announcing: KatieKump.com

Well, dear friends and family, the time has come to announce a very fun and exciting new development! My blog is moving! And I would love for you to join me at:

www.katiekump.com

Today's Five Minute Friday post is up over there, as well as all my other posts, ever. So if you've been following via RSS or email, please do click through today and rejoin me momentarily.

A huge thank you to the lovely and brilliant K.C. Young for all of her work and time and patience in helping me with this project. I am so grateful. Please send money and flowers and gifts her way as a token of appreciation!

There will surely be more construction going on, but I'm excited for the move and hope you'll join the fun!

Love you all,
Katie

#firstworldproblems

For those of you on Twitter, or even just Facebook probably, it's likely you've seen people tag their posts #firstworldproblems.

And let's be honest, we have a lot of them:

"Too many concerts, not enough money. #firstworldproblems"

"My medicine doesn't taste good. #firstworldproblems"

"When your phone charger isn't long enough to reach your bed. #firstworldproblems"

"My 52 oz drink won't fit in my car's cup holder. #firstworldproblems"

The Twit-lists go on and on and on.

But I'm not about to bash those people who use the phrase. I'm not about to guilt you about things you've said or complained about.

Rather, I'm turning all the criticism on myself as I have noticed in our current and impending circumstances how prone I am to worry and complain and horde angst about matters that don't.

My recent qualms regard the weeks following Stephen's homecoming and a little bit of uncertainty there. It sounds something like this:

"Ugh, we just really need to figure out when we're going to move and where to so we can be closer to our friends! And we need to figure out how to go on vacation in the middle of all of that too! And where should we go? And what should we do when we get there??"

I've even jokingly added on, "I know, I know, #firstworldproblems"

Until one day I stopped myself.

Because really. 

Really.

That's what they are. 

And while my Father in heaven has His eye on all these details and does care about them, His ultimate goal in it all is for whatever comes to conform me to the image of His Son. And that should be my primary concern as well. 

Not to mention the fact that between seeking Jesus and planning vacation there are a lot of other priorities that require the majority of my time, prayers, thoughts, and strength.

So if you hear me griping about any of these things, or any others, that just don't matter, please do alert me. I want a heart of gratitude more than almost anything else in the world. 

That is all.

Five Minute Friday: Dance

Most Fridays in a month I head over to Lisa-Jo Baker's blog to join in the Five Minute Friday fun. And though today's participation got extended to the wee hours of Saturday morning (and broke a few rules in so doing), I'm so glad I jumped in. So, for five (and twenty) minutes...Dance.

GO!

Some days FMF is exactly where I am supposed to be.

Today is one of them.

Just a handful of hours ago I found myself dancing with my favorite 2-year-old to the Kidz Only Music Choice channel on Comcast. It's one of our favorite past times and I will gladly take a majority of the credit for her love for dance. She's been watching me goof off and love life through dance for nearly two years. And who can resist, now that she's talking up a storm, when she says, "Tadie, I wanna dance wiz YOU!!" Everything stops, all of life, whatever it is we were doing before, and we dance. We run in circles, we do ballet, we wobble our knees and we just don't stop. We dance until we're sweaty and thirsty and drag ourselves to the kitchen for a drink.

Glorious. Truly.

I cannot fathom how it's fair that I get paid to spend my days this way, but I do praise Jesus for it.

Today though my thoughts were drifting into tomorrow's dance party, the wedding reception of a dear friend from high school. I so look forward to cutting loose with my mom, old church friends, and maybe if I'm lucky my dear-old-dad too. 

But I have to admit that, unlike any other reception anticipation, I'm feeling just the tiniest bit anxious.

Ok, that's a lie.

I'm way more anxious than I want to even admit to myself.

STOP.

But clearly I cannot stop here. So if you wanted only a Five Minute read, feel free to abort now as I am unsure where this ship will land. My feelings won't be hurt.

But whether alone or with company, I need to dig this out.

It's not my dance moves I'm worried about. They flow naturally, and often uncontrollably, and tend to leave people smiling, a win whether it's laughter or awe-inspired.

It's not that Stephen won't be here, per say. I danced the night away at a wedding last Saturday without him. In fact, this will be the 6th wedding I've flown solo since he deployed last year.

It's not the forecast of outrageous heat. A stifling high of 106 is reportedly up and coming for us tomorrow.

Nope. It's not any of these things. It all boils down to one word, one tiny word, one high school word I wish I knew nothing of.

The beautiful, Christ-loving, glory-giving bride-to-be was popular.

There, I said it. And believe me it looks even shallower now than it sounded in my head all afternoon.

But she was...and is, I suppose, in that crowd of cheerleaders, football players, well-dressed, super-"cool" kids who called me Smart Girl if they needed to call me anything at all.

{Now, as a disclaimer, they were not all this way. Some were delightful altogether and precious friends to me.)

Still, what was a fun and lighthearted dance party with my friend, JuBe, suddenly felt the weight of worldly insufficiency come crashing in in an instant. Not crippling, but still anxious. Not debilitating, but still present.

Ugh, insecurity! I should be over you by now.

But the facts I want to flaunt defensively against the onslaught of imagined inferiority have nothing to do with the issue, not at the root. Nothing I have accomplished solves the problem. Nothing I can show alleviates the shyness. Nothing that has changed in the last seven years gives me any sure footing on which to stand when Satan tempts me to despair. 

The issue is still comparison. And the answer is still that I am found in Christ.

Nothing else truly matters. Period. Paragraph.

I was then. I am now. Freedom.

Underneath my lingering people-pleasing, fear-of-man, self-loathing, underneath it all is truth. That everything about Katie died with Jesus, and I am raised in His new life, living His identity. At war with sin, oh yes! Sin is outraged by the turnover and fights against it constantly. But the truth remains.

I am found in Him

Complete in Him.

Validated in Him

Accepted in Him. 

Lacking nothing in Him.

Free in Him.

Full in Him.

Alive in Him.

Hopeful in Him. 

Loved in Him.

The joy of Truth is liberating and captivating all at once. My heart enthralled by the outrage of His love. My heart set free to live so fully.

The joy fuels the dancing. And all I want to do is dance this life in Jesus.

sharing Daddy

My dad is the best. He really is.

He is a humble servant--the most go-with-the-flow, others-before-self, always-there man.

He is a hard worker for good purposes--commuting more than one thousand miles each month to provide for his family, diligent in all his tasks, yard man, maintenance supervisor, sound guru, drummer, runner.

He is an encourager to the core--always uplifting, truthful and loving, an eye for what people do well.

He is a Jesus-loving man--knowing Jesus more each year, using those miles and miles of traffic war for prayer, and ever more concerned for the things that God is concerned for, generous to a fault.

He is a faithful husband, an excellent father--a good man.

He is the kind of father who makes it easy to understand why God is good, why He wants a relationship with us as a Father to His children. 

Verses like, "As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him,"

and like, "For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry 'Abba! Father!'" so easy to relate to. 

God's heart for me is like the heart of Mark Lawrence toward me...only perfect, and better, and all-knowing, and glorious.

But still, it isn't a difficult connection to make, no stretch there. And I am so grateful.

I listen to my friends and acquaintances (not all, but many--more than I would have imagined) talk about their dads and the wounds they have, the jilted worldviews they had thrust upon them, the passivity that leaves them suffering today. Although I hope I've never said it aloud, as I hear these stories my heart is always breaking as I think to myself, "I wish I could share Daddy with her...I wish she had my dad too...Let my dad be your dad."

And as I thought of this again yesterday, I realized it is my favorite thing about my daddy: he is so good he would be worth sharing if that were possible. If all my friends who are literally fatherless or are emotionally, spiritually, practically fatherless could be adopted by Mark Lawrence, I would sign them up in a heartbeat, start their paperwork, raise the money to pay for it, the whole nine yards.

Clearly, that is not possible.

But I know what is, and I am so grateful for the glimpse I get of it from my relationship with Daddy. 

My Heavenly Daddy is so good, so perfectly loving and just that He gave the life of His only Son so that I could be adopted into His family. Not only did Jesus take away the punishment for the natural state of my heart that chooses myself over God every single time, but He also gave me the perfection that He lived on this earth. He gave me His spotlessness so that I might wear it before my Father and find full acceptance and love and privilege. 

Jesus, precious Jesus, came to this earth to take our brokenness and lead us to His Dad, to say, "I want to share Daddy with you...I want you to have my Dad too...Let my Dad be your Dad." 

Come into the family, He says. All are welcome, all is taken care of. Let His favor and approval rest on you under Jesus' blood. Let His open arms embrace you with healing for all of those wounds, every sore. Let Him protect you now, let Him hold you now, let Him provide for you, let Him overjoy you. Come into Love.

How deep the Father's love for us,

How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only Son

To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss,

The Father turns His face away

As wounds which mar the chosen One,

Bring many sons to glory...

Happy Father's Day, Daddy-Mark. Thank you. I love you.

letter to my decade-younger self

Dear Katie Lawrence,

Not Katie Lawrence of 15 months ago.

Katie Lawrence of 10 years ago.

One decade has passed, my self. Ten full years. 

Words of advice? How about a book full?! Someday soon. But for now, a blog post full...

Mommy and Daddy (yes, you'll still call them this on the verge of your quarter-century birthday) know a lot more than you think. And by a lot, I mean a whole freakin' ton! So much so, we have yet to be fully embarrassed by how much we don't know. It's true, my friend. They have, in fact, been there, and do, in fact, care about you more than anyone else. You won't run into this brick wall with all your might on a regular and painful basis, but trust me when I urge you to trust them almost as much as you trust Jesus. And please, please, PLEASE resist the urge to minimize their insight because they were making unwise decisions when they were your age--if anything, that only makes their wisdom more legit. I know it doesn't make sense right now, but try to embrace the fact that your world (and even your literal brain) are smaller than theirs, your perspective understandably shorter, and your hormones embarking on a roller coaster they have navigated for years. They love you more than anyone on the planet, and, if for no other reason, because they are your parents, God will use them to guide you in life.

Forget about boys pursuing you. Really. It'll be the better part of the decade before you meet the man God made you for. Your head is on straight right now, but that's because it's easier when you're not allowed to date. Just get ready to give yourself grace. Relationships with boys are hard...mostly because they should and do end before the one that will start in 2010. Take your heart back to Jesus every time boys creep into your thoughts, and trust that He is working something beautiful in you in the meantime. Namely, His image, His heart, working it into and in place of everything about you.

Stop judging people. I know you don't think you do it, but you do. Keeping the rules is not making you better than anyone else around you, and it certainly is not showing them love. I'm not saying you should break the rules, but recognize that Jesus kept them all and find your identity in Him, not in how well you are doing.

Don't go for the second round of braces in 11th grade. Or maybe do. Cliche as it sounds, it will build character. I mean, who needs friends really?

Spend more time with and fighting to deepen your friendships with Katie Houghtaling, Sally Anderson, Brittany Barnard and Laura Jane Miller. Those are the top four you'll care about 10 years from now. Go narrow and deep in relationships--that's what Jesus did. You're on the right path to narrow, but be sure to go deep too.

When college rolls around, find a small, Bible believing, simple church to go to, maybe even a new church plant. Decide to love, serve, learn and live with the people there, and fall in love with that congregation of Christ's bride. Don't look for trendy, for loud worship, for all your friends going there. Those are great secondary benefits, but not good starting grounds.

Consuming alcohol is not sinful. It is going to take you most of the decade to figure this out, but you'll love more people and know the heart of Jesus more if you can inch your way toward it a little sooner. God bless the Southern Baptist Convention--you learned a lot of Jesus, Truth, love there. But they missed the boat on alcohol, and that's a big deal for a Jesus-loving sorority girl.

Speaking of which: Alpha Chi all the way! Jump in, head first, love hard, give it all. You won't be using your major much after college (at least not in the first three years), so go with your gut and prioritize people. Well, let me clarify. Prioritize your sisters. The boy will fall into place whether you like it or not (and actually, you won't like it until it's time), so pour your little heart into loving those women to Jesus. 

Always start with grace. The Law, the rules don't draw people to Jesus. Start with what He already did: kept the rules for us and died in our place. God now sees us not only as though we had never sinned, but as though we had always obeyed. Start there. That radical, nonsensical, glorious grace is sticky and satisfying and irresistible. Let God speak His whole message through you, not just the parts you think are important.

Spend all of yourself on other people. Don't shy away from opportunities to pour into young believers who are eager. Find a way to make it work no matter what. If you can't do it by yourself, find a helper, someone else to step in.

Go ahead and stop highlighting your hair before you start. Mommy is the one who truly prefers it on the blonde side, but by now we don't care. Save them the money so they can't give you grief when you decide you love your dark brown hair the first time the highlights come out of your pocket.

GO GET TESTED FOR ALLERGIES TODAY! Seriously. Do it 5 minutes ago. Don't wait until you're 19. There is a whole new world out there for you to discover and enjoy. One in which the other kids don't make fun of you for being allergic to the grass when you ask to borrow their jackets to sit on at recess. No one else uses tissues every single day--it really is just you. And if you start now, maybe you'll have good enough medicine so that Mr. Bradford won't call you a snot factory later this year...

Pick a favorite color. Just do it. Home-making will be so much easier if you do. Trust me. And if people know your favorite color, you're more likely to be given gifts throughout your life that you actually like.

Start guitar now. Stick with it.

More later,

Katie Lynn Kump

crawling over the hump of the week

I don't want to be good,

Don't want to and can't

Failure feels better

My natural slant

So many tasks

Each slips through these hands

But am I allowed

To ignore life's demands?

Where can I go?

Where perfection is banned?

Where failure is standard

And admitting it grand?

Into the arms

Running headlong

Instant relief

My heart hears His song

"When all seen is failure

You're ready for Me,

Sit down in My perfect

Where I finished for thee."

Five Minute Friday: Expectation

On Fridays (well, some of them for me) we write for five minutes without worrying whether or not it's right. Today's prompt: Expectation.

ReadySetGO!

Summer warms the air at last

Praying days rush quickly past

Hope is just within my grasp

Fill me up inside

Not just to cross them through in red

But to feast on manna, bread

All my founts, in You I'm fed

Fill me up inside

Love each day sans reservation

All is grace and transformation

Jesus be my expectation

Fill me up inside

On to life in what is True

Abundantly when view is You

No earthly fare will ever do

So fill me up inside

Whole and wholly Yours alone

STOP.

Yes, please Jesus.

musings on marriage and the state of things

"I'm definitely learning a lot about what marriage is not..."

If you've caught up with me in person over the last few weeks, chances are you've heard me finish this sentence any number of ways. And really, I've written about it several times here too. It's been on my mind for a variety of reasons. I stand nose-to-nose with these realities every day. Being married to Stephen Kump still surprises me, especially on the days we don't "feel" married. And so many friends and girls I know have set their sights on marriage, unintentionally demanding that the prospect reach the crevices of their souls with contentment, that life will suddenly spark for real with that one word: Yes!

My heart is moved passionately by each of these things to express over and again how God's plan for marriage is not that it cater to the whims of the female heart--namely mine. But in that train of thought Jesus redirected my focus last night.

What is marriage about, Kate? What am I doing in and through your marriage today? Right now? Because of all this?

Gratitude and refreshment instantly rush in. 

So much for which to give thanks.

A glimpse of our marriage?

Well, we have just passed our second week without talking, but emails seem sweeter and sweeter. 

Five lines of "I love you" and "I miss you" reach much farther now than they did this time last month.

Lots of prayer. What else can you do if you cannot talk?

And what could be more meaningful, really?

Two people, loving each other as best we can. Only enabled by loving Jesus as best we can.

Eyes on the cross, our comfort. The tomb, its empty echo of great hope.

Knowing that as we each seek Christ, if we could not speak one word this year, our proximity to Jesus will make up for all that would be otherwise lost. 

I'm leading two small groups for girls this summer. Wasn't aiming for two, but that's what Jesus arranged. Wasn't aiming for anything at all until Stephen encouraged, exhorted, affirmed.

Excitement builds toward the fall. Days turn into weeks turn into months of progress toward homecoming.

We try to plan our celebrations.

Look forward to family weddings and family babies.

Georgia Tech football finds its way to our calendar...two months ago.

Daydream about where we'll live come November. Hopefully in Smyrna. Definitely not where we are now.

Stephen's ministry to my heart draws me out of legalism, into the freedom of loving Jesus because He set me free, not because together He and I can keep the rules. 

I'm learning not to judge people so harshly. 

Like couples publicly displaying their affection. Or holding hands while singing at church. 

You just never know where people are, where they've been. My natural bent is to think I do know. I do not.

I pinterest my way to wifeyness. Homemade cleaning solutions and crafts galore. Recipes to try and party ideas for his return.

This season will come to an end. But there are sweet things here. Jesus fills. 

Grateful He points Himself out to my ever wandering attention span.

learning how to count

Never, and I do mean never before in my life have I counted days so religiously.

Estimating, praying, counting, re-counting, equating, comparing, fractionalizing, remembering.

I do it every day this year.

How many months to homecoming?

How many weeks?

When will we hit 100 days?

Only half of what has already passed to go!

This time last year we were...

What if this time next year we...

It's less than my birthday to Christmas!

It's less than Armor School was!

And on and on and on it goes...how many ways to measure the remainder of this separation?

Until I grimace in conviction at these words:

"So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom..."

Words followed by:

"Satisfy us in the morning with Your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days."

Thank you, Psalm 90.

In a season when all I want to do is number my days, am I doing it for the right reasons? And shouldn't I number them all year long? All life long?

And doesn't this seem to imply that my numbering system is all inverted? Incorrect? Perhaps grossly so?

I ask: how many days do I need to pass to get to the end of deployment?

But if I honestly wanted Jesus to fulfill me like these portions of His Word promise, wouldn't I be asking how to get the most rejoicing and gladness out of His steadfast love today? Wouldn't I be treasuring, coddling, hugging so tightly every single day I found Him in? 

The Hebrew word meaning "us to number" is manah. It means to count, reckon, number, assign, tell, appoint, prepare, ordain.

Moses is asking to be taught this skill, something he knew we needed to do, something God has allowed us the ability to do. 

Teach us to appoint our days for wisdom--let us be satisfied in You.

Teach us to prepare our days to prepare our hearts--let us rejoice and be glad.

Teach us to ordain, set them apart--for daily renewal of Life.

This word manah, though Hebrew, looks strikingly similar to the English word manna, the name made up for sustenance that God provided to Moses and His people from the sky. This "bread from heaven," man in Hebrew, fed the Israelites for 40 years in the wilderness as they wandered to the promised land, paying out a penance for choosing not to be satisfied with the love of God.

Man means "What is it?"

It also means portion, gift.

Man. Manah.

Portion, gift. Number, assign.

Am I to assign these days as gifts? To reckon them as Your portions? To feast wholeheartedly in this daily bread provision? Knowing there is no guarantee of future days for numbering. Knowing You have promised to give abundance for feasting today. Knowing I cannot carry over to tomorrow what was given for today--knowing anything left un-enjoyed is wasted. 

Teach us to count these days as gifts. To assign them identity as Your portions. 

Oh teach me! This lesson is so far from completion in me...

Five Minute **Sunday**: Perspective

In the busyness of Friday's birthday celebration I found just enough time to glance at the prompt, but lacked enthusiasm or inspiration for writing it out. Today that changed, so here I am. Not sure I can do it justice in only 5 minutes, but here goes.

For whatever reason, several of my friends have recently experienced their first significant separation from their spouses. Ok, if I am going to write in brutal honesty, I'll call it "significant" separation. Because let's face it: a week just isn't a very long period of time. 

But somehow or other these girlfriends end up telling me about it, sometimes dramatically, but never intentionally insensitive. Either way, some days I've just had it.

Want to know what I walk away thinking? 

No, really. Are you sure you want to know?

Because your opinion of me may change in the next few lines.

But here it is.

"Shut the heck up. Why the h*** would you complain about that to me?? Did you miss the memo that I've seen my husband for a total of 10 days over the last 8 MONTHS??? Do you realize I don't even TALK to him every day?? There's no texting and no phone calls, let alone date nights or meals together. FOR A WHOLE FREAKING YEAR!!! So take a second to think about how much harder life could be for you than a week away from your husband before you have the nerve to complain about your situation to an Army wife!!!!!!!"

Yep. There it is. Told you. Pretty nasty. Shameful even. But that is where I've been.

So as I fumed my way across town this evening at the remembrance of these conversations, I asked Jesus why these people couldn't step outside of their circumstances and look at things from my perspective for just a minute. (Because clearly, my head is screwed on straight.)

But He stopped and asked me to do the same thing.

Kate, how often do you step outside yourself to do what you ask of others?

Mini eye roll. Not often enough probably...

Is it an easy exercise for you?

Well, it doesn't come naturally, if that's what you mean.

Then can you give a little grace to others the way I give to you?

Yes. Help me?

Because, you see, life could be so much harder for me. I would say I am on a peak in the mountain-valley terrain of this deployment lately. But even when it downright sucks, things could always be harder. And I'm sure some day they will be. 

For starters, Stephen is deployed. He is not dead.

Our immediate families are in good health.

We have access to email daily and video chatting several times a week.

Our Father has been gracious to reveal parts of His work to us in this season.

We are both employed.

We have the best families, amazing friends, and a tremendous church family to support us.

The list goes on and on.

And really, I am sure that a week-long separation from Stephen will feel miserable at some point. We are all in different places, with different situations, and life is hard for everyone. I cannot think of anyone who has it made perfectly, whose story I would rather have. And I want to have grace for the people around me because only Jesus knows just how much grace has been lavished on me. 

Who am I to withhold it from others? 

And if you happen to read this and think I may be talking about you, please know all is right between us and the fault-bearing is all mine. I apologize for my lack of compassion and welcome your honesty about your life. I need to see the grit and grime of these dark places in my heart, let the Light shine in and clean them out. Thank you for bearing with me in this refinement process.

It is difficult at times, some more so than others. But I'm striving, asking, sinking deeper into the Gospel, I pray, to be a fountain of refreshing grace to the people around me.

Thank you, Father. Give me Your perspective minute by minute by year.

OPK

My new favorite acronym? OPK.

Stands for Other People's Kids and expresses frustration at the lack of or ill parenting said children receive and the negative consequences we all experience therefore.

As JuBe matures toward and beyond her 2nd birthday this Friday, we find ourselves bumping into these OPKs everywhere we go. From the Hippo Hopp to story time to the playground, they are swarming. Certainly not every other child we interact with is obnoxious and in need of a spanking, but the ones who are tarnish the title for all the rest.

For instance, at the Hippo Hopp last week J was climbing up the steps to slide down one of the inflatable slides when a line started to form behind her. And then right behind her. And then almost on top of her as one red-faced, bratty girl screamed at J, "You need to go faster! Hurry up!"

Whether it surprises you or not I have no way of knowing, but my blood reached boiling point in a hot second as I realized this little dweeb would give no thought to climbing over my JuBe if she took any longer. And so I snapped. Not viciously, not loudly, not hatefully. At least I hope not...

"Hey! She's smaller than you so you need to slow down, have some patience, and be kind!"

By then Juliet was thoroughly freaked out and slid down the ladder underneath the waiting OPKs to crawl out the entrance to me in tears. 

Seething. Livid. Katie.

Yes, I did take this picture of Juilet and Sam today knowing that the situation would find its way to the blog.

Today we find ourselves at the sandbox alone when a freshly-turned 4-year-old arrives with her grandfather to play. A handful of sand toys live at the park these days, but today the majority were Juliet's toys, ones I eagerly encourage her to share because Jesus shares with us. So this OPK sits next to me for a few minutes, her name is Sam, and we talk about her birthday and her painted nails and whether or not Juliet is a baby.

When the conversation slows Sam asks me if I would like to build a sandcastle with her. If I am brutally honest, I had zero interest in doing this. Juliet has not hit that benchmark of sandbox discovery yet, and so I try to let her entertain herself as much as possible unless she brings me into play. I forget now how I skirted the issue, but Sam eventually lost interest and contented herself to play with our toys. Not a problem.

Until she starts to ask me to bring her our toys across the sandbox to where she's sitting. As I encourage Juliet to share with her and serve her, Sam gets bossier and bossier, hoarding our toys in the center of the sandbox, and chasing Juliet away from the toys with a snappy whine she had clearly practiced before.

All the while Grandpa is sitting behind me, not saying a word, possibly not even hearing a word of it, probably watching, definitely doing nothing. 

And my temperature rises some more. And I cannot figure out how to coach Juliet through this coup d'etat of the sandbox.

"Ok, Lord, how do I handle this? How can I show love to this OPK? How should I help Juliet respond? Where is the gospel here? How do I teach Juliet to show grace while also assuring her that I am ultimately fighting for her? (If any moms want to chime in on this issue, please do!) Because right now I just don't care about Sam, though I can tell this is not an uncommon occurrence."

And as I realized that the feelings must only intensify exponentially when the child being wronged is your own, the weight of Jesus' crucifixion landed squarely on my heart and mind.

Father, how did you watch, allow, plan to subject Your Son to such treatment?

No matter what OPKs do, there is always sin in Juliet to be straightened out in any situation.

But what about Jesus? Deserving none of his mistreatment, contributing nothing to His guilt, how could You do that?

How could Your fiery wrath burn against His murderers and yet be consummated on His innocence? 

It is no wonder You looked away. To see our sin, our rebellion, our self-worship, manifest in Your Son-became-sin must have been unbearable. Utterly devastating.

And so I don't have any pretty bow to wrap this up in, but let it bother me to gratitude daily. That my love for Juliet is so much less than You, Father, love Jesus. And that my hatred of sin is so diluted from Your's as holy.

Let me wrestle and come away changed each day by the sacrifice you made. 

"For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God." 2 Corinthians 5:21

beef with "happy"

It is probably true that everyone has a handful of words that grind on their nerves. Or maybe it's just me.

But over the last several months a word I just cannot get around or over or past is this: HAPPY.

Happy. (Pardon me as I cringe, shiver, dry heave.)

Matt Chandler described it well in his Explicit Gospel Tour several weeks ago. He said that happiness is merely an emotion, and a fragile one at that--potentially the most trivial, least meaningful, lowliest regarded sentiment to be felt. As a nation whose mission statement culminates in "the pursuit of happiness," just under the surface we are all secretly failing. The makers of anti-depressants rake in the cash and we stumble around from high to high trying to figure out what the Jones' have that we don't, never knowing they think the same thing about us. 

Despite the claims of fairy tales and chick flicks and Taylor Swift's catchy lyrics, no one is living happily ever after. Not in this lifetime. Not in this world. And I would even go so far as to say that the more we chase happiness around, demanding that happiness be the measurement of satisfaction in every relationship, job or life circumstance we have, the more miserable we become. We are not dogs chasing our tails, we are men and women chasing a myth. Unicorns, magic pixie dust, the fountain of youth, trees that grow money--take your pick. Happy does not satisfy. It does not last. It is not real.

Just look at "The Happiest Place on Earth." An expensive celebration of all that is not real, from Disney princesses to the peace of "It's Small World After All." 

Now you can be sure that the good news is coming, but do you see the danger yet?

From the moment that forbidden fruit was tasted until now, the world we live in has been broken, spiraling deeper and further away from all that God intended us to be. You see, before the fall of man, joy abounded on the earth because of the presence of God, because He walked with man, because everything He made was as it should be. Perfection was life-giving, and yes, everyone felt happy because that was all there was to feel. 

What Adam and Eve failed to realize, however, was that their happiness, their joy, their perfection, all began and ended in their Father, their Creator, their Friend. Those bites of forbidden fruit were the search for happiness outside of what God had given, and that tendency was passed on to each of us from then to now. All of creation responded to the cosmic fissure their pursuit of happiness spawned, and nothing has been right since. Creation is broken, our hearts are broken, and nothing on earth is as it should be because God cannot share community with a people who do not want Him. 

And so God's plan was for Jesus to be broken instead, an exchange powerful enough to reverse the effects of sin when He comes again to reclaim His people. But here's the thing.

That day has not come. 

And every day between now and then, this world will self-destruct just a little bit more.

As long as we are loving Jesus, things in this world will never make for lasting happiness. There is too much here that breaks His heart for us to find enjoyment in the brokenness.

So if we are happy in this world, or if we are devoting your life to being happy, let's take a step back and be scared. Let's ruminate on our propensity to look for feelings of happiness to satisfy us in a world that cannot deliver. If happiness is my goal for this life, I am not looking for the God of the Bible. Because happiness is found only in Him, in the fullness of His presence, an inheritance that will not be fully realized on this side of eternity.

Joy in this life is entirely attainable--the product of hoping in God for all of the future fullness of life He has promised, putting all our expectation for happiness in the future reality of perfect relationship with Jesus.

And if you've made it this far, let me go ahead and say this: I don't think Jesus cares about our happiness. Our joy? Absolutely. Our satisfaction in Himself? To the death. But our happiness on earth? That just isn't what He died for. It is not worth our pursuit. He said so Himself.

"...the way is hard that leads to life..." (Matthew 7:14)

But that life is worth it and characterized by joy--"joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory". Give me that over happiness every day for the rest of eternity.

Five Minute Friday: Real.

Aaaaaand we're back! It's been a while (vacation with Stephen threw me off in the best possible way), but I'm back for Five Minutes today. And the word is: REAL.

GO.

Living in what is real is a challenge, one I find myself faced with almost constantly these days.

But it seems that what I am finding is that what is real is simply what really matters. 

Certainly many things clamor for my attention, trivialities, the minutiae of modern life. Or bigger things, like loneliness, frustration, fear.

These things have ruled my heart and mind for the last few weeks. So many hormones and too much idle time. These real-like things spiral me down so quickly, seeming so legitimate.

I want to feel things that are hard and be vulnerable with the people around me. I want to let the difficulty of single-wifing these 365 days grind against my rough edges and soften my heart toward Stephen and Jesus. 

But I also want to keep my eyes on what is real, really of consequence: that suffering was Jesus' ministry and will be mine as well. That the cross was so much worse than I can imagine for the purpose of restoring me to the Creator's image. Suffering not so I can merely relate to Jesus, but so that I may become like Him in His death and share His victory.

So while part of me feels like I'm merely pulling on my big girl panties to get over my raging femininity, I know that never works. What does, what is real, is the hope of Jesus coming to make all these wrong things right, all these dead things new, all the frenzy peace.

Jesus, give me what is real, all that really matters. You.

STOP.

"I tan't see!"

As Juliet approaches her second birthday and grows more and more conversant every day, I wonder even more how much of my personality is rubbing off on her. Many parents have told me that the most convicting thing about having children is to see your own sin in their little hearts and lives. Well, whether it's my influence or our shared birth order as first children, we are both experts at one thing: backseat driving.

If you have ever driven me anywhere, you can almost certainly attest to this. I like to know where I'm going, I generally do, I pay attention to your driving, and I rarely hesitate to offer navigational advice from your backseat. I could go ahead and blame it on my dad, world's best driver, rides with no one, seasoned Atlanta commuter for 20 years. In all honesty, I did learn from the best. But the truth is, I probably owe you an apology for bossing you around when you were, in fact, serving me.

Rest assured, I am getting a heaping dose of my own medicine these days as Juliet and I scoot around town to music class, story time, and parks across north Atlanta. 

It started a few months ago with, "How 'bout....this way?" as she points opposite my turn signal at every stop light or sign. I try to explain, "We can't go that way because the park/stories/music is this way." Funny how little she understands of the concepts despite her ability to say all the words. Sometimes she'll even pucker her lips, furrow her brow, and pout, "But I don't want to go that way."

(I wish I could express through writing how comical her pronunciation is these days. All -ck sounds are still -t, most -n and -g sounds are -d, and -w is likely to be -v.)

As her color identifying skills have been perfected in the last month, she has become fascinated with announcing traffic light status reports every chance she gets. It goes something like this:

"The wight is wed. Wed means stop!" ("The light is red. Red means stop!")

"The wight is deed. Doe, Tayee, doe!" ("The light is green. Go, Katie, go!")

She gets particularly concerned when I turn right on red, a grey-area her baby-mind cannot quite grasp yet.

But my personal favorite of the last two weeks has come about when we stop behind several bigger cars at a light. Juliet strains with all her might to peer around the front seat in order to give her light color report.

"I tan't see! I tan't see!"

And then.

"Tayee and Juyet are stut! Dat bid tar's in da way!" 

I try to explain two things, neither of which seem to go over very well.

"It's ok, JuBe, you don't need to see. Katie can see, and only Katie is driving."

Followed by.

"We're not stuck, sweet girl. We are just waiting for our turn."

She will typically calm down for a moment, but it's only a matter of time before we find ourselves "stut" at another of the five thousand lights around the Perimeter Mall area. 

And as much as I start to feel bored of the conversation by the fifth round on a one-way ride, I have to chuckle and know I do the same thing to Jesus. "I can't see! I can't see! We're stuck! That big ____ is in the way!"

And it is just as absurd for me to worry as it is for Juliet. Tucked into His arms of grace, buckled in by His blood, I am just along for the ride. Same as with Juliet, my ability to see or make navigational choices is not critical to getting where I'm going. Oh for sure, I could mutiny and take back the wheel. Sometimes I do. But if I am trusting Jesus to drive, I can relax and enjoy His company.

married, but single

Atypical as our first 13 months of marriage have been, marriage is, without a doubt, accomplishing the purpose God intended it to. It is, by His grace, making me more like Jesus.

But how?

Not through the "bonus" purposes I hoped marriage would fulfill. I don't have constant company with Stephen. I don't have physical protection, provision or intimacy with him. I don't get to double date or pursue motherhood.

No, these secondary and tertiary purposes are stripped away this year, leaving the only two purposes that marriage will ever be founded on biblically.* One of refinement and greater dependence on the Good News that because Jesus died on my behalf, I am free to struggle, fail and fall forward toward Him and into His likeness. And the other that marriage must move us to a place where we are better equipped and positioned to advance His kingdom. 

In all honesty, our marriage is accomplishing little if anything else at all apart from these things right now. Stephen and I are highly blessed by and grateful for the technology that enables us to maintain involvement in each others' lives to these ends, and our love surely deepens and strengthens as we seek these God-given purposes together.

But if any other standard or measurement were the rule for worthwhile marriages, ours would be doomed in this year-long separation. We laugh and enjoy our video chats, but our lives are not bliss and happiness. He is extremely competent and faithful in managing our finances and planning for our future, but he's not taking out the trash or planning cutesie dates or driving me all over town. Neither am I doing his laundry or massaging his shoulders or cooking him meals. 

Even less frivolous than these things, we are not able to share every part of our hearts with each other. We cannot talk and process and plan together to our hearts' content. Knowing each other is a more challenging mission to pursue than ever before.

At the risk of mimicking complaint that is not my aim or heart, I will bring these thoughts to a close for now by saying that deployment is tangibly removing the fluff from my expectations and perceptions of marriage. I pray we will have many more seasons of enjoyable togetherness to come, but there is something sweeter forming in the hardship, the difficulty, the separation. Something deep, stable, satisfying. The supremacy of Jesus in and for all seasons.

I am a wife, but that is not my identity.

I am married, but Stephen is not my whole world.

I feel lonely, but I am never alone.

Life and marriage are thriving, not because it is easy and we are happy, but because our Savior is good.

Marriage, as with all of life, is for Jesus. Nothing more and nothing less.

And therein lies all my hope.

Glory to God!

*Not to say that procreation is not a biblical purpose of marriage; I believe it is and should be pursued. But that is a different topic for a different season of life!

halvesies

They say that silence is golden, and mine truly has been so far as blogging is concerned. 

For safety purposes I couldn't really share anything about when Stephen was coming home on R&R leave, and my preparations for his arrival were so extensive and consuming I had nothing else to report. However, he has, since my last post, come and gone, and we had a wonderful 10 days together last month.

Over the course of those 10 days we saw our families at a sweet Atlanta brunch, met the babies of our closest friends, watched movies, got coffee, sat on the banks of the Chattahoochee, spent some time in Blue Ridge, hiked, at Chick-fil-A for every other meal, and rested. It was a much needed time of refreshing and reflecting as we also celebrated our first anniversary on March 26th in the mountains. As hard as it was to say goodbye again, Stephen and I could not have asked for a sweeter, more life-giving time together. 

Anniversary Dinner in Blue Ridge

His visit also marked the approximate halfway point of his deployment. I can almost guarantee that his homecoming will not go as we currently expect, but we are, more or less, halfway through the year! Praise Jesus!

And as Jesus would have it, it seems that this chapter of deployment will be quite different from the first in several ways.

The first of two big ones: my friend Cat's husband returned on Sunday for good!!! I cannot tell you how excited I am for them! He left April 8, 2011 and returned April 8, 2012--one year to the day. I am so glad to know they are together again, and I look forward to getting to know Leigh in the next few months as well.

But I probably don't have to tell you that that will change my relationship with Cat quite a bit. I will miss our single-wifing craft nights and movie nights, but I am extremely eager for the new chapter of our friendship as well--the one where I get to see her with her other half! She has been such a source of encouragement, company, sympathy and fun over the last six months. Who knew this deployment would make me a new best friend at the park?? So grateful for her!

My first time dying Easter eggs the day before Leigh came home.

In the wake of this transition, of sending her back into daily married life, my housing situation has also turned to a new chapter.

In the same week I found out that Lauren Jones accepted a job offer in Charlotte while Lauren Baggett was applying for a summer internship in Atlanta. Gentle grace for me here. 

Saying "goodbye" again was one of the hardest things I have done in a long time, but the aftermath has been the same for each of us: deep gratitude and abiding joy. Thank you so much to everyone who prayed for our time together. Jesus answered so faithfully by drawing us to Himself in order to draw us closer to each other. It could not have been more wonderful.

Surprisingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I look into the next 6 months. I just pray they'll make Jesus famous.

ruined

"Man of sorrows," what a name for the Son of God who came, ruined sinners to reclaim...

My getting-ready-for-bed routine was captivated by these lyrics last night. And not even the entire line, but just two words: ruined sinners.

Huh. Sinner, yes. Absolutely. Daily. Moment-by-moment. Each one from birth. Prideful, arrogant, self-"saving," hypocrite. Jealous, haughty, competitive, lazy. Yes, I can easily claim all of these.

But ruined? Is that not just the slightest bit harsh? 

When I look at the list of sins I just made, I nearly chuckle to think those would not add up to "ruined." However, per those same sins, I so easily feel that I still bring so many good things to the table when I come to feast with Jesus. Perhaps the thought never comes quite so bluntly, but wrapped into my motivations and expectations and assumptions about this spiritual life is the subtle yet potent notion that God is lucky to have me on His side. Feelings and attitudes of self-importance and pride are stripped bare by a phrase like "ruined sinners."

Not just "people who messed up but were still pretty much good."

Not "precious sinners."

Not "pitiable sinners."

Not "well-they-tried-their-best sinners" or "they-did-more-good-than-bad sinners."

RUINED sinners. 

Ruined (adjective): botched, broken, defaced, done for, harmed, harried, hurt, impaired, injured, marred, mutilated, pillaged, plundered, robbed, spoiled.

Not painting a picture of a worn down mini-hero hobbling to the table really, is it? Given that this word is describing sinners, wrongdoers and offenders, it follows that nothing about the described is at all appealing or admirable or worthwhile or even functional. More that the back-stabber, liar, cheat has reached utter destruction and been left for dead. That the status of sinner equates to ruin.

Humbling re-realization for a rule-following, people-pleasing, score-keeping, "good" girl.

And, surprisingly enough, here is joy! That I am loved, reclaimed, valued by my Heavenly Father, not because I have done anything at all, and not because He gains anything from me that He did not already have, but because He gets glory in redeeming my ruins. He gets praise in the reconstruction. His universe-altering love is front and center when my neediness and sin and insufficiency are revealed.

By His love he delights in me. Not because I never tasted alcohol before I was 21 years and 3 months old. Not because my lips never kissed before my wedding day. Not because I rarely miss church. Not because I have read the Bible all the way through a handful of times. Not because I floss my teeth religiously.

In fact, my best efforts are so not good, I might as well have thought God needed me because I have never had a cavity.

ALL of it is silly, at best.

ALL of it is vile, in reality.

ALL of it is offensive, in truth.

ANYTHING I thought was gaining me acceptance with Jesus is garbage, a word the Bible uses for both our "good deeds" and a woman's menstrual cloth. Blood soaked and stenching tampons--that is what I proudly bring to the feet of Jesus too often.

Ruined. Ruined. Ruined. Sinner. That is me.

Sinner who has no hope if not to be dressed by grace in Jesus' perfection, His good work, His pure and cleansing blood. Not my unclean discharge of unused organ lining. His poured out life-blood of innocent God Man.

Nothing to offer. Nothing to bring. Only gratitude for His grace, to bless His heart, to know His face, to multiply His love. Blessed to be a blessing.

Hallelujah! What a Savior!

"Man of Sorrows!" what a name

For the Son of God, who came

Ruined sinners to reclaim

Hallelujah! What a Savior!

Bearing shame and scoffing rude

In my place condemned He stood

Sealed my pardon with His blood

Hallelujah! What a Savior!

Guilty, vile and helpless we,

Spotless Lamb of God was He

"Full atonement!" Can it be?

Hallelujah! What a Savior!

Lifted up was He to die;

"It is finished!" was His cry;

Now in Heaven exalted high.

Hallelujah! What a Savior!

When He comes, our glorious King,

All His ransomed home to bring,

Then anew His song we'll sing

Hallelujah! What a Savior!