I don't usually blog about my thoughts concerning God. They are pretty personal. However, I think a good deal about what it is God has called each follower of His to do and I think I am ready to share some of them. Jesus said to His disciples when they asked Him what work were they to do, "The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent." (John 6:29)
He asks us to believe, and I think that evangelism follows. It is not a prerequisite for heaven as it were, but it is a byproduct of our belief. My brother just broke a Virginia Tech pool record in his meet this last weekend. He broke 20 seconds in the 50 free and he is now second in the Tar Heel history of swimming that event. Do you know how many people I have told? Everyone. Every person I have talked to since Sunday now knows about my brother's swimming prowess. At church, on the phone, out in the neighborhood, and anywhere people ask me, "What's new?," I am ready with the headlining details of my little brother's talent.
Perhaps it should be that way for evangelism. Jesus didn't shove it down our throats to sweat, cry, and lose sleep over how to shout his name from rooftops and our back decks. He did, however, sweat, cry, and lose sleep over what it would take to save us. In doing so He experienced the greatest joy-- giving God his own life towards God's glory. He lived a life of service and sacrifice, and yes, evangelism. He wasn't depressed, he wasn't bored, and he wasn't boring. He was fascinating, exciting, an adventurer and a lover of people. He was full. Full of life, full of love, and it poured out in the form of sermons and parables and stories about His Father. He believed in every fiber of his being that God was worth talking about, and so He did.
I don't think the question is how much should I talk about Him, but rather if I haven't talked about Him to someone recently then how much do I really believe in who He is? To say I believe in Jesus, that He is the way and the truth and the life, is one thing. To actually ride the white water rapids of that belief is something so much more terrible and exciting. Where in the name of all that is holy is that raft??
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Thursday, December 29, 2011
My funny boys
Thursday, December 15, 2011
My Grown Up Christmas List
My desk is cluttered with Christmas cards, a list of names concerning all I will one day send said cards to, books of stamps, my iPod recently charged and waiting to fill my SUV with Christmas tunes, stacks of envelopes from which I aim to extract addresses for my third attempt at an address book that will not die along with another hard drive. My kitchen sink is full of dishes, there is a cake sending out a divine smell from the oven, and my Christmas tree skirt is draped over the coffee table where I left it after vacuuming up an ornament catastrophe this morning. Only one thing is missing from my festive chaos: my manger scene.
It seems that this year I don't have time for setting up each shepherd, donkey, sheep, star, Mary, Joseph, nor the precious little one. There are garlands on the fireplace, lights on the stair, wreaths in every window, and I even have appropriately colored towels hanging on my oven door. Now this is in no wise a self inflicted guilt trip. I think that making my front door look welcoming, bright, and merry is just as soul warming as seeing my Willow Tree nativity on the bookshelf. It is simply something I notice, and I grieve.
A wise friend once told me, when we were discussing where is best to live, that we should appreciate where we are and at once mourn where we are not. A farmer should breathe deep, stretch out long, and sink his toes into the fertile earth, but never forget the many faces he will never chance to meet along the stretch of city sidewalk. The banker on Wall Street should enjoy the crispness of his tie and the artistic inspiration of architecture he walks into every day as his office, and nonetheless acknowledge the ache of tall buildings and few trees, the nameless thousands and the anonymity of it all.
I am grateful to be the mom now. I am grateful that it is my house people will enter tonight and my own cooking they will enjoy. It is incredible to me that I have become like my own mother, inviting people into a house bedecked in greenery and a gaudy Christmas tree, and that I was the one to hand my little one a spoon with chocolate batter on it. Having Christmas cards go out with my new address on them, with my husband, my children, and my own handwriting on the front. Honestly I even enjoy that I am the one that mopped the floor in preparation and hung the Christmas towel on the rack in the bathroom. The sense of satisfaction far outweighs the work. Nevertheless I mourn. I mourn that I am not the one still coming in from school and smelling the party food baking. I mourn that I am not the one to lick my mom's batter covered spoon and that I am not the one to walk into a freshly cleaned house, and not think anything of it. Mostly I mourn that I am trying to bring Christmas, when as a girl I let Christmas come to me.
I remember going to the Christmas Eve service in the back of the van, my tights pleasantly itching my legs and having to adjust my stiff pea coat as I tried to read my book by the small light above my window. I remember being ushered into the warmth of the big church by the small crowd that was my family and taking cues from mom and dad as to when we would leave, when we would get to the party, when we would go home and go to bed, when we could get up and creep down the hallway...
Jesus' miraculous coming was so simple to understand then, when I watched Him come all season, in the invisibly hard work of mom's decorating and cooking, in the even harder work (and even more invisible) of my parents providing for the many presents around the tree, in the birthday cake Aunt Ginny brought for Jesus every Christmas Eve Eve.
This month has been somewhat of a marathon, and I am starting to understand what all the older moms are talking about, "Christmas is so stressful." Yet, I take comfort in realizing I am taking my place among the millions of others-- moms, teachers, dads, grandparents, pastors, worship leaders, deacons, retail workers, movie ticket takers, who bring Christmas. It is my Hope that in this way I am learning to be like Mary, who journeyed so long and in such discomfort and with such disdain upon her shoulders by those who would call her neighbor, who would call her son Saviour. My hope is the joy that comes with bringing Christmas.
It seems that this year I don't have time for setting up each shepherd, donkey, sheep, star, Mary, Joseph, nor the precious little one. There are garlands on the fireplace, lights on the stair, wreaths in every window, and I even have appropriately colored towels hanging on my oven door. Now this is in no wise a self inflicted guilt trip. I think that making my front door look welcoming, bright, and merry is just as soul warming as seeing my Willow Tree nativity on the bookshelf. It is simply something I notice, and I grieve.
A wise friend once told me, when we were discussing where is best to live, that we should appreciate where we are and at once mourn where we are not. A farmer should breathe deep, stretch out long, and sink his toes into the fertile earth, but never forget the many faces he will never chance to meet along the stretch of city sidewalk. The banker on Wall Street should enjoy the crispness of his tie and the artistic inspiration of architecture he walks into every day as his office, and nonetheless acknowledge the ache of tall buildings and few trees, the nameless thousands and the anonymity of it all.
I am grateful to be the mom now. I am grateful that it is my house people will enter tonight and my own cooking they will enjoy. It is incredible to me that I have become like my own mother, inviting people into a house bedecked in greenery and a gaudy Christmas tree, and that I was the one to hand my little one a spoon with chocolate batter on it. Having Christmas cards go out with my new address on them, with my husband, my children, and my own handwriting on the front. Honestly I even enjoy that I am the one that mopped the floor in preparation and hung the Christmas towel on the rack in the bathroom. The sense of satisfaction far outweighs the work. Nevertheless I mourn. I mourn that I am not the one still coming in from school and smelling the party food baking. I mourn that I am not the one to lick my mom's batter covered spoon and that I am not the one to walk into a freshly cleaned house, and not think anything of it. Mostly I mourn that I am trying to bring Christmas, when as a girl I let Christmas come to me.
I remember going to the Christmas Eve service in the back of the van, my tights pleasantly itching my legs and having to adjust my stiff pea coat as I tried to read my book by the small light above my window. I remember being ushered into the warmth of the big church by the small crowd that was my family and taking cues from mom and dad as to when we would leave, when we would get to the party, when we would go home and go to bed, when we could get up and creep down the hallway...
Jesus' miraculous coming was so simple to understand then, when I watched Him come all season, in the invisibly hard work of mom's decorating and cooking, in the even harder work (and even more invisible) of my parents providing for the many presents around the tree, in the birthday cake Aunt Ginny brought for Jesus every Christmas Eve Eve.
This month has been somewhat of a marathon, and I am starting to understand what all the older moms are talking about, "Christmas is so stressful." Yet, I take comfort in realizing I am taking my place among the millions of others-- moms, teachers, dads, grandparents, pastors, worship leaders, deacons, retail workers, movie ticket takers, who bring Christmas. It is my Hope that in this way I am learning to be like Mary, who journeyed so long and in such discomfort and with such disdain upon her shoulders by those who would call her neighbor, who would call her son Saviour. My hope is the joy that comes with bringing Christmas.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Artistically Inspired.
http://southernhomentality.wordpress.com/
My friend Brooke is gifted in all things classy, homey, and delicious. Check out her blog for humble inspiration and interesting decorating trends;)
My friend Brooke is gifted in all things classy, homey, and delicious. Check out her blog for humble inspiration and interesting decorating trends;)
Monday, October 24, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Why I love Fall
Ma' boys, att Rudd Farm where we went on our first ever pumpkin patch adventure!
photo by Rachel Darst
One Fine Day
I can't believe I didn't notice them myself, but it took my friend Rachel pointing out the crunchy leaves today for me to open my eyes and see them. Cutting through the Science Center parking lot, all around us was the tapestry of brown and red and orange and gold. The colors of my home and the colors of Autumn are one and the same because this is the time of year when I finally sink into my own. With layers of sweaters and jackets and socks and jeans I feel uninhibited and comfortable. I happily leave behind the sticky film of a Southern summer and don the layers of Winter's approach. I do not mind the early nights and nose-reddening winds. Today I wore socks all day, never had to shed them, and when my little boys were snug in their beds for nap time I sat in the sunroom and listened to the wind play its familiar song on my wind chimes right outside, softly clinking pipes whose song is more familiar than a lullaby and more tranquilizing than hot buttered rum.
A good friend once said that a bass player is the one in the band that everyone forgets about, but whom if he were gone would be noticeably missed. I think that is Autumn. If not for the mosaic of colors fluttering about our heads, and the acorns that catapult down like a parachuting SWAT team this, my favorite season, would be missed. Autumn would be lost amid the hot, sensual sauciness of Summer and the blissfully bitter cold of Winter, Christmas. If not for my friend pointing it out I might have kept waiting for it to hit me over the head (which it later did in the form of an acorn careening straight out of a forty foot tall oak tree and straight onto the top of my head; I'm just glad it didn't hit the kids).
One grievance I have against North Carolina is that I have to wait so long for this beloved time of year, whereas in Maryland the Fall couldn't wait to come park itself right alongside the shiny backpacks, newly sharp pencils, and brand new Keds. In North Carolina Summer is so reluctant to release its humid tentacles that by the time the leaves start to fall they are already dead and Winter is already checking its watch, waving its number in the deli line.
Nonetheless, today the leaves did reach up and grab me by my sock-clad toe, acorns fell and I didn't miss it. I spent two perfect hours with good friends seeing all the animals, from oversized turtles who look like army tanks to the sleek tigers in whose eyes I gaze and feel unbelievably second-rate. After a sweet time together I went to the allergist for my weekly shot and crossed over a tiny river of red leaves, so shiny I'm surprised Jonathan didn't mistake them for candy. I had to look up and make sure they were actually coming from trees because they were so beautiful it seemed like a trick, as if maybe someone who longs for Fall like I do got down on hands and knees and painted them that way.
After dinner we took a walk and had to bundle the baby in a coat and blanket, and the neighbors wore down vests or zip-up jackets. And then, when I headed to meet up with friends over coffee and talk about books, I enjoyed driving down a dark road at seven-thirty pm, in a car so empty of anything but me that my thoughts could roll out of my head like a roll of wrapping ribbon, spinning out in shiny curls of red. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte and watched my two friends talk animatedly about books in their cozy sweatshirts, and then we had to rush to the car to get out of the cold when we said our goodbyes. The flavor of pumpkin and the bite of the cold followed me to my car and I'm just so glad I had my girl friends today to get me out of the house and into the leaves, under the acorns, and into the coffee shop; I came startlingly close to missing the coming of Fall.
A good friend once said that a bass player is the one in the band that everyone forgets about, but whom if he were gone would be noticeably missed. I think that is Autumn. If not for the mosaic of colors fluttering about our heads, and the acorns that catapult down like a parachuting SWAT team this, my favorite season, would be missed. Autumn would be lost amid the hot, sensual sauciness of Summer and the blissfully bitter cold of Winter, Christmas. If not for my friend pointing it out I might have kept waiting for it to hit me over the head (which it later did in the form of an acorn careening straight out of a forty foot tall oak tree and straight onto the top of my head; I'm just glad it didn't hit the kids).
One grievance I have against North Carolina is that I have to wait so long for this beloved time of year, whereas in Maryland the Fall couldn't wait to come park itself right alongside the shiny backpacks, newly sharp pencils, and brand new Keds. In North Carolina Summer is so reluctant to release its humid tentacles that by the time the leaves start to fall they are already dead and Winter is already checking its watch, waving its number in the deli line.
Nonetheless, today the leaves did reach up and grab me by my sock-clad toe, acorns fell and I didn't miss it. I spent two perfect hours with good friends seeing all the animals, from oversized turtles who look like army tanks to the sleek tigers in whose eyes I gaze and feel unbelievably second-rate. After a sweet time together I went to the allergist for my weekly shot and crossed over a tiny river of red leaves, so shiny I'm surprised Jonathan didn't mistake them for candy. I had to look up and make sure they were actually coming from trees because they were so beautiful it seemed like a trick, as if maybe someone who longs for Fall like I do got down on hands and knees and painted them that way.
After dinner we took a walk and had to bundle the baby in a coat and blanket, and the neighbors wore down vests or zip-up jackets. And then, when I headed to meet up with friends over coffee and talk about books, I enjoyed driving down a dark road at seven-thirty pm, in a car so empty of anything but me that my thoughts could roll out of my head like a roll of wrapping ribbon, spinning out in shiny curls of red. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte and watched my two friends talk animatedly about books in their cozy sweatshirts, and then we had to rush to the car to get out of the cold when we said our goodbyes. The flavor of pumpkin and the bite of the cold followed me to my car and I'm just so glad I had my girl friends today to get me out of the house and into the leaves, under the acorns, and into the coffee shop; I came startlingly close to missing the coming of Fall.
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