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.

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

"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.

"Stut!"

Impatiently squirming to get out of her high chair, Juliet moans: "Stut!"

Reaching for the ground because she is finished swinging: "Stut!"

Unhappy about time-out in my lap after standing up on the couch: "Stut!"

My reply, "You're not stuck, baby."

Funny how perspective changes everything. 

As Juliet's vocabulary has grown, she has learned this word associated with limited movement in a place she does not want to be. We are still anxiously waiting for her little mouth to pronounce the "-ck" sound, but her version of this word is substituted multiple times a day.

It first struck a chord in me one day as she wiggled around in her high chair. I always try to explain to her what her reality truly is. "No, sweet girl, you're not stuck. You're in your chair where it's safe and you're able to eat. Katie will get you down."

Funny how these safe and perfectly positioned places seem to her to be nothing more than a frustrating trap in certain moments of strife. Though the high chair is the easiest, simplest place for her to eat, and though the swing is the safest, most fun carrier for such a playground activity, and though sitting still in my lap is the best thing for her character and personal development after a bout of rebellion, they are often to her an annoyance, a stressor, and a position to be fought and escaped from with every ounce of energy in her baby girl body.

I recently can relate to her.

Every part of me is fighting in some way against the position, the discipline and the goodness of the Lord in this season of life. I see parts of what He is doing, and I want Him to have His way, but my soul has been restless, squirmy and "stut" in a place I do not want to be.

Same as Juliet, I would love to wriggle loose and be on my own at times, or at least I think I do. But what I cannot see is His perspective on where He has positioned me. Uncomfortable as it may be, and although I would likely not choose it on my own, He has situated, elevated, constrained and prepared me for something much better than what I can see. And to fidget away from the strong arms of my Father would mean falling, regressing, missing out on all He has in store for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.

Maybe Juliet and I can learn this lesson together.

let's go get a snack

Picture it.

We're at the park. It's time to go home. We've swung on the swings. We've slid down the slide. We've toted sticks around. We've watched the other kids.

The flurry of activity is fascinating and enthralling to Juliet's eager brown eyes.

In the midst of this commotion, "Let's go home," does not register. No response. Flat line. 

However, "Want to go get a snack?" works every time.

Her head pops up, her whole body reacts, and she gives an enthusiastic "sssssnA--!" (Still working on the -CK sound, which means I obviously remain nameless.)

I lead the way and she begins to follow me. Fantastic.

But then another kid runs in front of her and across the playground, fully unaware that he has taken her attention span hostage in that journey. "C'mon, JuJu, let's go." I try to get her back on track. I offer her my hand, I walk on ahead of her, but she's lost.

"C'mon, this way. Let's go get our snack."

Back on track. Full speed ahead.

Until she sees the big kid swings. Repeat.

"...snack."

Headed to the car.

A captivating piece of trash or a particularly pretty stick.

"Our snack..."

Finally we make it back to the car, turn on the AC, and enjoy some raisins and juice.

Funny how 50 yards is such a trek for 15-month-old legs. It takes a while to toddle halfway across a football field, too long for a 15-month-old mind to focus on completing such a task.

Fascinating how the goal must be called to memory frequently if we are ever going to make it across the playground to the car. It is quite an effective method.

I am grateful that the Lord has the same smiling compassion on my lapse of memory that I have on Juliet. So many things to take my tiny mind off the goal. But I pray I will always be quick to respond to just one word from Christ in shepherding me back in the right direction.

Grateful for a husband, for parents, for leaders and for friends who are quick to speak that word as well.

Hope.

Eternity.

Love.

Joy.

Grace.

Gratitude.

toddler school drop out

Juliet is just entering the age of rapid growth and learning. It seems that over the course of just a few weeks she is now running, saying her first words, chewing food well, climbing and blowing kisses. Every day with her is an adventure--I love every second of it!

As she begins to learn more and more about the world around her, I think I will begin to learn more and more from her.

The first of these lessons came today.

Along with the joys of exploration and development come the trials of discipline, temper tantrums and life lessons.

If my previous experience with toddlers and preschoolers is any indication at all, I have a feeling that Juliet and I will prove to be quite alike in our basic needs and how we perceive them.

This week at breakfast she has yet to finish a bowl of cereal (we do thoroughly differ on that point). This morning, for instance, she ate about two-thirds of the bowl before melting down. The entire ordeal begins with her evasion of the spoon approaching her mouth. She dives around it, arm outstretched, reaching for the entire bowl, chirping, "egh! egh! egh! egh!" She is growing up and I can appreciate that. I encourage it, even. So I offer to let her feed herself. I hand her the spoon briefly, but as soon as she crashes it on her tray to stick her fingers in the mush I change my strategy for partnership.

After regaining control of the spoon, I gently grab her little hand on my way to her mouth, so that she could help me shovel it in. That worked approximately once.

Frustrated with her lack of control over the cereal, she arches her back, throws her new curls further behind her, points with a strain toward the pantry and begins again: "egh! egh! egh! egh!"

"What do you want, JuJuBe?" I try. "Can you use your words?"

At this point she does calm down just a little bit. She knows her first approach is not the behavior that gets rewarded. In her defense, she has very few words so far, none of them defined by items in the pantry. So I go for, "Can you say please?" Not yet. "Would you like some cheerios?" A more contented grin and grunt.

Cheerios on deck, I sit back for her to feed herself. Her interest lasts through two-thirds of the cheerios as well. And we start all over again.

This time she is pointing to the counter top. Magnets, a flashlight, a notebook, a box of odds and ends, a greeting card. Clearly, no breakfast menu items to be found. Nonetheless, "egh! egh! egh! egh!" And her intensity only increases.

I tell her, "I'm sorry, baby, but there's nothing for you over there. You can eat cereal or cheerios or drink your juice. But you can't have anything else right now."

No one in their right mind would think me cruel or unkind by denying her these things at the breakfast table, or any other time. Babies have baby toys, and Juliet is no exception. Some things are for her. Some things are not. That is life.

But I am convicted by how hard that lesson is for her to learn.

It is true throughout the day, not just at the breakfast table. If she sees my car keys, she wants them. If she sees the remote control, she wants it. If I go to the bathroom, she wants to come in. If she sees the mustard in the pantry within reach, she will run across the room to try to catch it while I have it open.

At her age, this is generally healthy curiosity. There is nothing wrong with her wanting to explore the world around her.

But I think about what is actually going on in most of the cases when she pitches a fit. She regularly asks for things that are not hers. She regularly asks for things that could harm her. She sees no distinction. She does not know any better. It is up to me to discern what is beneficial for her to play with and what should remain beyond her reach. And if that makes her mad at times, I can handle that. I would rather her be mad than hurt, and no one would blame me.

It almost makes me chuckle though to think about my own disposition. What makes me think I know what is good for me?

Now, on many levels, I do.

I know what foods are healthy and which ones are not. I know the rules of traffic and how to navigate a car. I know not to stick my fingers in sockets. I know how to use scissors and flashlights and a fireplace. I know that not everything is edible or tasty. Yes, I know more of the basics than Juliet does. Let's hope so with 23 more years of experience!

But what is the difference between the knowledge that she has and the knowledge that I have when compared to the knowledge of my Heavenly Father? Not a whole lot. I have more responsibility for having more education, but compared to the ultimate love and ultimate goodness of my God and His plans, I know about as much as Juliet.

How often do I pitch a fit, reaching for things that are so clearly detrimental? What do I think I need? What do I feel entitled to that would tear me to pieces if the Lord let me have it? How lustful are my eyes? Do I want everything I see, everything that appears to me to have beauty?

I fear that all too often I ask Him for things that He knows I should not have. More hours in the day, simpler relationships, different opportunities for writing or ministry, or even a full year of marriage before my husband deploys overseas for a year. All of these things seem like good ideas to me. And my motives in asking for them are often genuine, pure and toward His glory. But He must know more than I do.

If my perspective on life is so radically different than Juliet's after a mere 23 years of progression along the same course. And if the God whom I serve is altogether above and beyond and other than me. And if He even came to earth to live here 33 years. May I in any way assume otherwise than that He views my life and my desires and my situations through a lens that my heart and mind cannot fathom?

And if Juliet is not my child, but rather is my job. And if I want what is good for her and try daily to discern and prioritize her needs. And if my God is a sin-loathing, goodness effusing, loving Savior. And if my life has been paid for by the blood of His Son, Jesus Christ, on the cross of my sin. May I not conclude that He cares more for me than I do for Juliet, and that His answers to my prayers, whether they are "yes" or "no" or "not now", are the best and most loving responses to the joys and trials of my life?

Does this mean that I should not ask? Or, worse yet, try not to want anything at all? By no means! He made us with desires and needs that He longs to fill. Not only that, but that He alone is able to fill ultimately. The entire point is that fulfillment is found in Him alone, and He refuses to fill us up with anything else. Too often, whether we realize it or not, our requests to Him are that He would satisfy us with something other than Himself. He will not do that because it cannot be done. We were made for Him, not for ourselves.

As I bring my requests to Him, I want to come humbly. I want to come in need. Not of satisfaction, nor of answers. But in need of knowing Him more. I pray that He will use each need and desire of my heart to draw me into deeper satisfaction in Christ. I want a teachable soul that does not shriek in contempt when life does not go my way. I want a soul that comes to the throne of grace for the Giver alone, not for what He has to give. Only for His self.

So much to learn in this journey, in growing up. Still so far to go.

I pray that Juliet and I will grow together. In wisdom and in stature and in favor with both God and men. I pray we grow like our Lord Jesus did. I pray we grow like our Lord Jesus.

messiest day EVER

Do not let the wide-eyed, so-fresh-and-so-clean-clean-in-my-jammies look fool you: today was, by far, mine and Juliet's messiest ever. Between a GINORMOUS POOPY DIAPER and her newfound carrot craze, I did 2 loads of laundry (in addition to what her mom did last night), gave her a bath, changed two onesies and two pairs of pants, and came home with formula crystalizing in my sleeve and carrots crusting in my jeans.

Lovely, huh?

But I learned something again (round 5,843,052) as I was feeding her carrots (round 2).

She got so excited about that next bite that she destroyed it on several occasions. She was either so caught up in the frenzy that her flailing, enthusiastic little arms knocked the spoon onto my lap or the carpet, or she was far too distracted by reaching for the bowl that contained the carrots for me to be able to feed her. She is quick and her fingers grip tightly (ask my scalp), so I realized that the bowl needed to be out of sight, and I reminded her frequently that the process works better when she does not try to help me get the spoon to her mouth.

With the bowl hidden from her view, she was able to calm down, focus on the spoon, open her mouth at the right time, and enjoy her meal. It was also far less stressful for me.

The Lord knows I can only handle the task of eating one spoonful at a time.

My hands need to rest as I trust Him to gently feed me what He knows is best.

The bowl of the future needs to be firmly out of my sight so I cannot flail at it recklessly or grip it counterproductively.

So humbling to sit in front of a carrot-faced, 6-month-old little person and realize I am looking in the mirror. What a mess I must look like to my Heavenly Father! Ha! Forget looking like one, a mess is what I am, it is all I know how to make. Graciously He takes up His wet rag of mercy again and again to wipe my mouth, He cleans my hands, He removes the stains from my garments, and He patiently waits to lead me to the next bite of His provision. And slowly, far more slowly than Juliet's development as a human being, He is making me into a new creation, the image of His Perfect Son, my Savior. With painstaking patience He feeds me what grows me into the heart of Jesus.

So grateful that His grip is tighter than Juliet's bumbo seat, that His patience is infinitely longer than my own, that His wisdom exceeds my own unimaginably more than mine exceeds Juliet's, and that He loves me and loves feeding me good things.

please just let me cry!

Playing with Juliet these days is, overall, an exciting and entertaining activity. Hardly "work". She is learning new things every single day, and it is a blast to watch her up close.

I realized though that sometimes the best thing for her is for me to not help. Does she like this option? Not quite. But let me explain.

Crawling is the current task at hand. She can crawl backward but not forward, which is a start, but a frustrating one at that. I get a little excited every time her toys get out of reach because I hope this will be the time that she figures it out, that she raises up on her knees, coordinates their forward progress with that of her arms, and inches or even centimeters closer to what she wants.

Unfortunately that has not yet happened successfully. Quite the opposite, actually.

When toys are out of reach she responds in a very particular way. She studies them intently, focusing all her attention and effort on the object she wants most, she furrows her brow and tenses her muscles, and she puts all of her energy into very purposeful movement. However, despite the grand effort forward, the energy pushes her further away from what she wanted.

This is followed by a whimper of frustration and either another attempt, a diversion, or a break-down of gigantic proportions.

At this point I have several options.

I can let her keep trying, despite the momentary frustration, to hone her crawling skills by trial and error.

Or I can give her the toy she wants.

Most of the time, the most loving response is actually to let her cry through the exploration of her abilities and limitations. If I were to give her the toy every time, which is actually a more pleasant experience for me, she would never learn to crawl. She would think of me only as the person who entertains her, who fixes her problems, who fulfills her whims. Clearly this would not be an accurate view of reality, and if it were, we would have an even bigger issue. No one in her life should cater to this role.

In reality, when I am more focused on myself and how I feel, I am much more likely to intervene in her frustration for my own peace of mind. If I have a headache or would rather not have to pay close attention, it suits me much more pleasantly to shuffle in a new diversion the moment one loses its appeal.

Interestingly enough, though it may seem that I do not care about what she wants or how she feels, the most loving thing for me to do is to sit back and allow her to explore on her own. This does not mean that I am not protecting her; I certainly safeguard her wriggling to maintain a safe distance between her head and the corners of the walls and coffee table. This does not mean that I am not paying attention to her; my view of the situation is actually much more complete than her own.

My perspective, protection and patience actually help her learn and grow and develop despite the seemingly inactive role they sometimes produce. A few tears now will push her toward a much more enabled and fulfilling existence in just a short while.

Today I am grateful for the Lord's love that allows me to cry.

He is not my entertainer. Praise Him.

He is not the fixer of my problems. Praise Him.

He is not the fulfiller of my whims. Praise Him.

He is the Author and Perfecter of my faith. Praise Him.

He is the Creator of newness in my heart. Praise Him.

He is the Savior who has given the best and withholds no good thing. Praise Him.

One year ago my life was characterized by frequent bouts of crying for jobs and relationships and success on my terms, by my means, for my satisfaction and on my timeline.

This year the Lord has given me a glimpse of the perspective He has on my life, and I see that all those days I spent in tears before Him whimpering "why?" between sobs were not evidence of pointlessness, abandonment or disapproval. He was here, all along, protecting, paying attention, planning.

He is the One who works all things for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. His purpose is that I look more like Christ. And so He allows my tears to flow. Purifying tears that carry with them the shackles of sin and self-delight.

To have a heart more like Jesus', let me cry daily. Gratitude.

empty bottles

Juliet frequently slurps every last drop from her bottles. I don't blame her. I'm a hungry girl too.

The other day she hurriedly got to the end of the formula but continued to suck at the air with steady ferocity. She enjoyed the motion, the sensation, the habit that is designed to procure nourishment even though the benefit had been exhausted.

On and on she went. I finally pulled the bottle out of her mouth so we could move on to burping, the only next step in a fully healthy meal.

I know I often do the same thing. I appreciate the motions so much that I hardly notice when Jesus is no longer the reward. Not that Jesus is ever in short supply; He is not. But at times I come to value the routines that lead to Jesus so much that I vigorously pursue them rather than Him.

I want to do whatever it takes to get to Him. Whatever music positions my heart to know Him. Whatever books illuminate the state of His heart and mine. Whatever relationships fuel my hunger for Truth. Whatever service softens my soul to know Him more.

I don't want to be caught up in the motions. I want the true Reward, the Richest of fare, the Bread of Life.

Introducing: Juliet

For the last two and a half months I have had the privilege of spending 45 hours of my week with the sweetest baby I have ever known. Her name is Juliet Rose and we have become fast friends.

As Juliet has only recently completed her 5th month of life, learning from loving, caring for and playing with her has only just begun, but I feel confident that the next few months of development will show a dramatic increase in life applications from our daily interactions.

The first realization I had came in the first few days. Though I am not nearly her mother, caring for her has shed new light on a Biblical truth that I have known for years.

In Isaiah 49:15 God says, "Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you."

Until August, I had only seen one aspect of this statement: the Lord is faithful to His people. Truth.

But as I fed Juliet on one of our first days together, I realized how much she NEEDS to be remembered. It is not just compassion from the heart of the caregiver that is astounding, but her survival is utterly dependent on the attentiveness of someone else.

She cannot eat if I do not remember to feed her.

She cannot be clean if I do not remember to change her diaper.

She cannot move or enjoy her world if I do not position her appropriately.

She cannot live.

Period.

Without the intervention of someone altogether more mature and capable, her existence would fail.

Horribly. Tragically. Rapidly.

Now she certainly would not exist at all if not for the actions of other individuals, but the life application is in her daily needs as a reflection of mine.

The only action step that Juliet may take toward having her needs met is to express her recognition of them. She can cry when she is hungry, wet or bored. After that, she is at the mercy of whoever hears her cry.

Juliet is capable only of expressing need. She does absolutely nothing else to enable me to provide for her. She does not mix her formula or make sure the bottles are clean. She does not restock the wipes or even leave her legs still to be changed. She does not turn her attention to a different interest that is also plainly in front of her.

Please do not misunderstand. These are by no means complaints about our relationship. They are merely observations, the realities of her current existence. And it is my joy to love on her by serving her in these ways.

But just as the baby is helpless apart from his mother's memory, I am hopeless apart from the Lord's. All my own efforts amount to screaming and writhing when what I need is to be washed, to be fed, to be loved. I must recognize and express my need for redemption, but I am utterly helpless in achieving it.

I cannot live rightly.

I cannot pay the penalty of my sins.

I cannot sacrifice an acceptable offering.

I cannot inherit the Spirit of God.

I cannot restore myself to the image of Christ.

I cannot live.

Period.

The Lord initiates my salvation from start to finish. He has given me no responsibilities. I am not capable of bearing a single one. He remembers me, and I live.

My mind reels as the implications multiply. How rich is the Word of God.

And as I consider the needs I meet that Juliet does not realize, I am humbled still. She knows she is hungry, but what does she know of bottled water and formula? She knows she is dirty, but what does she know of Pampers and wipes? She knows she is uncomfortable, but what does she know of laundry and pillows?

What would I know of Love?

What would I know of Joy?

What would I know of Peace?

God of Love.

Joyful King.

Prince of Peace.

Remembers me.