even once?  I prod.  It turns out she did.  When she returned from her honeymoon years ago, she painted a beach and sky.  Can I see it.  I smiled.  Please?

She leads me into her bedroom. And it's beautiful.  A canvas of brushstrokes of color.  A memory.

My friend tells me she loves how it feels when she paints.  But, then she sighs.  Life's so busy, keeping up with everyone's schedules.

"Do you ever feel selfish — like it'd be a waste of time if you painted?"  I ask.  "I do.  That's how I feel about writing."

My friend said what do you mean?  So, I told her about the spelling bee.

Not So Shiny

I was in second grade.  I didn't even know what a spelling bee was, until I stood at the district level spell-offs one evening.  I don't remember much, but I ended up being one of the last two girls left standing.  I was so excited, because we had been told the top three contestants would get a trophy.  And I would at least be number two.

I'm gonna get a trophy! 

But, then I got really nervous.  Because it dawned on me.

I. could. be. the. champion.

I could actually win this thing.

The moderator took time out to ask everyone to clap for us, explained the rules once again, and reminded the audience to please be quiet.  I looked over at the spectacled girl standing next to me from Cumberland Elementary.  She had won the year before.  She sure looked smart.  Only one of us would advance to the next level.  Could it be me?

As the moderator announced my next word, I thought I had it in the bag.

"Lunch. L-U-C-H.  Lunch."

I'm sorry.  That is incorrect.

I knew how to spell lunch.  I don't know, for the life of me, how I left out the n.  But, I did.  The whole room sighed with a unanimous, "Ohh..."  I felt the panic and looked over at my mom.  She shook her head in disappointment.

Afterward, I walked over to tell her I still won a trophy.  But she said, "I'm not surprised you didn't win. The other girl was much more confident.  She looked like the winner."

At the awards ceremony, I stepped up on stage to claim my second place trophy.  But, it didn't seem that shiny anymore.  In the car ride back, my mom sighed, "What a waste of time."

I never did win another spelling bee after that year.  It wasn't the last time she'd tell me something about me would be a waste of time.

Wasting Time

After I finished telling my mommy friend my story, I told her that is what I have to fight every time I try to make time for me.  I have to fight against voices that tell me I'm wasting my time, especially mine.

It doesn't just happen when I write. Whenever I want to do something purely for enjoyment, with no other added "value" or "purpose," I think it's a waste of time.  I think of a gazillion more "important" things I should do.  I tell my friend maybe her experience wasn't exactly like mine. But, I asked her –

What was life growing up for you as a little girl?

Were you encouraged to explore and enjoy doing what you liked?  Or was there a focus on getting things done, not wasting time?

I wasn't planning to stay long that day for my son's playdate. But, it turned out to be a special summer afternoon, listening to the heart of a new friend and her stories.

"Maybe we can drive out to the museum in the city one morning, when the kids go back to school?"  She offered with a smile.

"Yeah.  Maybe," I smiled back.

I told her hopefully, I'll finish my book by then.

What is Better

It's very easy to be distracted by what appears to be more important.

Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made when she opened her home to Jesus.

She came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me
to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"

"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things,
but only one thing is necessary.

Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her."
Luke 10:40-42

What's harder is taking the faith to spend time with Jesus, by doing something we enjoy.  It may not look or feel right, just like it may not have seemed right for Mary to sit, while so much needed to be done around her.

When God gave instructions to build the tabernacle where He would dwell, He gave people the gift of artistic design "in all kinds of crafts" — "to engage in all kinds of craftsmanship" to adorn, decorate and make everything. (Ex.31:11)

Now that Jesus is here, you and I have become the tabernacle where God dwells.

We are the living temples, where Jesus lives.  (2 Cor.6:16)

Each of us is created with beauty in mind, to reflect God's artistic imprint.

There is no sunset, flower or rainbow that does not reflect the time God spent making it come alive with color and feeling.

You and I are no less.

"When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,
what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?
...You crowned him with glory and honor."
Psalm 8:3-6

~~~~~

How may God be inviting you to enjoy something that feeds your soul, that may feel like a waste of time?

What was life growing up for you as a little girl — were you encouraged to explore and enjoy?

Pull up a chair.  Click to comment.  Share your voice and let's enjoy a summer breeze together.

~~~~~

If you're on the journey of faith to walk out into the world, I'd love your company.  Join me on my blog as we journey in community together. Let's keep speaking words of encouragement and friendship with each other in our faith stories — as it's being made and lived.  As is.

Written by Bonnie Gray, the Faith Barista, serving up shots of faith for everyday life.

[Judy Harder]

Delivering a Miracle
Jul 26, 2013 01:20 am | Stephanie Bryant


I watch her eyelashes grow. I stare at her pink pouty lips. I caress her dark baby hair as she feeds.

Amazed by grace. Overwhelmed by His love for me. My arms now full of answered prayers.


My daughter is here and I have learned God not only listens but answers us as we boldly approach His throne.

She smiles and my heart melts.

I can hear the heavenly Hallelujahs. She giggles like she hears them, too.

I've blown out candles on chocolate frosted yellow cake for seven years, praying (trying to be brave and not weep) for the hope of this child . . . for God to fill our home with a family.


I knew this day would come. God gave me faith, encouragement and a clear vision.

But I wish I remembered the first time I saw my daughter.

I had planned and rehearsed how her birth moment would unfold. But you can't ever be prepared for how God answers prayers. Or foresee extra miracles on top of the one you're living.

My pregnancy was an easy one. I was truly thankful for only a few weeks of nausea and energy soon after. I won't go into details of how much weight I gained. {Lets just say, I'm glad I'm tall to carry more than double expected.}

I was almost two weeks overdue. I went into labor on Mother's Day. God-ronic.

Strong contractions ensued. I was in active labor for 17 hours with very little progress to show for it. I had planned on a natural birth at the hospital, but was open to God's leading.

Sometimes the miracle that you've prayed for is harder and sweeter than you could imagine. Unexpected yet still good – like rock candy.

Not dilating more than 4cm, the doctor broke my water. Nothing. No more progress. The monitors showed our daughter was under stress. We finally agreed to a c-section and the medical team started to prep me for the operating room.

My husband left to get scrubbed in to join me in surgery. The next few moments are sort of fuzzy. Our daughter's heart rate dropped to 60 and the situation became an emergency. Nurses rushing in, everyone yelling, sounds of Velcro and plastic ripping. "We're going now. Get Dr. Hannah."

I wasn't scared. God gave me a mother's peace. {Another miracle.}

The last I remember was the doctor asking if I could feel three clamps on my stomach. I did. Which meant the epidural hadn't taken. They knocked me out.

As I laid on a hard table, unconscious, trusting, God saved my daughter's life. In 60 seconds she was pulled out of me and into the world. She had a knot in her chord and it wasn't long enough for her to reach the light. This explained why my body wasn't delivering her. But God's purposes prevailed.

Gabrielle Elise Bryant arrived into our lives on Monday, May 13, 2013, at 2:41 pm.




Still heavily medicated, fresh from post-op, my eyes couldn't focus but my heart consumed the moment that I first met my daughter. I was filled with unspeakable joy and intense reliance on the Jesus that entrusted our daughter to us.



Our doctor visited us three times while I was recovering. His eyes were big as he told us it was scary. This coming from a man who has delivered over 4,000 babies. And then he mentioned the next unknown miracle . . . he found a huge cyst on my ovary and endometriosis. He was curious how I was able to get pregnant.

"I know you tried for seven years and she's your miracle. But you don't realize how BIG a miracle she is."

God answered our prayers for a child, for His timing and protection and for Gabrielle's life to bring great glory to Him all of her days . . . starting the day she was born. Without the hardships, the waiting, the gut-wrenching seeking, the glory wouldn't be as bright and seen by so many.

I know Jesus danced and laughed with joy at her heavenly birthday party that day in May. He had been anxiously awaiting her arrival into the earth just as much as we had. Gabrielle was finally here and her life was already glorifying our Lord.

We went home a family. A long-awaited miracle.


Gabrielle was delivered into our arms but we were the ones that were delivered into the arms of Grace.

Now Gabrielle is almost 11 weeks old and a pure delight. We love her dearly and pray daily God will continue to glorify Himself in and through her life. The miracle is alive and well. Thank you, Jesus!



{When a story brings a gasp or tears or laughter from deep places, the world pauses and knows that God is love . . . and Love is alive and well.  My unique story, your story, is worth telling because it is His.}

Are you telling others about your miracle? Now is your chance. I'd love to read how God has shown you grace and answered your prayers.






On My Grandmother's Dishes & Becoming What We Behold
Jul 26, 2013 01:00 am | Anna



Guest Post #5
I go through dozens of Grandma's collected pieces of china, each one delicate and fine.
And my mom, she had a story for each one:

"Oh, that was THE candy dish! If I snuck a piece, I had to lift the silver lid just right, so it wouldn't make any noise."

"She set out that nut dish – with this silver spoon – at every circle meeting."

"She put mashed potatoes in that bowl!"

I scour the internet for details on the precious china & glassware, and what I find makes me gasp. Each piece is worth actual dollars! Some pieces are worth several actual dollars! The day I loaded her white Haviland china into the back of the minivan, I drove almost as carefully as the day we brought home our son. As I set each piece in its new home in my cupboards, I pause to really look at them. Light and tiny but very much present atop of plates are lines where knives scraped across them decades ago. 'She actually used these!' I marvel.

And that thought strikes me hard, because I am a saver.

Gardenia perfume I wore on my wedding day? I spritz it only on our anniversary. Beautiful teacup from my wedding shower? I haven't used it since. Crisp white linen napkins, received for our engagement? I only bring them out for Christmas dinner. All these gifts, collecting dust.

And most likely, their giver wouldn't be too happy if they knew their gifts to me were just taking up space.

While some things are more meaningful when held onto, the idea of saving my best things doesn't sit well in my heart. What else do I save? My best listening ear is reserved for only dear friends in crisis. The best of my servant's heart is reserved for those who can somehow serve me back {ugly, but true}. The best of my God-given gifts are reserved to the point where they become buried and I argue when He asks me to use them.

It's as though the things we save will save us.

'Don't hoard treasure down here where it gets eaten by moths and corroded by rust or—worse!—stolen by burglars. Stockpile treasure in heaven, where it's safe from moth and rust and burglars. It's obvious, isn't it? The place where your treasure is, is the place you will most want to be, and end up being.' - Matthew 6:19-21


My friend Sally said this week, 'You become what you behold.' What am I becoming if I am holding back the best of my things and the best of who God made me to be out of fear? It's what Shauna has shared with us throughout Bread & Wine; the opening up of our table has little to do with the actual food. Rather it has everything to do with the spirit in which it's offered, and the acceptance that while the food may be cold and un-edible, the experience may still be warm and sweet.

"It's so easy to think that because you can't do something extraordinary, you can't do anything at all." (p. 209-210) – Shauna Niequist, Bread & Wine

There is deep power in the loving of others, and we are able to both give and receive that when we gather around the table and give our best.

—–

My grandma's dishes are now unpacked in my kitchen cupboards. Over time, I will add to the faint knife scrapes on the plates, so that when my son goes thru them in 60 years, he too will have stories to tell.

by Anna, Girl With Blog



AND TODAY'S SECOND HELPING!
One Plate at a Time

I have not always been a girl's girl. Growing up in a neighborhood of boys, I played hard and long with my brother and his friends; eschewing Barbie and her crew for tall leafy trees to climb; deep cool ravines to run rampant in; and the half-built cinder-block structures near the soccer field in the park that made a great fort.

This trend continued all through school as I made friends with the girls...but kept my best friendships for the guys and their ability to keep things simple and uncomplicated.

Fast-forward 20-something years in my life and I'm all about my women friends. My grown up girlfriends. I'm still a fringe-of-the-party kind of loner, but there are a handful that I hold close to my heart.

I'd seen some of them online before I met them in person – friends of friends who shared a monthly supper club in common – I'd see their likes and comments on mutual friends' Facebook posts; hear about them at church gatherings; come into a conversation where someone told a story about someone else and there was that name again.

And then I met them.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Oh, friends–this is Rebekah's first ever Guest Post and I think she might be the most excited contributor of this study!  Please click to continue reading One Plate at a Time at her blog Three Bees in a Blue Bonnet, and be sure to comment so she knows you visited.

[Judy Harder]

A reminder at the end of the week
Jul 27, 2013 01:20 am | Lisa-Jo Baker



For the hard week, the long week, the backed up, broken down week.

He sees you.

For the good week, the full week, the love lived in the floorboards and round the kitchen table and back out again week.

He sees you.

For the smudged eyes and runny mascara week. For the shouted prayers and broken promises week.

He sees you.

For the aching heart, hurts-to-breathe week. For the lonely week. For the lost week.

He sees you.

For the empty tank and forgotten errands. For the dirty dishes and loads of laundry week.

He sees you.

For the wrinkled week, the long week, the rundown week.

He sees you.

For the laughter shouted week, the friends around the exciting news week, the beloved week.

He sees you.

However your week ended. However your week began. You are as beloved today as you were at the start of it.

He sees you, friends. He sees each individual unique week you've lived.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. ~Hebrews 13:8

He's got you and this week and the next one.

May you find all your peace and accomplishment in the One who spoke this week into being. Won't you share with us one thing that made this week special?

With much love
Lisa-Jo, community manager for (in)courage

[Judy Harder]

How Can We Pray for You?
Jul 28, 2013 01:20 am | incourage



Photo by Martin Pettitt
We are called to pray for one another, lifting up our praises and our concerns to the Father. And this community, the (in)courage family, is incredible and generous with those prayers. Today let's take a few moments to pray for each other. Share a prayer request in the comments, then pray for the person who left the comment before you.

What are you happy about today?
What is troubling you today?
How can we pray for you?

Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray.
Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise.
Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church
to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord.
And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well;
the Lord will raise them up.
If they have sinned, they will be forgiven.
Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other
so that you may be healed.
The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.
James 5:13-16

[Judy Harder]

Power Hour
Jul 29, 2013 01:20 am | Robin Dance



Having teenage and college-age children in my house is educational.

One of my intentions as a mother has been to cultivate an atmosphere where my children had the freedom to tell me anything...everything if they were only willing. I realize the latter is a lofty goal and not likely to be the case, but everything isn't really the hope, anyway; anything is.

Practiced advice handed down to me from a mom just a few years my senior formulated my "tell anything" philosophy when my children were still in grade school:  "Don't react when your children tell you something shocking."
Martha's counsel has proven easier said than done at times, but I've never forgotten it. For years I've tried to listen with open ears and an inexpressive but engaged face, to invite the stories I wanted to hear, the stories they're desperate to tell. The freedom to share helped them process Hard Things and figure out how to respond without fear.

Sex, drugs, alcohol, cutting, food disorders, pregnancy–even when it's among the Youth Group set. Especially when it's among the Youth Group set. No reaction.

I've learned children are most inclined to share when they feel neither judgment or condemnation, whether its directed at them or their friends. They're less likely to tell you anything if every conversation invites you to step on a soap box or lecture about virtue or question another's salvation. Quoting Bible verses will keep them from telling you the next time, too.

The moments are sacred when a child allows you to enter their world.
It is in everyone's interest for you to remember you have two ears and one mouth and you should use them in that proportion. Listen twice as much as you speak. At least.

* * * * *

With all this in mind, the stage had long been set when my college-aged daughter asked me if I knew what a Power Hour was. It was clear she wasn't talking about anything remotely related to Robert Schuller's Crystal Cathedral, the first thing that came to my mind.

She explained, "It's when you drink as much as you can in an hour and then hook up with someone."

Blink blink.

(No reaction, Robin...no reaction....)

It's important to add here I wasn't worried about this as it relates to my daughter; she's one of those rare creatures who has made a lifetime of choices setting her squarely in the path of Purity, not for purity's sake or to please her parents, but because she's convinced this is what God desires.

In that instant, though, my heart ached for the countless teens and 20-somethings who make that choice every day. Drink as much as you can in an hour and give yourself away. Some mother's son...some mother's daughter.

She wasn't telling me because she knew anyone who takes part in a power hour; she wanted to tell me about her friends' redemption of the Power Hour: how a few young people in her sphere are reclaiming that phrase for good, who have re-imagined it in a way that drips of the Gospel. Good news.

What is their version? 

A group of friends set aside one hour to pour words of encouragement into one another–kindness, attentiveness...life...love.  The essence of 1 Thessalonians 5:11:

"Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing." (ESV)

Interestingly, they begin with physical attributes; not general "you look pretty today" but features and mannerisms and the things that distinguish who we are. The things we do we don't even realize we do or maybe the things we don't like about ourselves...or even the good things no one has ever named (but you're dying to hear).

From there they move on to character; affirming the good things they've observed in one another, calling out strengths and talents and giftings they've witnessed, likely when no one knew they were looking. How they treat people, work ethic, how they spend their time, how they're maturing in the faith.

For a solid hour, those present take turns building one another up. Encouraging, positive, life-sustaining words. They dwell on what is:

true
honorable
just
pure
lovely
commendable
excellent
worthy of praise
the embodiment of Philippians 4:8 (ESV).

Rather than drink for an hour and rob another (and self!) of purity, dignity and respect, they pour into each other for an hour and offer grace, affirmation and beauty.

The world is full of negative messages that can seed insecurity and doubt. Couple that with how cruel and thoughtless we can be to one another at times. (And this isn't limited to teens and 20-somethings!) To counter that, what if you planned a Power Hour of your own? What if you set aside an hour on a regular basis – whatever regular means to you – and poured life and love and living water into your children or spouse or a small group of friends? Or if you're a leader who works with a campus ministry or high school or middle school youth group–why not have a Power Hour the next time you gather together?

Q.  Parents:  How do you react when your children tell you shocking news? How are you cultivating an atmosphere for your children to speak freely? If you aren't, what steps will you take to give them this freedom? If you're willing, share examples of Hard Things your children shared and how your responded.

Friends:  Could you use a Power Hour? Do you realize you're in a pattern of negative-speak with the people around you–family, friends, co-workers? What specifically can we do to redeem our words for our good and God's glory?

With love and gratefulness to the One who gives us only Good Words,

Robin

[Judy Harder]

When Friendship Is God-Given
Jul 30, 2013 01:10 am | Christen Price



Even though we were eating chips and salsa, it wasn't the heat of the peppers that had tears streaming down my face. My God-given friend, Ashley, was telling me her latest story about trying to dye Easter eggs with her 20-month-old twin girls. Let's just say it was a fail. The tears that night weren't out of sadness, but laughter. Since I'm a mom of twin girls too, I could easily relate to her story.

Ashley and I don't just share stories about our twins. We have shared life adventures since we were in dance class at three, cheerleaders at sixteen, and married our high school sweethearts at twenty-three.


I think God started our friendship so long ago because he knew just how much we would need each other today.

Because I know she gets it when I quietly say my oldest is strong-willed while my youngest is an angel. How could two girls, identical in looks, born only two minutes apart, be so different yet wildly the same?
When she is hesitant to say yes to a family beach trip with our bunch because her girls don't sleep well, I tell her that I care more about spending time with her than I do sleep. And, who better gets traveling with twins than me?
Or, how we offer each other advice for ways to connect with other moms in our communities since we've both moved in the past year. Moving is tough, don't you agree?
Growing twin girls is exhilarating, challenging, and stretches us both beyond our wildest dreams. We have each other to call after failed grocery store trips, play dates, and pediatrician appointments. When we get together in real life for a night at the fair, with our husbands and two double strollers, onlookers stare at us with the same look they give the guy with five arms. We are truly a sight to see.


Having a friend whose life is so intertwined with mine has to be God-given. Nothing else can explain the bond that we share. Ashley texted me this passage from her devotion Instructing a Child's Heart and I have to agree with it: "Friendships are for the purpose of glorifying God, encouraging others, showing love and compassion, and gaining encouragement to do what is right."

Isn't that the truth? Real friendship is about showing each other compassion when running late for lunch and encouragement after the it's-been-one-of-those-days tears. Friendships are a unique form of love, binding individuals together through traditions, inside jokes, and advice. God gives us friends because he knows we aren't meant to glorify him alone. He is meant to be shared, like Oreos and milk, cute necklaces, and what products work on curly hair in this summer humidity.


Our waiter came to our table and asked us if we needed anything else. "No," we replied. We had each other. After paying, we walked outside much later than we had originally told our husbands, and hugged. We both needed that night, more than we needed the chips and salsa.

Question: Who is your God-given friend? How has she encouraged you?

By Christen Price at illuminate

[Judy Harder]

He Will Make a Way
Aug 01, 2013 01:10 am | Tammy Strait



Toes barely touching the water I look out at the horizon. The mountains cast their shadows deep into the lake; a cloudy grey sky threatens rain. We link arms, my brother and I. Barefoot, we stand on the beach. A bond about to be forged in the deep, cold water; the miles we are about to travel. We gaze in silent surrender to that distant place. Knowing, and yet not knowing, what lies before us.

Adrift in the moment we lose track of time. A cannon blares and we dive. A mass of bodies pierces the stillness of the once calm lake. A thundering storm erupts beneath the water and we are separated. Calm, silent surrender is immediately overtaken by panic and fear. Alone. Kicking, thrashing, drowning. It's happening. I'm going to die. I roll onto my back coughing water out of my lungs and stare fixedly at the clouded sky. As if looking directly into the Father's eyes I cry out: "Lord, where are you? Please. Help."

An army of arms closing behind me, I turn quickly and begin my stroke. Stay calm. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, breathe. Rhythm, timing, uninterrupted in prayer: "Lord, go before me. Make a way."

Much of life can feel like drowning. Arms flailing, legs kicking, we struggle to get our head above water. Pushed and pulled down by others trying to get by, ahead. We coach ourselves: one, two, three, breathe. One, two, breathe...

So many times we're scared to leave the safety of the shore.

Or we stay in the comfort of the shallows.

But we're called to go deep.

We believe if we train hard enough or practice long enough, we will succeed on our own. That hours spent in the pool will help us when we face open water.

But when the water gets deep and our feet no longer touch, we realize that our strength is not enough. Our weakness becomes frighteningly real as we face the unforgiving depths of the darkness.

For me, nothing captures the faithfulness of God like my swim on Ironman morning. People ask: what was it like? I pause because there's no way to describe it without sharing the intimate presence of a faithful Father.

Amongst thousands of bodies equally frightened and terrified of drowning; He went before me. He made a way.

In that moment I realized we are companions of fear, each of us afraid to unclench our fist and surrender to the One who knows the depth of our soul. Who hears the desperate cries of our heart. We know this and yet we struggle to believe it is true.

And we're faced with the paradox that we cannot fully rest in Him if we don't follow Him into deep water.

I've always been afraid of a shallow life. Yet too often fear of depths still scares me enough to stay on the shore.

But I'm tired of shallow living. Finished with the safety on the shoreline. If you're ready I'll swim with you in open water, past the boundary into the depths of our fear. Because I believe He will meet us there.

Meet us where we can no longer rely on our own understanding or strength. Where we must believe in something bigger and greater than ourselves. When we realize He is all we need. He is all we've ever needed.

Where in your life are you afraid to follow God into deep water? What makes you believe He won't make a way?

Come with me.

Toes in the water, eyes on the horizon.

Dive. He's waiting.

[Judy Harder]

Pigment & Perfume {and what really matters}
Aug 02, 2013 01:20 am | Angie Smith



They are long, delicate strokes of a paintbrush on my cheek, and they distract me from what I have to do when she's done.

We chat about life and make-up and hair products and the fun parts, but eventually the truth spills out in a choked whisper.

"I hate this." I say to her as the bulbs flash and the music plays a few minutes later. The photographer is a friend, and he knows I've dreaded this the same way I did the last one.

But the make-up artist doesn't know me, and I think she's surprised.

In most of the photos, I am serious-faced. In a few I'm pretending to laugh, and in others I'm staring off to the side, likely dreaming the studio will transform itself into a library. At one point he sets me up in front of a circle of bright lights, and I try to look straight ahead but I'm wincing inside. He takes a few and suggests something else, asking me if it felt too vulnerable.

I like him because he has that kind of intuition, but I shake my head no. No, it's not too vulnerable, I say. But it is. All of it.

She watches me while the wind pushes hair off my face and even though we're virtually strangers, I know she understands. Gentle hands on a brush, deep words on her tongue. I sense that she's more interested in knowing people than she is in giving them the appearance of perfect cheekbones. I decide she's a little bit of a refuge in the storm of insecurity for me, and I'm grateful.

It will wash off later tonight while warm, soapy water fills the sink again. And I will look into the face that my children know as mommy. I'll breathe it all in and try to let it go. But the lens doesn't ever go away completely, not for any of us.

Am I making something that matters?

So much of life is seen through the camera; it's pigment and perfume and the fleeting sense that maybe none of it will amount to more than a shadow of who we really were.

The hours I've spent in books and studios, in hotels and interviews – all of it can feel more like a stage than a legacy. And it makes me question my time, my priorities, and what I'm leaving behind on the filmstrips.

When we finish, she starts to pack up her things and says sweetly, "I don't really care about makeup."

She smiles, and I understand the weight of her words.

She loves the people, the purpose, and the heart behind it. She's gifted at the art, no question. But that's not really the ultimate draw for her.

She doesn't put stock in the bottles and pins, but she didn't miss the opportunity to use them as a means to a beautiful end, and her ministry resides where her obedience settled.

I don't want to waste my time, but even more importantly, I don't want to call something  a waste of time when it's really an instrument entrusted to me. The temptation is ever-present, isn't it? And the enemy thrives where that questioning begins, leading us down roads of insecurity and striving.

I hear the clicking of the camera, the typing of the keys, the sound of the dishwasher, the car doors opening and closing, and the way she breathes when she's ready to sleep.

All of it will be swept away one day, distanced by years and memory, washed away like soapy water.

And it looks meaningless when you're knee-deep in the search for meaning, which is exactly why we sometimes miss the forest for the trees. We're so caught up in our own ideas of importance that we look past the brush He has lovingly placed in our hands.

Hours bleed one into another, tasks pile high while I wonder if I'll ever be what I was meant to me. But there is a vulnerability that comes when we stare deep into the camera, stand still when we want to run, and trust that one day it will look the way it should.

I wonder if there's an area in your life where you're tempted to believe that your role is periphery to the important matters, or where you feel like you're treading water. I believe that even in those tender places, He has equipped you to use the temporary to make a mark on eternity.

Ask for His wisdom and courage, and trust the tools He has given you. If you are willing, I would love to know what areas of your life you resisted or doubted, and what came of your obedience. Let's encourage our sisters to look for His will instead of our agenda, and to walk in full confidence of what He will do with it in return.

Love and prayers to you today,
Angie