mother's prayer :: holiness for them

Can you take this mother-wretch and make me holy?

Not for my sake, but for theirs?

I can live with my ugliness, but they do not deserve to. 

Take the bitter, the sharp, the crushing, 

and make me sweet, smooth, uplifting. 

There must be grace for this,

grace greater than the gaping hole of my failures.

There must be holiness for this,

holiness purer than my puffed-up self and gnashing flesh.

Holiness for them.

Not for me to spit and polish and show off - 

But for their beauty. 

Only your spit and mud salve can make me see, 

make me clean, make me a fitting funnel for your kindness.

Oh Lord, you who wash our feet,

let me stoop with you awhile. 

Let me not lord over them with my airs,

but serve them with your graces.

Even now you pour the water on my cracks and callouses,

reminding me where the power of authority begins. 

I will lay aside the garment of my false entitlement.

Toe by toe, you make what I have trampled into holy ground. 

Hear the heart’s cry - Not only my feet, but my hands and head as well.

When I am at the end of myself, you can begin, even again. 

Let me love them to your ends. 

~lg

S.D.G.

These summer days

How can so much living be stuffed into the days of summer? I am a suitcase bursting at the seams, a well overflowing, a garden escaping the chicken wire bounds. 

I have sat on the front porch with nineteen family members (so far), and walked the red beaches and rocked in the blue harbour. I have said my ethereal farewells to the cat that never made it home, and deloused 1.4 pounds of a fresh barn kitten. I have seen the glorious sunset spilling from the heavens over the north shore cliffs and lighting my daughter’s eyes with its secrets. We’ve danced to fiddles in the rain, and filled the house with music, and feasted on the fruits of our little land. We’ve dedicated a baby to God, and sung loudly of His faithfulness, and delighted in her perfect smiles. I have seen the fishing boats go out to meet the sun at its earliest rising and rowed under the village bridge with homemade oars. I have listened to the tales that only grandparents can tell, and embraced four generations of familial love, and received the prayer of my father’s father over my children and household. I have slept in a tent and under the thunder-drummed roof and next to a baby’s snores, and some days have woken to tired bones and headaches, but the eastern light makes shadows of the leaves on the bedroom wall and I remember to be grateful. 

This morning I hear the wind chimes singing the song of the rain to come. It’s a morning for cuddles and another cup of coffee and feeling a bit sad at the emptiness of the house. But here is still fullness of grace. Blessing upon blessing, that’s what these summer days are. 

~lg

Summer and the Givenness of Grace

It’s been internet ages (aka almost three weeks) since I’ve posted anything! What ever happened to the end of June? What happened to my month of prayer? 

Well, summer happened, that’s what! We’ve been camping, beaching, gardening, and partying. We’ve had a couple rounds of family visiting from away. We’re going to Fiddle Fest! Summer has its own rhythm. Some days it feels like swinging between crazy-busy and hazy-lazy. It’s not a bad thing at all, just different. 

The prayer journey is ongoing. I’ve been reading several books that have been expanding my ideas of prayer in indirect ways. I’ve been mulling. Meditating. Morning prayer really is the one practice that gets the day going on the right track. Some of my other prayer time “anchors” have become unmoored with our different routine. But I’m trying not to “get my shorts in a knot” (as my mother used to say!) about it. I know that when summer is over, we’ll all settle back into more predictable days. 

In the meantime, God is still there. And we’re still talking. It’s not about becoming a slave to particular prayer practices. Those practices are tools. Those practices are tracks to my desired destination, but they are no substitute for the welcome upon arrival. 

This thought by Sarah Mackenzie has been keeping my company the last week or so. It’s from her great little book Teaching From Rest. In it, she talks about the seeming impossibility of our task as mothers. To a certain extent, our inadequacy is a given. Our own resources are never enough. She writes,

“I don’t really have any idea how I’m supposed to tackle everything ahead of me in this day, this year, this decade when that’s all I’ve got. It’s just a couple of loaves of bread and a few fish.

Apparently, that’s all He needs.

We are weary because we forget about grace. We act as though God’s showing up is the miracle. But guess what? God’s showing up is the given. Grace is a fact.” (pg. 15, emphasis mine)

Ah. I’ve been letting that sink in a bit. It might be easy to think that all my good habits and discipline are getting me closer to God. And it may be true, in part. Those are all ways that I respond to His call to “draw near.” They are for my benefit. But beneath and above and around it all is the reality - He is there. I don’t have to conjure Him up. His presence is the given. “Grace is a fact.” 

I could beat myself up over the fact that I didn’t have a regular devotional time at all this past week. Or I could be thankful about that book I read on the way to the beach that caused me to wonder about God in a different way. I could recognize the love of God in the faces of family members we don’t get to see very often. I could marvel at how one passage of Philippians that I read two weeks ago is still giving me something to chew over. 

There’s so much grace all around me. So much God. He is never far, even on the days I forget to pray. I can relax a little, knowing that my inadequacy is a given. But so is grace, and because of that, I can rejoice a whole lot. 

~lg

The Grace of the Weighty Word

I am startled by the Scripture readings for December 1st and 2nd in Common Prayer.* Isaiah 1:1-20. A hard word, a weighty word, heavy with the justice of God.

Here is a broken Father, crushed by the inconsolable affliction of His rebellious children. Here is the Father weeping over the burned city.

And yet these tattered lepers insist on parading their so-called sacrifices through the courts, keeping up the charade of a glittering festival.

"Your whole head is injured,
your whole heart afflicted."

Stop the insanity!

"From the sole of your foot to the top of your head 
there is no soundness."

No soundness. Only noise.
No wholeness. Only fractures.
No peace, no shalom. Only the dizzying dance of hypocrisy even as the enemy draws closer.

Righteousness is under siege, and yet the parties and platitudes continue. The fatherless and widow cry out, but who has ears to hear?


Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble. tremble.


For who can stand against such an injunction? And who am I in the holiday parade?

And yet the word of justice contains a word of mercy. (Blessed be the faithfulness of God.) Here is a diagnosis, and that is grace to the gaping wounded. Here is the naked, ugly truth, and therein lies salvation.

I have known this word. I have sat in complete judgment, rightly accused by the righteous law, the weight of each commandment broken piled on me in succession. And oh, it was hard to bear. I would not have believed in the grace of such judgment had I not known His face. Truth makes free, but only in the ears of the humbled.

"Come now, let us reason together,"
says the LORD.
"Though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be white as snow;
though they are like crimson,
they shall be like wool.
If you are willing and obedient,
you will eat the best from the land;
but if you resist and rebel,
you will be devoured by the sword."
     For the mouth of the LORD has spoken. 

If I had not already known His kiss, I could not have received His rebuke.

And yes, every word of rebuke also breathes healing, if we come close enough to be washed in His tears. His face is turned to us, even in rebuke.

This is mercy - that He speaks at all.

This is favour - that He rips off our crumbling facades and exposes our aching bones.

This is love - that His word became flesh and bone to bear our sin, to stare us down and call our names, and to restore the ears our own swords have devoured. He does not turn away. He does not forsake.

This is love - do not miss it! This is the Word who will heal.

This is the Word of peace for the trembling.

"Come now." 

So I pray, in this season, for ears to hear,
for ears to receive the Word,
no matter how He speaks.



* Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals by Shaine Claiborne, Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove and Enuma Okoro


~lg

The east window: how we begin

Enough! Too long! Child get the cloth! Quick to the east window, and wipe down the glass!

Enough! Enough dust and smudges and squashed fly remains, enough squinting through streaks to see the sun rise.

Wipe it all, inside and out. Let not this day's light be filtered by yesterday's dirt. A clear vision, a clean view - this is how we begin. Not a moment to lose, the day is almost crowning. Scrub and shine, right to every corner and across the sill. A final flourish of the cloth - now look.

Here is morning, and the world wiped new. Step back, the sun is here, and you shall see again.


~lg

First Snow and the Grace of Morning

I am wakened in the grey light by her whisper. “Mom, I need to show you something. Something that happened outside in the night. It’s not what you expected.”

My sleepy eyes come in to focus on her smiling face. She points to the window, eager with her secret.

Snow.

I had known of its possibility, looking at the forecast last night. Yet it still surprises me now, as the first snow of the season always does. The white magic has gently coated the autumn world, icing the grass, frosting the pumpkins on the porch, dusting the carrot tops dozing in the garden.

Too often I am guilty of seeing the world through mud-coloured glasses. But this morning, my vision is wiped clear. Children have a way of waking you to wonder. It is their peculiar and powerful gift. To have their eyes – this is a grace of God. To know winter’s first kiss as pure joy – this, too, is a grace of God.

The sun breaks through the grey clouds over the hill, and the crystal covering sparkles even as the golden leaves are set on fire. The kids have already raced outside, snowsuits over pajamas, convinced that God sent the snow for their own mittened pleasure. Perhaps they are right.

And so this Monday morning we begin again. Begin with wonder, begin with grace, begin with new-fallen joy.

This is the mercy of each morning, if we have eyes to see.

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:22-23

~lg

Confessions of the Real Prodigal

Father,

Could it be that you come with a tender word, even for the likes of me, long steeped in the economy of law and merits of righteousness?

How many times have I stood out on the back step, all too aware of my failings, waiting for my "time out" to be over, when all the time you are waiting for me inside?

How many times have I stared at my own stumbling feet, fearing your furrowed brow of disapproval, when I could have looked straight into your eyes and seen mercy reflected?

How many times have I tried to earn my way, prove my worth, and pass the test? You gave me a playground, and I made an obstacle course. You gave me grace and I rationed it so I would have enough for the next mistake. You gave me a home and I tried my best to be the perfect housekeeper.

But, oh, I don't have enough rugs to sweep the crumbs under, and I live like Cinderella in the ashes when you are kneeling before me with a basin to wash my feet. Why is it so hard to put down the broom, the score card, the record of my wrongs?

You give love, and I need empty hands to receive it. If it were a wage to earn, I'd work myself into the grave, but it's an inheritance that's given on the basis of a family name.

And here you call me little child.

You have every right to scold and berate and throw in my middle name for effect, so I know you mean business. But it's not business at all, and the only transaction in this whole equation is the one and only life you gave for me so you could give me your name forever.

"All I have is yours," you say.

No rationing, no interest fees, no conditions.

Pure gift, pure love, pure family.

So I can truly let go of my tarnished earnings and take your hand, come into the house where I will always have a home, be still and know you are Father.


(Luke 15:11-32)

~lg

Cabin Fever!

Cabin fever has spiked. The winter roars outside. The bears have broken in, and they are my children. Wild things, stomping and raging and growling, upending the furniture and scattering the morning’s broken pieces all over the floor. Snow days and sick days have kept us inside for far too long, and the walls are pushing in. These shaggy-haired creatures are chasing me with whining, irrational demands for kids’ shows!  and softer toast!  and smaller pirates! If their evil plan is to turn mama into a grizzly, it’s working.

I want to roar. I want to toss them out into a snowbank. Or perhaps stuff and mount silent over the mantle?

But then, the littlest cub wanders over, blankie and teddy in hand. He is wearing flannel bear jammies.

“I need uppie.”

“I need a bear hug,” I tell him, scooping him up.

“Bear hug?”

“Yes.”

Somehow in the embrace, we feel human again.  Sticky paws turn to patting hands, the gnash of terrible teeth to a smile. This grizzly mama begins to melt. The fever breaks. Maybe, just maybe, I can see the end of winter after all.

~lg

Clothed

Do you remember it? The first outfit you chose for your baby girl? Perhaps a decidedly pink sleeper and matching hat. Or an impossibly tiny and frilly dress. Do you remember it? The care, the delight, the amazement of choosing those darling clothes? Do you remember dressing your daughter for the first time, how those little limbs would not stay put, just how she wiggled and made that face and wondered what was going on?

Today, friends of ours will be choosing their daughter’s last outfit. I cannot imagine how they will choose. What love will finger those threads, will tremble in carrying such grown up clothes to the counter. What grief to lay them out and know the stillness with which they will finally rest.

At the beginning and the end, we are all helpless to dress ourselves.

And sometimes in the middle of it all, we can be left feeling stripped, naked, wondering what is going on.

But there is One who comes when everything is inside out and wraps His cloak around us. He wraps His arms around us, and we can crawl into our Father’s lap and into His comfort. 

And somewhere in the middle of it all, this living, heaving, laugh and cry world, we remember the joy. We remember we are all His children.

~lg

For All the Good Christian Girls Gone Wrong

We good Christian girls are doomed to live in the messes of our own making, because we know better. Deserving of our doom – yes, this is our self-judgment. And so there is no choice but to buckle down and bear it, to accept our lot, all the while denying our deep suffering for fear the truth will bring us shame.

Better to soldier on than face the shame.

Choices have consequences, and we have no one to blame but ourselves for our imperfect choices. Thus, we bear the responsibility of the imperfect consequences.

We adjust. Expectations, the deep desires of our hearts – all adjusted to fit our present circumstances so we don’t feel the discrepancy. We cannot feel the discrepancy, for then we would feel our failure, and our Father’s disappointment, and there is nothing worse.

If we let ourselves feel the pain, we make sure the pronouncement of our deserving it is quick to follow.

And this, this we turn into our twisted sacrifice, our cross to bear. We have failed – failed ourselves, our family, our God, and the sense of it smolders. It smolders and smothers and we think we are dying to self.

We could not be more wrong.

Self could not be more alive.

We have failed, but not in the way we first thought. We have failed to grasp grace.

This sense that we deserve it? Deserve to lie crippled in these beds we have made because these are the rules? One. big. lie.

Oh, if we are talking about the way the world works, the way human nature works, the way the Law works, we are correct.

Correct, but not right.

For the right way has been shown by God, and it is not our way.

God is most correct to condemn us. But we good Christian girls get stuck here. And what’s worse, we stay and build our lives here.

God’s rightness was shown in Jesus on the cross, taking full responsibility for every imperfect choice and the consequences thereof, even those made by good Christian girls who tell themselves they should have known better.

And our smoldering heaps of disappointed martyrdom? Just another disguise for self-righteousness. Just another way we try to prove ourselves to God.

So afraid of shame, we forfeit our freedom.

So afraid to hope, we dare not pray.

Our sacrifices are not enough, and never will be. Our silent suffering will never atone for our shortcomings.

Oh, come to the cross and bury your damnation in His death! Throw your failures onto His finished work and be free! Receive freely what you’ve been trying to deserve all along – grace.

There is grace for the good girls who do not feel good enough. We don’t need to feel good enough, but we can be made right. Right here, right now.

All our disappointments, self-doubt, and despair – finished. All our suffocating striving and self-made shackles – finished. All our fear of failure and faithlessness – finished.

Let go and live.

Live out of His love and let fear be cast out.

Live out of His delight and let the desires of your heart come to life again.

Live out of His faithfulness and let faith arise.

Let go of the mess and see yet what God may make of it. Rise out of that bed and walk. Restoration . . . healing . . . hope – no, not what you deserve, but what God desires. This is the gospel, and it is for good Christian girls, too. 

Father's Day 2013

To the fathers who have chosen the narrow way,

who have made wise decisions, and brave decisions,

whose conviction has kept us strong,

and whose faithfulness has kept us together –

Thank you.

You are not perfect, but you've chosen the path of grace –

the ancient wisdom, the courage of sacrifice,

the strength of a Good and Perfect Father

whose faithfulness has kept you together.

You have chosen love,

over and over.

You have chosen us,

over and over.

Thank you.

*For Micah, Dad, Alan, Grandad, and the fathers who have already heard, "Well done, good and faithful servant." With much love. 

~lg