Feels Like 13

My "day job" often requires me to work outside. In the winter I will be inside most of the time, but we have been in that middle place between fall and winter, and there is still quite a bit I have to do outside. I have been doing pretty well with preparing as far as clothing is concerned.  Multiple layers, several pairs of gloves, two pairs of socks…most of the time I have been just right or too warm. 

Today was my wake-up call.  

We worked outside today, doing manly things, and it was snowing.  With the wind chill, my phone said the air felt like it was 13 degrees.  It felt like it was well-below zero, and my carefully planned layers amounted to nothing in the face of that wind.  

Temperature is relative (tell that to the North wind), and if you just gear up for it and ignore the weather, most of the time you can get through with little whining. But there comes a point (I believe it is when the temperature feels like 13) when the wind wins and you are reduced to a chattering popsicle.  

I need more layers.
I need better preparation.
Being tough is not enough.

When we made the decision to move to Siouxland, to love this city and its people, we knew it would be hard. I made up mock schedules and planned and prepped my mind and heart for the transition, and I knew it would be difficult.  But the last couple weeks have served as a wake-up call on just what is before us and just how little our tough is.  

We need more layers.
Our tough is not enough.

The last couple weeks I have had several days of cowering, of feeling unwound and overwhelmed and completely out of balance.  My hands, head, and heart have foot completely empty at times.

But today the Scripture reminds me: ...my God will supply all your needs according to His glorious riches in Christ Jesus.

According to my gifts, talents, abilities?
According to my effort?
According to my preparation?
According to my creativity?
My resources?

According to His glorious riches in Christ Jesus. In Jesus is the preparation, ability, patience, consistency, strength, and resources.  In Christ Jesus.  

May I have a better handle on who handles things. May I sort out what everything is according to.
Also may I get some long underwear ASAP. 
Amen. 

Tunes Tuesday: Where Feet May Fail (Guest Post!)

WARNING: YOU ARE IN FOR A TREAT.  This is a guest post by the one, the only, Summer Amman.  She was up for doing this installment of Tunes Tuesday. You're welcome.  

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Ironically, Michael basically described this song in yesterday's post here. It has essentially been my theme song over the past month or two. And my current and constant prayer. 

I described to some people last week that I felt I understood what the sacrifice would be during this season. I know our time is going to be limited. That Michael won't be around as much as he works two jobs to provide for our family. And I'll be on my own with the kids much more than I am currently. That I'll miss my friends and home church desperately.

I didn't realize that God was going to want even more from me. Like, all of me. I feel like it's all being stripped away, one thing happening after another; I'm losing all control and left to rely on God alone to deliver me through this. I'm not sure I would've gotten to this place in my heart another way.

"Your grace abounds in deepest waters

Your sovereign hand will be my guide

Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me

You've never failed and You won't start now"

Watch it. Google the lyrics. Look past the sparkly 80's denim jacket that Rebecca St. James' look-a-like is wearing and pray it with me. 

Bigger than Blown-Out Pants

Last weekend we went with another family to this odd, wonderful, dangerous place called Bounce U. It is where kids get a degree in bouncing with a minor in breaking bones. (Just kidding...we were all safe and had a great time.)

Our son Asher is a pro. He is three and loves somersaults, jumping, and anything that involves general mayhem. He also wants you to be involved. ("Will you play with me?" is his favorite question). So my Friday night consisted of bouncing, climbing, sliding, and generally making sure our mayhem didn't send other kids to the hospital.  

I had fun. Lots of fun. I literally blew my pants out.  

Wait, let me explain. We were getting ready to go, having closed the place down, and Asher and I were getting out of some bouncy monstrosity when it happened. I was crawling off the bouncy-thingy, one foot went one way, the other went an alternative direction, and this was the result:

The sound of those shorts rending asunder was the stuff of middle school nightmares. Those shorts are unsalvageable. They look like I either survived a shipwreck or a dog attack...or both at the same time. We all had a good laugh and the walk to the car was uncomfortably breezy.  

I will probably remember those shorts for a long time.

Which is a shame.

Because that isn't the real story about that night.  

I should remember a few things about that night, none of which have much to do with a pair of blown-out shorts. I need to remember the wonderful time we had with friends. I need to remember the pure joy, the almost-constant smile of Asher enjoying moving and playing and being 3.  

I also need to remember the boy. Not ours, another boy who was there working on his bounce degree. He was there with who I assume was his mom, and he was having a great time, but didn't have a dad there to enjoy it with him. He was alone in the bouncy-house, which is not ok...these things were meant to be shared. I don't know his story, (maybe he has a great dad who couldn't make it) and don't even know his name, but I do know he was desperate to get his bounce on with me and Asher.  For a few minutes he was a part of our family time. I know he was hungry to share the unfiltered joy with someone.

We humans are great at remembering the wrong things, or with a wrong perspective (see the history of the family of God throughout the Old Testament). Our hearts can warp, twist, and manipulate history, making it something it isn't. It can get so bad we can even look back with nostalgia on slavery and yearn to go back to our proverbial Egypts. Or we can just forget.

I don't want to forget. I want to remember. To celebrate the things God has saved me from, and the life He has saved me for. I want to remember Jesus, to remember his life, death, and resurrection in everything, to remember the ways He loved and served people, and to do the same. To follow Jesus is to remember his care for the hurting, the sick, the desperate, the starved for love and attention and food and grace.

I want to remember Asher and The Boy Who Bounced With Us. I want to remember how God gave us the opportunity to include a boy without his dad in our fun. I want to be spurred on towards seeing those around us who are desperate for family and encouragement and connection with God and people. 

May I remember those things as much as any blown-out shorts.