I don’t know how you found time to read this. But then again, it’s possible you were hoping for a sliver of personal time. (The short people in your house are maybe sleeping.) Maybe you wanted to be reminded you’ll make it through this. Um, and that everything in your house will not always be sticky. That there is a REM cycle in your future.
And that you’re not alone.
Today I’m in the mood for something meaningful. So this free printable is for both of us. A professor in college had us read this together as a prayer to begin every class–and it’s not a bad way to direct my mind.
Enjoy a free printable today of this ancient prayer by St. Francis of Assissi.
One thing I picked up from my Christmases in Uganda: All the glitter and hype of Christmas does have a purpose beyond the secular.
God created seven feasts for the Old Testament Hebrews, which clues me in; these occurred in the same seasons. Maybe the Israelites knew Hadassah made the best matzoh, or Great-Aunt Hephzibah made the best lamb broth, or that the air was filled with chaff after harvest. Heck, Jesus’ big debut was making wine from water for a wedding. The Bible ends with His own wedding. God’s the pinnacle of our joy, of our feasts and revelry. And I think He uses our senses—the whiff of evergreen; the clam dip (it’s a Breitenstein thing); the twinkle lights; Jack Frost nipping at your nose—to cement our minds to what we can’t see.
It was my senior year in my public high school; World History. We’d been assigned a debate with ties to Christianity in history. A lot of the brightest students from our school were involved. And here’s the brilliant logic that spiraled from my mouth: “So many people have given their lives for Christianity. They wouldn’t give their lives if it wasn’t true.”
The teacher swallowed and even rolled her eyes. My team, of course, was hung out to dry in the debate. Looking back, the flaw in logic was as clear as a Windex commercial: Who can tell all the people throughout time who’ve given their lives for lies?
Unfortunately, I stepped into a stereotype of Christians in that instance, which (God’s sovereignty aside, which it never is) affected the testimony I’d worked hard to cultivate among my unbelieving friends. In their eyes, I joined the ranks of the Christians who, for example, insisted Scripture supported the sun was not the center of the galaxy.
All that to say–I am pretty passionate about raising kids who can respond to life thoughtfully: and not just think well, but understand the heart questions the world’s asking. I want to demonstrate over and over and over that God and His Word are an anchor as deep as our culture’s most penetrating questions.
I’m jazzed to be guest posting again today on weareTHATfamily.com: Raising Christian Kids to Think. Hop on over and check it out!
As we flick the page over to 2016 tonight, I’m posting on EverThineHome.com again: What Makes You Remember?
With grateful permission, I’ll post the beginning here.
In my dad’s garage are stashed a few items that would be of little significance to anyone else, but that mean the world to him: a charred license plate. An old mechanic’s shirt—the kind he wore daily in his farming years—with the back torn away entirely.
These, he’s told me, represent the days God saved me and my family.
The charred license plate was removed from a 1977 Cadillac Seville. The driver? A slightly more youthful version of my mother, pregnant with me, her firstborn. Only a half mile from our farm house, she’d yielded at the intersection. But it was summer, and the field of corn stretched green and high. Another car was charging through somewhere around the posted 55 miles per hour.
Read more here.
Hi! Contributing on weareTHATfamily.com again today, on a post I flat-out needed myself this week: Letter to a Discouraged Mom.
If you’re having one of those days/weeks/seasons, I hope it encourages you.
Praying for you today, readers.
#isaiah1:18 #whiteassnow #agenerousgrace
Author’s note to newcomers: Our family of origin—or the culture in our own homes—has a considerable impact on our work, our rest, the lens through which we interpret relationships, our kids, our conversation, our spirituality, even our sex life (betcha didn’t think you’d find them in there!).
It was during our most recent travel to the States that I stood at a gas station in Arkansas, with an ear to the glugging into my tank and an eye to the climbing digital numbers of my total. I was also attempting not to look at the car parked two lanes over, whose car alarm honked petulantly, heedless to the fact that its owner was also its alleged perpetrator: Impostor!
I didn’t want to embarrass her. Poor thing. It didn’t help matters that her lapdogs went bananas behind the glass every time the alarm protested its would-be attacker’s vulgar atrocities.
It was my oldest son, though, who climbed out of the car. Blonde, blue-eyed, and nearly eleven, he spoke in a low voice so that I inclined my head.
“Mom,” he asked, “shouldn’t we help her?”
My eyebrows pulled upwards. “Well, I don’t know. I was wondering, but most of the time there’s nothing you can do. It looks like her keys are locked in the car, and I can’t really help with that. I’m just trying not to add to her embarrassment.”
“Yeah, but…” here, he paused. “Shouldn’t we ask?”