(IN)Courage

[Judy Harder]

Please Don't Let Me Disappear
Jun 19, 2013 01:20 am | Emily Freeman


I shake my head as I flip through our family photo album. Page after page of pictures and I'm not in any of them.

There was a day several years ago when my daughter asked me, "Mommy, I see Daddy with us, but where were you all that time?"



Crickets.

Teeth gritting.

Tongue biting.



My children are going to grow up thinking I was an absent mother. Years from now, they will look through these albums and shake their heads, At least daddy loved us. Look at all of those family vacations he took us on all by himself!



Never mind that I was the one hanging upside down from the rafters to get those adorable shots of my family.

So few of our photos have me in them. What about me?! Why can't someone else be thoughtful enough to take pictures every now and then? What does it always have to be me?!

To prove my existence in the family, I often resorted to taking shots like this one:



I am very mature and am always sure to keep the real problems of the world in perspective. I also never blow things out of proportion or have unrealistic expectations of people.

Joking aside, sometimes it's those annoyances of our everyday that carry hints into the secrets we carry in our souls.

I'm tempted to just say I'm being ridiculous. That may be true – but what also may be true is that there is something deeper going on.

Sometimes annoyance is just annoyance. But not always.

Why does this bother me really?

***

John and I go on a date, sit outside MCoul's under the twinkle lights. We share an appetizer and without thinking I snap a shot of his profile with my phone. I like the way he looks just now, looking off into the distance.

Before I can stop myself, I ask him why he never takes photos of me. I recognize a touch of anxiety within me as I anticipate his response.

My question surprises him, and he answers with, "I don't know. Pictures just aren't that important to me. I'd rather have the real thing."

He's flirting.

I smile, look down.

"Do you wish I took more photos of you?" He asks genuinely, not realizing this is a thing.

I immediately feel stupid – Why is this a thing? It's not like I like to have my picture taken. I don't necessarily like looking at my picture when it is taken, either. I'm not all hey look at me! ish.

I am challenged to be honest even though I don't know what it means. I admit to him I wish he took more photos of me. When he asks why, I don't have an answer.

***

I once heard Dr. Larry Crabb say the deepest fear of a woman is invisibility.

At first glance, I disagree. Invisibility would be awesome! Superpower anyone?

But the more I think about it, the more I can say I understand. I can't speak for every woman, but I can say for me invisibility is a legitimate fear.

I don't want attention or spotlights or even to be looked at, necessarily.

I want to be seen. I want to be known for who I am, seen on the soul level, regarded. Please don't let me disappear. Please turn your head in my direction, look into my eyes, and see me.

Maybe that's what it is with me and photos – I want to know my husband sees me. On the surface level, photos would be proof.

But a photo isn't really what I want.

John and I have been married for 12 years this month. Like most marriages, our relationship has always been changing, but over the past two years it has changed the most, mainly because my husband is beginning to see me. He is curious over me. He moves toward me – even when I am frantic and chaotic – with courage and intention.

It hasn't always been that way. And he still doesn't take pictures of me.

But now I don't care as much.

Are there any situations in your life right now that are causing you anxiety or even minor annoyance? Might you be willing to take a closer look and see if there is anything deeper going on?

[Judy Harder]

Many Are The Plans

The Cost
Jun 20, 2013 01:20 am | Annie Downs



I've been thinking a lot about the cost of marriage lately... which should shock none of you. (Hi, I'm Annie and I'm the single one around these parts.)

(And before I go much further, let me just bounce this in here: you aren't all going to like this post. I'm okay with it. I'm not sure I like it either. But I want to talk about it with you, whether we are happy with the outcome or not.)

I like how I spend my life.

I spend a lot of time with college students here in Nashville that are part of our college ministry at church.

To be fair, I spend a lot of money on college students as well – buying meals when we eat, grabbing coffee, finding a book I think they need.

I also spend a lot of time with my friends. Pretty much, I spend as much time as I want with my friends.

I spend a lot of time reading and a lot of time writing.

I get to spend my money how I want to, albeit as wisely as possible.

Also? I sleep in the middle of the bed.

I've really grown to appreciate how I get to spend my life – doing the ministry I love with the people I love. And in July, I'm going to the beach. I know what day I'm going down there, but I don't know what day I'm coming back.

Because it's my life and I get to spend it how I want.

I've wanted to be married since I was old enough to define the word. I'm not sure what God is doing in my heart and mind, but I spend some portion of every day lately being really grateful for exactly the life I have right now.

I wonder if this selfish single living for my entire adult life has made my brain start to not desire anything else? Is this an effect of being almost 33 and single? That what I currently have actually looks better than what I've always wanted?

Or maybe this is right? Maybe this is what it means to be content with where you are? Is this an effect of being almost 33 and single and being (gasp) okay with that?

My friend Lyndsay wrote a very interesting piece about the complexities of being single after college and the lack of rose-colored glasses once you reach a certain point. And I think she may be right – I never saw the cost of marriage as a 21 year-old college graduate. I just saw it as EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED.

And it is. I still want that. I still think God gives us beautiful gifts in relationship and I hope that marriage is a part of His story for me, even if unforeseen costs are attached.

Because you know what I haven't factored into a single sentence of this post?

Love.

We are willing to give up lots and give lots for love.

Had I gotten married at 23, I would have never known any different. I would not know this travel-when-you-want, do-what-you-want, minister-where-you-want, it's-all-about-what-I-want lifestyle.

I'd be a mom (I bet). And I'd be in love (I hope). And it would probably be awesome.

So the rewards would be great. I know that.

But for today? 33 and single? The cost of giving up this life I love seems great, too. It seems that even the best gifts have some degree of taking up your cross, don't they?

I don't know.

People often say, "marriage won't complete you" and I used to respond with, "I'd like to prove that for myself" because seriously, quit saying stuff like that to single girls.

But the truth is? I know they are right.

Because even though I am single today? My life is complete.

. . . . .

Your thoughts are welcome here... let's talk about this. How do we fully embrace the season we are in without giving up hope for the next? Or can you only fully embrace when you think this is the best it is going to be?

by Annie Downs




Jun 20, 2013 01:10 am | Crystal Stine




There are days that simply don't go as planned. Like the day I went through my entire morning routine, left for work, and didn't realize until I arrived for a meeting that I never put a stitch of make-up on my face.

Or the days when I set my alarm to wake early, to commit to reading the Word before my family rises, to find quiet time with God and ....my toddler decides it's a great night to need mommy. all. night.

As I've walked through this season of God Sized Dreams, praying that God would place on my heart a desire to do exactly what He created me to do, I've realized something. My plans don't matter. Sure, it would be great for all of my days to go exactly as I imagine, never forgetting to pack lunch or ... you know...hypothetically forget deodorant. Ahem.

But when it comes down to it? When I really pray about the plans God has for me, it's His agenda that I desire. My plans might look great on paper. I'm Type-A enough to actually have plans ON paper. I sit and imagine "if this happens, then I could do this, and then maybe they would offer me that and it could all work perfectly!" Those plans of mine are exhausting to create and would likely be even more tiresome to carry out to completion. God doesn't want worn out worship. He doesn't desire for His children, His daughters, to carry burdens of plans and agendas until our arms are so heavy we can no longer reach them to Him. He wants us to rest in Him, giving Him back the desires of our hearts so that He can plan, pave the way, and guide us.

We can come as we are to the foot of the cross with the deepest, wildest dreams of our hearts and know that we serve a God big enough, strong enough, wise enough to take them and make them beautiful in His time.  He will take the parts of us that we don't think are good enough, the ones we forgot to put make-up on, the ones that might be less than perfect, and He will refine them until there is beauty from the ashes.

My plans will never be perfect.  But I can rest in the arms of the One who knows exactly what to do with the dreams He's given me, trusting that His ways are best.

By Crystal Stine

[Judy Harder]

When God Does Things that Don't Make Sense
Jun 21, 2013 01:20 am | Arianne




We have been in a season lately of healing and redemption, but it's not been without many trials. We reached the point where we simply could do nothing – no pro and con list, no trying to be logical, nothing – but let the Lord guide. We had blown past what made sense or what was reasonable, and found ourselves on the other side. The place where nothing makes sense.

I could share several stories with you but here is the latest one, the one that is still a bit raw and confusing to me. It's the story of how God took us from a homeschooling family to a public school family.

We had lots of reasons for homeschooling, and they involved all kinds of things. And this isn't to really talk about that debate (because we know how that can get, right?), I strongly believe a family has to decide what is best for everyone in their home, and what path God leads them down, and it could be one of many paths (including home or public school). This is just the story of how God surprised us with a life change we didn't see coming, because he had already sent us in the opposite direction!

We re-evaluate every year our homeschooling choice, but the truth is we thought we would always homeschool. We never thought it would change, despite lots of other circumstances changing (where we lived, our financial state, etc.). I think doing school "differently" and to the beat of our own drum had become a part of our identity that we never saw shifting.

But then over the last month or so, a rumbling began inside of me. I started to notice some things at home and I started to wonder. We had some big changes in our house with my husband's work and the resulting shift in our family was huge. It started a ripple effect of sorts, which was what got me thinking outside the box and asking God what I was supposed to be doing. Most of all, I knew no one was happy, and I knew something had to change.

As I prayed over what that change was, the surprising thought that the kids might be headed to public school in the fall kept coming into my mind. I cannot emphasize enough how much we thought this would never be the path we would take. Soon I realized what God was pressing into my heart: we needed to give public school a try.

So they start at public school in the fall. And save for some Montessori preschool for my first born, they have never experienced this. It's going to be a BIG change for them, but friends are telling me that it will be harder on me than on the kids. The thought is painful but makes me soar a little bit with relief.

This decision doesn't make sense for us for many reasons, mostly because it's a right turn from the path God previously had us on. But we are doing it anyway. With a big leap of faith, prayers for grace and mercy, we will hop on this train and take the right turn and know that greatness is ahead.

Have you ever been on the path God sent you and then suddenly he told you to turn right? I would love to hear your stories!

[Judy Harder]

When Everything Changes
Jun 26, 2013 01:20 am | Amber Haines


This past month, I've had the hardest time writing a single word because we've been in the limbo of packing and waiting for a move. Boxes stack to the ceiling and our closing date keeps moving, and we aren't sure what's happening. It's disorienting, and the only way I know how to describe it is that it feels a lot like willingly stepping into flood waters. Everything is swirling. I'm not sure which way is up. I tried to orient by organizing and throwing things away.

I tried to orient with a yard sale, by making room. There a woman tried to get a better deal on a pretty pillow, but I clung to it, trying to keep my head above water. Finally I let it all go. None of it kept me straight. In this flood, the yard sale whirled by.

We're getting another living area in our new house, and so to keep afloat, I've loaded cart after cart with beautiful rugs. I'm going to pick my favorite. I think it'll be so grand. I close my eyes at night and see patterned kilim and cotton dhurrie. I cling to one. It's going to be okay. Everything will so pretty, but then the rug sells out. Silly me. The flood has grown into a raging river, and I don't know how I'm breathing in it. The shoreline's a blur. The rug is gone.

It's my children, too. I reach for them to keep me up. On the last day of preschool, my third-born sang, and my heart raced. I wanted to stand and say "No, no, no. Slow this down." I'm reaching my hands out to grab on, but it's too fast. The kindergartener only a few days later sang, "I am a promise. I am a possibility." A great big yellow construction-paper sun beamed behind him and the rest of the class. I took photos of him and his best friend, all the promise in the world. I wanted to rip the sun down and fold it in my pocket, put it in a file. Before my oldest ran his first 5k, I held his face. He was just a baby. Now he runs toward a finish line.

There's no time or space for friends. I hardly get it together for my family. Surely it's a phase. I'm alone in the waters.

And then at church, we are singing, and I think I've inhaled the waters. I think I've gone under, and it's getting pitch black, but then my feet hit hard, and I'm lifted up. It's a root, a great big root, and I'm at the base of a tree, and I'm lifted. We're singing praises. We're thanking Jesus, and I see that I'm grafted. I can see it two ways. One way is temporary, and the other is eternal.

I see the whole rushing chaotic thing below me, how there is no other real way to keep above the slipping world than to open the eyes of my heart, not when a woman has four sons like me. Not when she has a past that threatens to swallow or a future that she can't control. I don't understand much right now. But I know this.

The only way to keep afloat is to cling to Jesus. He's not moving anywhere. He's established. The world will change in the blink of an eye, but Jesus Christ is the same. He was with me just yesterday. He's holding me up today, and tomorrow He's going to make sure I'm where I'm supposed to be.

Have you ever felt yourself overwhelmed by the flood when everything changes? How do your orient yourself?

By Amber at The Runamuck

[Judy Harder]

How to Live Your Best Life?
Jun 27, 2013 01:20 am | Ann Voskamp


"I don't have much time left, really."

My father's voice on the other end of the line reminds me of my grandfather's.

It's been nearly ten years since I heard that voice. I'm making beds. I can see Dad at his breakfast table.

"At best, maybe fifteen years. I'm on my last chapter." He pauses and I let the empty space beckon answers.

Grandpa died at eighty. Dad will turn sixty-three this coming year.

"I need a plan. I don't think I've had one."


I pull the sheets up, smooth out the bed's coverlet in coming light, then wait, listening to Dad think.

I'm hesitant to say anything. Best he find the way.

But I'm still, just standing here, knowing that we are moving out into hallowed ground. I wait. Then venture into the space with only a question.

"Well, how do you want that last chapter to read, Dad?"

"I want to end happy."

I sit on the edge of the bed, sunlight warm on my back, and ask slowly, "And what do you think brings happiness?"

He's probing in the silence, the back corners of being, looking for what lies in unexamined places. I'm praying.

"More farming."


"More farming?" I make an effort but I know the words still sound incredulous.

"My father farmed his whole life and made nothing . . . But he thought someday folks would pay farmers for their work. That might happen in my lifetime. Can't quit now. And maybe someday the grandkids will talk about how I could grow a crop of corn."

I can see Dad sitting at his table, looking out the bay window, watching rows of pride growing up into light.

"What about the people? The relationships?"

I let the words sit.

And he goes in another direction, approaches it all from the other side.

"Alan Strand called the other day." Every time I've seen Alan Strand, he's wearing denim coveralls, a worn-through cap.

"He was trying to figure out whether to spend the time he's got left restoring another tractor, buying a new engine for it — or if he should try to track down his daughter. He hasn't heard from her in ten years. Doesn't even know where she is."

Now this seems pretty obvious to me.

"And he decided?"


"The tractor."

I shake my head, only a bit stunned. The words dribble out. "He intentionally considered the options, voiced them to you . . . and then decided the tractor?"

"Yep. He knew how to do the tractor. Little risk. The daughter, she was all risk. And you know . . ."

I can't stop shaking my head. None of this makes any sense.

And yet it does.

"Do we give up what makes us really happy — farming, restoring tractors, writing, study, whatever we are good at — a lifetime of happiness—for a few days of happiness at the end? Do we sacrifice what makes us really happy day in and day out, for a few days of happiness with the people at the end?" Dad says it certain and I can hear the pain. "There are no guarantees with the people."

I'm stirred.

Before I can think, I rush along, finding what I'm looking for, my rock.

I say the words more to myself than to him, words leaving my mouth before I can think.



"Jesus said, 'He who loses his life will gain it.'"



The other end of the phone is quiet.

Tentatively, I step out a bit further. "Maybe making small sacrifices in personal pursuits – in the end we will know a happiness we couldn't have imagined."

I circle back, wondering if he's following.

"Maybe this is one way we live out what Jesus us calls us to." I say the words again, deliberately, for they seem new to me, richer in ways I hadn't considered. "He who loses his life will find it."

Dad lets his voice expose where he is. "Yeah. Maybe . . ."

I let him find his way . . .

"But maybe none of us can change really." His voice sounds so old . . .

"Great artists, great actors, great politicians, it's all the same. They do what makes them happy and that means they don't have much time for people. Balance is a hard thing. Nearly impossible if we are going to do something well. And we're wired the way we are. Maybe those around us just have to come to accept it."

I hurt inside.

"I am too old to change. I know farming." He sounds just like Grandpa.


Then he's talking about the price you can get for a bushel of corn and the weather forecast for the next few weeks.

And I'm thinking about the times I've been in my own bubble with my own agendas of accomplishments, drifting away from people and the true happiness disguised.

I'm remembering with a strange sadness a woman standing amidst the floral memorials of her mother's funeral, telling us of her  mother's far-and-wide reputation for the important stuff of bleach and immaculate housekeeping.

I'm thinking about the time I've chosen to wash windows, tend a flowerbed, answer an email, instead of playing a game of bananagrams with a trio of loud boys, read an Eloise Wilken story to pleading eyes.

My pride was tangled up in the tasks.


Why doesn't it always matter more to love well?

Is it because relationships don't bring us paychecks or praise?

Loving well, stepping over hurt, laying aside self and desires, draws on more of our interior resources than investing in a career, a skill, a personal pursuit. And yet, there are no promotions. No public status. No guarantees.

Relationships grow only in the soil of humility, selflessness, open-handedness. Relationships are inherently risky: for all that, you can't control the outcome.

Investing in relationships requires courage. It mandates daily fortitude and intentionality to make moment by moment decisions to prioritize relationships while balancing vocational demands.

Do my daily decisions support my belief that relationship is the essence of reality? Or do I merely pay lip service to relationship —  while the use of my hours clearly reveals true priorities?

The value of your life — is the value of your relationships. With God and men.

Dad's talking about what he's got to get done this week. I am my Father's daughter.

"Look at the time." I can see him turning there at the table, looking up at that clock ticking loudly over the kitchen sink. "And what am I doing sitting here? I've got so much to do and here I am talking the day away with you."

I have to smile. Dad's customary call always ends with this customary adieu.

"Always good talking with you, Dad."

And then he's gone.

Off to write more farming, more of what he's good at, into that last chapter of his life story. And I gather Bibles for church and more of hearing Jesus' words to come crucify self, words I need to hear again and I'll forget and need to hear again.

So we're on the cusp of a week of holidays, days of flag waving and patriotism.

Farmers don't know holidays. Livestock needs feeding 365 days a year. But we finish barn chores early, eat dinner, gather lawn chairs to head up to the lake and fireworks over water. Something we rarely did as kids. We try to make memories. We try to leave the work. We keep trying the investing in people.

Sun's sunk deep down into water, only a glow of embers burning along the horizon, when we haul our lawn chairs across the grass up at the lake. The shoreline's full of people. Shadows and glow necklaces and laughter and kids slurping blue freezies out of plastic.

I point straight ahead. Is there a spot there for the lawn chairs? The Farmer nods. Yes, there — there's enough room for us there.

There should be room enough for us there beside that silhouette with a farmer's cap. Kids run with their chairs slung over their shoulders.

The silhouette turns. The youngest turns. And then she laughs, running through shadows into shadows.

"Grandpa!"

He set aside self — he wrote sacrifice into his story.

I walk through shadows.

My hand finds the shoulder of that flannel plaid jacket and he finds my hand. He pulls me closer. He brushes my cheek with that leathery skin.

"Ann . . ." His voice is soft, full of things he can't say.

"Dad." I squeeze his hand, a long, lingering pulse of all I feel.

And then fireworks bloom.

These mirror images rock gently on water, two spaces merging and petals of color falling.

The children pull up on Grandpa's lap, lean in close.

And I think how children will talk about this yield of time.

How in our dark places, we sacrifice and find faces and light and happiness unexpected.


The skies explode. Light rains down. I am in this story with these people. What is the plan for this flash of days?

I look over at Dad.

We are not too old to take courage.

We are not too late to sacrifice.

We are not too lost to reach out to each other and linger on the rim of time.

Relationship is the art of sacrifice that makes the days a masterpiece.


Somewhere in our dark, we can forget all that is lost —

for the tender wonder of what could be found . . .

"He who has found his life will lose it, and he who has lost his life for My sake will find it." ~Jesus



Q4U: How do you feel about your relationships today? How have you been hurt? How have you been healed?

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


By Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience

[Judy Harder]

The Artistic You: Finding Your Heart's Way Back
Jun 30, 2013 01:20 am | Bonnie Gray



Photo by John-Morgan
I sat there, at one spot on a table that stretched long, parked adjacent to other tables, wrapping us into a square donut of seats.

Faces blinked back at me from across the room on the other side. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

I was at an artists meeting that night.

And I was the keynote speaker.

I walked into this room with two legs, I began.

But, if you could really look deep inside me tonight...

I took a big, shaky breath.

You would see that the legs to my soul... are broken.

My lips start to tremble and my hands start to cool and shake, even though it is a warm summer eve.

I gulp and continue.

The reason is — because you see — I've spent a lot of the hours of my days this year in my bed.  In my home.

Afraid.

Not because I don't love to be with people.

But, because of panic attacks.

They were triggered by memories that have come alive — doing something I've always loved.

Something I've always dreamed of doing.

Writing a book.

Places Still Tender
This is how I introduced myself to a group of painters, designers, illustrators, poets, musicians... writers.

It sure didn't sound inspiring to me at all.

At one point, I even had to stop and collect myself.

I was overwhelmed by the surreal experience of recounting my story out in the open.

Even as I shared my story, I questioned whether there was any value in exposing pain that has been endured so privately.

I felt for sure I was making everyone feel uncomfortable and awkward.

Until I saw one woman's eyes start to tear.  Then, another man's head dip, in a knowing nod.

There is beauty behind the pain.

These are the words I found myself speaking into the room with my new friends.

When you get closer to what truly moves your heart, you will touch the places that are still tender.

Because that creative place where you feel most safe is often where you've gone — when you've been most wounded.

Where do you go – to find safety, to express pain and beauty, in your world?

It's there — in those private places of freedom — where you meet with God and your creative self speaks.

That One Thing
When I finished speaking, I ended by asking if any parts of my story resonated?

The first question broke the silence.

"Have you always known you were a writer?" Someone asked.

I pause for a moment, to consider my answer.  And the response I chose to give sparked a beautiful response — stories flowing from everyone's childhood around the table.

I've always been a writer, before I called myself one.

Writing has always been that one thing in my life — since I was a little girl — that no one could ever take away from me.

I didn't have to be good at it.

I didn't have to think about it.

Writing is just what I did.

It's the most natural thing I can do.

The artist in me is a little girl.

The Little Girl In You
"How about you?" I scan the gazes of new friends who suddenly feel closer than the space between us.  "When you do your thing — play music, paint, design, blog about fashion, take cooking videos, build models, write, take photos — when you create — are you doing what came most naturally to you, as a child?"

Energy suddenly stirs the room, reminding me of the wind of the Holy Spirit that once blew through a room full of disciples gathering together.  They began speaking in a way that was different — that drew people from the outside closer in.

That's what art does.  It connects us to each other, in those places we are most vulnerable, opening what is private, finding language for what's unspoken. For what's important and real.

Everyone started telling their stories — of themselves — as little girls and little boys.

What they've always loved to do.  Before they knew what it was called.  Before it became a struggle to claim artistic enjoyment as God's legitimate imprint of Himself in us.

The artistic you. I discovered this is everyone's continuing journey of faith.   To touch the artistic life we all hide deep inside. It's the artist's way.  The child in you.

Is there an ember of God's creative voice flickering in you?

What is the one thing you've always enjoyed doing as a little girl, that felt most natural to you?

Take a moment to see yourself as that little girl right now.  Where is she and what does she like to do?

As you picture her, let your heart find its way back to where it longs to return.

Because that artist in you is God's little girl.

"For I am mindful of the sincere faith within you...
For this reason I remind you to kindle afresh the gift of God which is in you...
For God has not given us a spirit of timidity,
but of power and love and discipline."
1 Timothy 1:5-7



Pull up a chair.  Click to comment.  Share from your heart and let's close the space between us.  Your company warms this place here.

~~~~~

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]

What My iPhone Reminded Me About Parenting
Jul 01, 2013 01:20 am | Dawn Camp



Our home internet connection is a fickle and undependable thing. You can only imagine the state of our wifi network. My iPhone needs to update apps at least once a day (yet another sign that I should delete a few, if you ask my husband), which is usually an exercise in frustration.

Crazy as it sounds, God used something as simple as app updates to remind me of a valuable rule of parenting: persistence.

Typically when my apps start to update a message pops up and says Unable to Download Application: Done or Retry? I always hit Done.

If it didn't work the first time, why would it work the second?

After two weeks trying to update the same app, I finally hit the Retry button. That didn't work so I hit it again. And again. And again. Until it finished.

You know what? Each time I hit retry, the download didn't really start over. The status bar jumped to the point it had reached the last time and started from there. Every time it went a little further until finally the download was complete.

This taught me one thing and reminded me of another: I can be more stubborn than my internet connection, and sometimes even if you don't immediately achieve your desired end result, something is still being accomplished.

See, I've been frustrated in the parenting department lately. Are my kids listening to me? Sometimes it feels like I'm talking to the proverbial brick wall.

If you're a parent, you can probably relate.

The app update lesson made me think of these wise words in Deuteronomy:

Therefore shall ye lay up these my words in your heart and in your soul, and bind them for a sign upon your hand, that they may be as frontlets between your eyes.

And ye shall teach them your children, speaking of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.

And thou shalt write them upon the door posts of thine house, and upon thy gates:

That your days may be multiplied, and the days of your children, in the land which the Lord sware unto your fathers to give them, as the days of heaven upon the earth.

~Deuteronomy 11:18-21

If God believed your children were going to absorb all the valuable lessons he wants you to teach them on the first or second try, he wouldn't tell you to speak of them all the time (when you sit, walk, lie down, and rise up) or to write them upon the door posts and gates of your house.

Your kids may not want to hear you speak the same lessons over and over, but they need you to be consistent. They need to know that absolute truth exists and that you believe in it absolutely.

The world will hand them situational ethics, so you must teach ethics that stand up in hard situations. Be a safe place for them to test ideas and see if they hold water, but don't be afraid to speak truth.

"Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!" ~Isaiah 5:20

I remember a conversation with my father when I was in my mid-twenties. I told him my position on a political issue, something that I thought sounded good, that I felt I could support. His calm reply spurred me to ask more questions until I realized that I'd accepted face value without researching implications, taken a stand without understanding.

You're never too old to learn a lesson from your parents.

I remember things I believed as a teen, like "Who cares what anyone else thinks if I know I'm right?" Children can be foolish and stubborn. I was. I bet you were, too.

You aren't failing if your kids aren't perfect. Give them the same grace that your heavenly Father gives you. Give yourself some grace, too. Everyone else's children aren't perfect, either.

So what's a weary mom to do? Be persistent and consistent and pray that your children will come to know truth, as you dare to speak it and lay its foundation one day at a time. Hang in there.

Do you feel like you just keep hitting Retry? How can we pray for you in your parenting today?

{Please click over to my blog for a downloadable desktop calendar for July!}

by Dawn Camp, My Home Sweet Home

[Judy Harder]

Being Brave Enough to Be Real
Jul 02, 2013 01:10 am | Brandy Bruce


She and I hadn't seen each other in more than a year. My dear friend Laurie and I live in different states, so our lunch dates are rare and all the more special to me. I sat across from her at a quiet restaurant and gave her the quick update on my life: "Work is fine; my husband is fine; the kids are doing great; life is busy but good," and so on. Then I stopped. This was a very real friend who cared about more than just surface-level stuff. I could be honest with her.

"I don't want to pretend with you," I suddenly said. "My husband and I have had a rough few months. It's been hard. It's getting better, but we've gone through some of the hardest days in our ten-year marriage."

She didn't even blink, just nodded.

I'll be honest with you; even typing those words to you now makes my heart race a little.

It's not so easy, is it? Being real with people?



Going through difficult times is the opposite of fun. I'd choose fun any day of the week over moments of crying and hurt feelings. But here's what I shared with my friend that day:

"Laurie, I would never choose to go through that difficult time again. But I think God met me in those moments; I think He's using those moments. And I was so desperate for God's presence in my life that even in the pain, I felt relief. Relief that I could see God working in me again. Relief that this time I didn't doubt His involvement. Relief that when I needed Him, really needed Him, He was there. I'd reached a point where I wasn't sure anymore."

She shared a story with me that told me she understood exactly where I was coming from, and I felt this sense of gratitude. I'm not the only one desperate for God. I'm not the only one who has struggled with doubt. I'm not the only one who's had difficult moments propel her into God's arms.

I realized something after I opened up and told Laurie the truth of where I was at that moment in my life. The honesty felt good. In the midst of blogging and facebook and all the social media we send into cyberspace, our lives can look like a constant reel of highlights. We're always smiling in the pictures we post. But those are just snapshots of lives filled with good days and bad days and moments of pure joy and moments of brokenness.

All of us experience joy. But all of us go through difficult seasons of life too.

My husband and I celebrated our 10-year anniversary this year. We've been a couple for more than 14 years. We've had a great marriage and have two wonderful children. So when we hit a difficult place in our marriage, I was shocked. I expected ups and downs in our marriage, but only itty-bitty downs, I guess. Not trenches.

Before we hit the trench, I'd known my relationship with God had cooled into a distant but cordial relationship. I also knew it wasn't the best place for me, but I'd gotten used to it and hadn't taken the initiative to change it. The predicament between my husband and me changed that. What a blessing to realize that God was right there, waiting to help us get back on track. I realized that I was desperately longing for God to pursue me. I needed Him. And He still wanted me.

It was a life-changing lesson to learn and it's made all the difference in my marriage, my friendships, my role as a mother, and my heart as a believer.



By Brandy Bruce, A Little Bit of Brandy

[Judy Harder]

Happy 4th of July!
Jul 04, 2013 01:20 am | incourage


On this 4th of July, we are once again reminded of the privileges we enjoy–and we are exceedingly grateful for everyone who protects those freedoms. Thank you to the men and women serving our country–and thank you to the family and friends who love and support them.

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.
2 Corinthians 3:17

Happy Independence Day, friends! We wish you rest and refreshment, fun with family and friends, an endless supply of chocolate and a frizz-free hair day no matter how you celebrate!

[Judy Harder]

For When You Fail
Jul 06, 2013 01:20 am | Kristen Welch


Last week was bad.

Not the kind of bad you can blame on a broken dishwasher or a lost job or someone else.

It was a week filled with me, failing.

I wasn't a great mom or a good wife. I yelled too much and didn't listen enough. I was short-tempered and impatient and just generally stressed. My family was frustrated with me.

At one point, I finally put myself in time out, which is another way of saying, I locked myself in my bedroom and ate a lot of chocolate and left my husband in charge of All The Things. My cat joined me and within minutes she was mad at me too.


Sure, I can come up with excuses that might justify some of my behavior. But I had a choice how to handle my frustrating week.

And I failed.

It hurts to admit it, even though we all have days (weeks) like that.

We live in a world that doesn't like failure. It's ugly and messy. Our world wants perfection: Perfectly manicured people who never mess up.

Maybe it's because when we fail, there are always a handful of people ready and waiting to point it out. Failure makes us uncomfortable, unless it's in someone else and then it's news.

Failure makes us want to cover up our mistakes, to excuse them. Failure makes us want to run away.

But we were created to fail. Because it's in our failure that we see our need for Jesus, the One who never fails.

Through my mistakes and pain and spills and why am I freaking out about a sticky floor-kind-of-day, I am drawn to the One who runs to me. He does not turn away from my shortcomings. He is not afraid of my humanity.

I cut my hand chopping veggies the other night, before I could even grab a towel, the blood in my body rushed to the wound. That's what it was created to do. Our blood was designed to wash out the impurities and clot to protect us.

It's a lot like the wounds in life. When I fail as a parent or a wife or person, Jesus' blood goes to my injured heart. It rushes to the place I hurt. Because that's what it was created to do.

"But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin." (1 John 1:7)

He is there to wash away my regret and my sin, to help me forgive myself, to remind me that every day is full of new mercies.

Because really failure is an opportunity for grace, to give it to others and receive it for ourselves.

When I fail, it's the perfect time to fall into Him.

by Kristen Welch, We are THAT family