Open your mouth wide

drink of My love and be satisfied

by Verna

My father-in-law, the only dad I have left on this earth, has just been brutally honest about his own pain.  He is grieving the loss of his wife of 60 years.  Even though she is still here beside us, she is only a shell of the vibrant woman she once was – gracious, neat and tidy, full of humor and fun.  He longs for the old life, mourns that he is growing old and losing his independence.  He tells me not to take it personally that he is mopey, spending most of his day lost in his music and books.  I don’t, that is, until he says that he does not want to take me with him to Colorado to see his roots. He wants to go there alone.  He hints that to him, I represent his loss of freedom and he is resentful that I make his decisions for him.  Now I am hurt. 

 

As I read Scripture this morning God said, “Open your mouth wide and I will fill it.  I will give you honey from the rock and you will be satisfied.” (Psalm 81:10, 16) I tip my head back and open my mouth, my eyes closed.  Can He really fill me with His love?  Will I truly be satisfied?  I like this posture.  I am not sure what will drop into my open mouth.  I am sure it will be surprising; that’s why I have my eyes closed.  I don’t want to see it; I want to taste it first. I want to receive it fully and be satisfied.

 

I wonder about the honey from the rock.  I sense the rock is Jesus.  The sweet love that He poured out to me when He died in my place.  A rock that is so firm, so trustworthy and stable.  Yet it oozes- no, gushes-- with love, compassion, mercy, grace, forgiveness. Open my mouth wide and receive.  Be so full and satisfied.  Till there is no room for the disappointment that yet another man, walking on this earth, cares about himself more than me.  His pining does not reflect the truth of my value.  I am loved, deeply, unconditionally by my Father who gave me Jesus.  I am full.  No need for anything else.  He satisfies my deepest need – to be loved for who I am, not for what I do or don’t do.  And I remember – God is the only one that can do this. 

 

 

Sometimes, she just needs to scream…

by Erin

 

My three-month old daughter is in transition.  Just when I thought I had her rhythm figured out, she’s changing, and I’m struggling to keep up.  Monday was a hard day.  She’s discovered her voice and is using it – loudly.  At first, the chatter was endearing.  My husband and I laid in bed at 7 am and grinned at each other as she cooed, and then when it changed to crying, I got up and fed her.  My husband left for work, and she played on her mat while I made some breakfast for myself.  Her vocalizations were a little louder.  Not concerned or frustrated, but almost like she was singing or telling me a story. 
“AAAAHH-eeeeh,  Aaaaaah, Ohhhh-ahhh!”

 

Then she lost interest in batting at her rattles, so I switched her to her tummy for a little practice pushing up.  She became frustrated pretty quickly, and her cry was a little louder.  Her eyes were heavy, so I laid her down for a nap.   Her nap was short, maybe 20 minutes, and then she was up again.  I put her in her bouncy chair, because I was cleaning up the kitchen, and she was happy enough, but her chatter started to get louder and mildly frustrated.  My mom called on Skype, so I picked her up to see Grandma, which made her happy for a little bit.  Then she got wiggly and fussy, so I went to put her back down for a nap and she screamed.  I realized she had a dirty diaper, so I changed it, and she was happy again, so we went back to see Grandma for a few more minutes.   Finally, she was getting squirmy and fussy, so I said goodbye to Mom and tried to figure out what to do next.  I realized it was time for her to eat, but she was so tired, she barely made it through both sides.  I burped her and put her in her crib for what I hoped would be a nice long nap, so I could take a shower, and maybe get a little cleaning done around the apartment. 

 

She screamed. 

 

Not an “I’m in distress” sort of cry, but a stubborn, “I don’t WANT to take a nap” scream.  Her face turned red and she worked herself into a sweat.  I picked her up and tried to console her, which usually works, but she would not be consoled.  She would not take the pacifier.  She would not calm down. She had been getting progressively louder as the day went on, and it was wearing on my nerves.

 

I was desperate, near tears myself.  I wished, for a moment, that I could just walk away, somehow escape this noise. I realized there was nothing I could do for her.  I put her back in her crib and in desperation, pulled out the vacuum cleaner and started vacuuming.  The noise of the vacuum drowned out her crying, and for a few minutes, I had reprieve.   I vacuumed mindlessly for a few minutes, and then turned it off to listen.  She was still screaming.  I turned it back on and kept working.  In those next few moments, I felt peace – but it was not God’s peace, so it didn’t last long.  Soon, I felt guilty.  I felt guilty for feeling better when I could not hear her.  I felt guilty for ignoring her.  Like I was neglecting my child.  I questioned my “mother’s heart,” questioned my instincts.  I knew that what she needed most was a good sleep, but I wanted to rescue her from the pain and frustration she was in.  I got to her door, and turned off the vacuum again.  Her cry was not quite so frantic, not quite so angry, but still very strong.  I pleaded silently, “God, what do I do?!”  Since she was still awake, I vacuumed in her room.  And while I vacuumed, I prayed for her.  I prayed for God’s grace, for His peace for her and for me, and for wisdom.  Finally, her cries subsided, and she eventually drifted off to sleep.   I dusted her bedroom and ours, and finally got a shower.  As I stood motionless under the hot stream, I pondered the situation.  A couple of different verses came to mind:

 

James 1:2-4 “Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

 

Romans 5:3b-4 “knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.”

 

I felt a gentle nudge from God, reminding me that pain is not necessarily a bad thing.  That sometimes we need to suffer, in order to grow. That He knows best what we need – that sometimes, what we NEED does not coincide with what we WANT. 

 

That sometimes, she DOES just need to scream. 

 

 

I find it ironic that taking down the Christmas tree proved

more joyful than the decorating this year...

What is so sentimental about that?!? 

  

by Allison

 

For the last few years, the day after Thanksgiving has represented a day of incredible stress for me.
After several years of fighting it, my pilot husband has finally given in to my desire to have a live Christmas tree each year regardless of our travel plans.

At first it was sheer joy for me. The smell, the sight of the lights twinkling brightly and the delight of slowly and meticulously adding each special ornament, then adding my "whimsies" - blasts of color and shapes popping out of my perfect tree...

Then the kids got older. They wanted to share in the delight... enter stress. Don't get me wrong, I always want it to be an idyllic time of family bonding, but reality is far from the ideal. Reality is sloppy, chaotic and full of breakage. It's stressful and frustrating. It requires a patience that I don't have in me.

This year I decided to have a "plan" so that I could have the best of both worlds, idyllic family bonding and a beautiful tree. I was going to spend a few days sorting through our boxes, carefully selecting the child appropriate yet still beautiful ornaments that I wanted out. Then I would allow the kids to decorate the bottom third of the tree, once they were off to bed I would finish off with my beloved ornaments and my whimsies. Unfortunately, my husband (and God) had other plans. The evening after we brought home the tree he came home early from work (a rare occasion in itself), and while I was still in the kitchen working on dinner, brought down every single box of Christmas stuff... and invited the kids to a free-for-all. I popped my head in a few times to try to "help" but each time I grew more exasperated and angry. He hadn't even asked me what I wanted! At one point he came into the kitchen and said "You know, I do this for you. If I had my way we wouldn't even have a tree. You just seem so angry."  He was right and I hated that he was right so I prayed a quick prayer begging for God's patience to flow through me. He was gracious and I made it through the evening without a catastrophic explosion. But there was no joy, no delight. For the days that followed there was a chagrin and slight annoyance sometimes when I passed by the tree. I tried one time to rearrange a few ornaments and insert some whimsies correctly. Travel time came and I wasn't really sad to leave my tree.

Then we returned. At first I was annoyed with the inconvenience of having to take down the tree that I hadn't really enjoyed, so I delayed. Then as afternoon wore on I decided it was the chore I would rather be doing instead of laundry or dishes. I put on a Christmas CD and began taking down the ornaments, one by one. Slowly and methodically. Looking at each one & remembering when.

It was in the relative quiet of the room, with my kids outside helping their dad that God whispered to me, "I will give you joy and delight, wait on Me." I had not known the reason why I wanted it my way, the nostalgia of it all. As Sarah McLachlan sang Silent Night, I sang along, reminded that the joy of Christmas is not about my plan, but His greater plan for the world, coming in the form of a baby, sent with a loving purpose all those many years ago.

 

Looking for goodness in all the wrong places...

by Verna

 

Holidays – they have a way of bringing out the worst in me.  I had the food planned well and Thanksgiving dinner was served with a flair – tasty and all the dishes arriving hot on the table for twenty one people, fifteen of those being family.  Yes, I was rejoicing.  I had three of my children home and four of the eight grandchildren present.  It really is one of my great pleasures, cooking with my girls and having their little ones swirling around the house. 

 

The day after Thanksgiving’s meal had been carefully planned and the lasagna was waiting in the freezer.  It is my tradition to serve something other than turkey the day after, saving the leftovers for the meal on Saturday.  We had a fun day planned so I pulled out the lasagna to thaw before we went shopping, congratulating myself that we could “play” today without working too hard on dinner.  I even encouraged everyone to go to the park before dinner.  I was glad to make the salad, vegetables and bread while the lasagna was in the oven. 

 

They all came back, hungry and ready to eat.  My daughters noted I had it all under control and sat down.  The younger daughter sat at the counter watching me prepare the garlic bread.  “Aren’t you putting too much powder on?”  she questioned, adding that she was just asking to learn, “but won’t it be too garlicky?”  I immediately felt defensive and decided not to add the garlic salt that I usually add.

 

I sent everyone to the table and pulled out the lasagna.  To my dismay it was not bubbling hot but barely warm.  I couldn’t hold off the little ones any longer so decided to serve it anyway.  I apologized for the temperature as I served it, feeling very discontent with myself for not getting the timing right.  The other daughter asked, “Is there only lettuce and tomatoes in the salad?”  as she picked around in it.  The discontent in my own soul grew as I watched the other daughter who had questioned my use of garlic powder, salting her bread and I snarled a question to her about the bread not having enough garlic.

 

Then the oldest daughter laughed about how I said that we had plenty of salad fixings.  Now I am really hurt.  My cutting retort, “I had carrots but I didn’t have time to add them, since I was doing everything by myself, with no help,” came rolling out of my mouth before I could even think.  I tried to cover the harshness of it by making it a joke. “I did it all single handedly,”  putting one arm behind my back. 

 

The rest of dinner I felt even worse.  I thought I had really wanted her to have a night off from cooking.  Felt I was giving her a gift.  The vague uneasiness about my motives made me address my daughter with an apology after dinner.  “I am sorry that I retaliated my hurt about the salad with those unkind remarks.”  We talked about the details for awhile and she asked, “Did you ask me to help with the salad?”  I had not. 

 

Later she came downstairs and announced, “I am sorry that I wasn’t grateful that you did the meal by yourself.” 

 

“OK, I forgive you.  But that is not what I was hurt about.”  I was still wanting to believe that I had been glad to do the meal by myself.  Wasn’t that my gift of love to her?

 

God was getting my attention.  Why was I so disgruntled?  Why couldn’t I offer grace to my daughters?  Why could I not receive His forgiveness to cover my mistakes in the kitchen?  I began to recognize that I was desperately trying to be good.  It was starting to come to the surface that I want to be a good mom, a good mother-in-law, a good grandma, a good cook, a good wife, a good daughter.  That is the only way to keep everyone (including God) pleased with me. 

 

The next morning I read Psalm 136:1 and it began to dawn on me. ^“Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.”

 

I have a whole set of rules in my mind to make me good in each area.  To be a good cook the meal needs to come to the table hot.  To be a good mom I need to give my daughter with four children a break.  The lists go on and on.  No wonder I am not receiving grace.  I have made up my own gospel. 

 

God’s Spirit reminded me of His words about Jesus,  “My beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”  I had forgotten that all the goodness of Jesus has been transferred to me and that I, clothed in Jesus’ righteousness, am well-pleasing to the Father.  With relief I looked at Psalm 136:1 and began to thank Him that He is good.  I don’t have to achieve goodness on my own.  He is good.  And His steadfast, forever love for me comes from His goodness, not my need to be good. 

 

I later shared this with my daughter and acknowledged to her that her apology was dead on.  I had wanted her gratefulness in order to confirm my goodness.  I had fooled myself into believing that I was giving her a break from cooking because of love for her when really it was to accomplish my goal of being a “good” mother and thus deserving her and everyone’s and then ultimately, God’s good pleasure with me.  Another episode of me trying to get my cup filled with love in the wrong way, the wrong place.  Thank You,  my Father, for showing me the truth.

 

Matthew 3:16-17  “And when Jesus was baptized, immediately he went up from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming to rest on him; and behold, a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’”