September smiled on us yesterday, getting brave against hot August with her breeze and her deep blue skies. I used to think nothing good happened in September, but then he chose September to propose all those many years ago and and now it is also the season where my words have finally been released. Enough good things have happened in September to help me change my mind about her.

There are other things happening, things that are invisible and difficult, things that are bringing us closer together even as we fall apart. When control drips through your hands like water, prayer becomes a lot less rote and a lot more desperate. I think that’s good.

When Jesus told the crowd that the work of God is to believe in the one he has sent, it seemed to be just the right words. But when you have to live it in the face of anxiety, fear, helplessness and lingering doubt, I want the work of God to be results. Activity. Answers. Action. Belief feels too small, too passive, too invisible, too impossible. And so we have to dig in our heels and hold fast to belief. Even when it doesn’t make sense. Even when it’s counter-intuitive. Even when it all goes wrong. Stubborn isn’t always bad, you know. Sometimes it’s what saves our life.

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Scroll down to see if you are one of the winners of Grace for the Good Girl or a copy of Shaun Groves’ Third World Symphony.

As our coast prepares for a hurricane, my heart is recovering from one this morning. We have a girl who is … reluctant to go to school. I wish it could always just be easy, but easy doesn’t push us into Jesus. And so we pray and we wait to watch the miracles. It helps to remember grace, to think of the hands that made heaven and earth are the same hands that hold us up. Oh, how I need holding up. More pictures of grace:

Lysa Terkeurst is personally donating $5 per every letter written to the young people recovering in the Dream Center in LA.

Love this post watching Shaun and Ann on the farm :: One Day & One Thousand Gifts.

Lara speaks grace for when you can’t take the whining :: I ate my own words.

Today is my last post at Bloom (in)courage :: Grace for the small group leaders.

Grace for the Good Girl is finally in stock at Amazon! :: Be the first to write a review?

I do crazy things in August, things like pull out fall smelling candles and start to make soup. I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at not rushing ahead to the next season, and maybe I have in some ways. But this year, I can feel that familiar pull towards autumn, that new shoes and pencils itch, a longing for a schedule that school days brings, hope for a cool blast of air. I should know better, living in North Carolina.We don’t get fall until October. Still, August comes in like a maid and readys the house and all her tenets for the transition. She sweeps under the couch and taps your crossed feet off the coffee table, and as she wipes the surface clean, she whispers Get ready, sweetheart. Change is coming.

Aren’t you thankful for times of transition? We have a Maker who doesn’t just throw the sun up into the sky in a shock of fire, but pulls it up slow every morning and down the same way every night. And if you stare as it happens, the change is hard to see, but if you close your eyes and count to twenty, everything is different when you open them back up again. It’s because a lot happens in the transition, secret things, beautiful things, Spirit led things.

And so I wait for the book to release in a few short weeks, and ask for the Lord to calm me. We look forward to school starting up again, and place any anxiety about it in his hands. I sit with The Man with calendars and fall schedules, and quietly celebrate what every future meeting and event means: that we are living, that we are doing what we love, and that we belong to a community. Prepare us, O Lord, in this month of transition.

How do you feel about August?

I want to write. But the words come syrup slow, like trying to play tag in the heat of the day – you want to and it’s fun, but it’s just too hot. And so you find the shade and sit against the bark and let your knee-pits air out a little. And you pull the wet curls from the nape of your neck and dream about lemonade that isn’t too sweet. The gnats begin to hover but it’s too hot to move. That’s where my blog writing life is this week – sitting under my front yard tree, airing out her knee pits.

In other news, the book writing is in a full springtime swing. The words pour out like petals from a mason jar. Fresh. Colorful. New. But I can’t share those words with you yet, and that’s why it’s brown-grass summer over here on the blog. Slow. A little weary. Thankful. Reflective. Quiet. I have a Man who has been gone for a while and some children who haven’t been. So we’ve been eating like kids and staying up too late and trying not to get sunburned. And any words I come up with go directly into my next book, tucked away for you later. And so this is just a little note to let you know the quiet and slow may remain around here for a week or so. Pit-airing in progress.

This is Rose Ann. We saw her home today.

This is her only light.

This is Rose Ann’s kitchen.

Her home was neat, all their clothes folded together on one small shelf. To get into Rose Ann’s house, you have to climb a ladder. The door is a swinging piece of plywood with no lock. Her entire home is smaller than the inside of my mini van. Four people live there.

You might be tempted to think, Why can’t we do anything about this? Where is God in this poverty? The answer? Somebody is doing something. And God is right in their midst.

Shaun, Kat and I stood in Rose Ann’s tiny home, her son AJ asleep on the hard floor, and we watched Beth, a worker at the church where Compassion hosts a program called the Child Survival Program, of which Rose Ann is a part. Beth sat beside her on the floor, asked her to open her Bible, and together they read from the New Testament. They read living words, and the Living Word stood protective over that room.

And there was a craft and a book and vitamins for AJ. Small things. Kid things. Important things. And Beth sat casual with her shoes off and leaned in close to Rose Ann, asking her questions about AJ’s health, about her home and her well-being. And they do these kinds of visits regularly.

To question poverty is normal and important. But don’t say you are helpless to do anything. Because we were there, in that tiny one room home. And there was a home just like Rose Ann’s one ladder climb below us who didn’t have anybody standing in their room. They might one day soon, but Rose Ann does today. She has people pray for protection for her family today. She has people casting vision for her son’s future today. And it’s because of people like you who sponsor children and support programs like Compassion.

But her poverty is not going away. She still lives in a room the size of a small walk-in closet with her husband and her two sons. As I rested my backpack on her small kitchen in that hot one-room home, I fought with my stupid eyes as they leaked ridiculous all over my shirt. Who am I to cry for her? She’s not crying, she’s laughing! And I was struck broken by the question that came next.

Am I crying for her, or am I crying for me? I wondered if I was thinking of her and her needs, or if I was thinking of me and what my life would be like in her shoes. It does her no good for me to project my life into hers. I was forced, in that moment, to reconsider my concept of provision. And to look at her with eyes that weren’t so self-centered.

The truth is, because of Compassion, she has support now. And Rose Ann needs support.

There’s Rose Ann holding AJ in the front row this morning during the Child Survival Program.

Her son won’t die of pneumonia now. Her family is being prayed for now. And when AJ turns 3, he will be eligible to enter the Child Development Sponsorship Program and be sponsored by someone like you. I knew I wasn’t prepared to see poverty like this. Today was proof that I was right.

I thought I was prepared to see what Compassion International is doing about it. Today was proof that I was wrong. This organization is doing more than I ever thought possible. And they are doing it better than I ever imagined.

The Philippines is filled with mothers like Rose Ann who love their babies and simply want the best for them. Not so different from what we want for our babies. Will you join me in supporting young mothers in the Philippines like Rose Ann by choosing one of their children to sponsor today?

For two years, that’s what Tuesdays Unwrapped was here. We scheduled time to think about the wonder, to consider the gifts, and to unwrap them with our photos and our words. I’ve missed it. And I don’t know what else to say about it. I’m not in a place where I can start it back up, but I haven’t had the heart to take down the page in the navigation about it yet.

Because the kids have been home sick for so many days, I think a lot about what I have to do, but am unable to do as much with all the needs. But sick brings a hidden blessing along — a slowing. Time pours out of bottomless buckets and the clock ticks slow days away, days of jammies and soup and giant blanket forts. And I’m with them, but I’m not always here. I have to fight to stay in the moment. I fight the pull of the list, the email, the laundry, the window-staring. I look at the clock and promise myself For the next 20 minutes, I will sit here without getting up. And I will play cars.

Before I had babies, I never dreamed that play would be such hard work. I imagined endless days of wonder, the kind I felt on Friday nights when I would babysit for two hours and travel back to the days of Disney movies and footed pajamas. And I’d dream pink frilly dreams of my own someday family. I never imagined that I would have to fight to keep the wonder.

But fight, I do. It’s a messy fight, not at all consistent. I cry about that sometimes, about my inability to stay in this day, this moment. But I try not to dwell on my lack, try not to embrace the shame that threatens to overwhelm. Instead, I think about the wonder, about this moment, and about the God who gives good gifts. Thankfulness can chase away a thousand thoughts of shame.

Can you relate with this wonder fight?

Thank you for your emails, comments, and prayers this week as our son had his tonsils and adenoids/asteriods removed. I can’t believe I get to know such a beautiful community of supportive people. You have blessed my family and you are a gift. And to those of you who quietly stepped out from the shadows for the first time to offer support, I want to say especially thank you. I hope you’ll speak up more often around here. Your voice is greatly appreciated.

I’ve been feeling that way a little lately. I had big plans for December to be un-plann-y and restful. And then, the expectations I had on myself got tangled up when I had to start listening to our snoring four-year-old while he slept because he tended to stop breathing a little bit. And so tomorrow, he gets his tonsils and adenoids out. I have no idea what adenoids actually are. They sound sort of space-ish. But he’s getting them out and for many reasons, it has me in a crazy place. Schedules are being balanced on the top of a pin and duties are falling off cliffs. I walk around piles of laundry (because they’re too big to step over) and make frantic lists of things I need to do. And then I lose the list because who makes serious lists on the back of a Chic-fil-a receipt anyway?

This week of Advent was the Love candle. (Yes, we are doing an Advent wreath with our kids. No, we haven’t done this weeks candle yet. Adenoids.) But I know it’s the Love candle and that it can also be called the Bethlehem candle. Humble Bethlehem, too small to be among the clans of Judah. He came in a most unexpected way. Small, quiet, without attention. In so many ways, he did not live up.

I don’t think it’s wrong to have expectations. But I tend to misuse them. I hold myself to a certain one and sprinkle glitter on top. And as it dazzles out there in the future, glowing and god-like, I wonder if maybe I’ve got it all wrong. As I drink my now-cool coffee, I realize that God sometimes shows up in the midst of our expectations and turns them upside down. It almost seems he wrecks them all up, What do you mean the king is a baby?! I think when I live eyes down to the ground, my thoughts turn inward and twist into shame – you aren’t doing enough! It helps to remember Bethlehem, to hold on to Hope, and give myself permission to rest. And now I’m gonna go Google adenoids.

I don’t know if it was the snow falling fast or the peppermint sticks I got from Wal-Mart for 87 cents, but it was the best cup of  chocolate I think I’ve ever had. Definitely the best I’ve ever made. It could have also been the fact that I didn’t expect it to snow anyway and the whole day was a blessed gift.

As I went to bed last night, I thought about all the happiest days of my life and all the spectacular ones came to mind. Our wedding day was happy because of what it represented, but there was so much expectation hovering around that day that it’s hard to give it that legit label. The day the twins were born was miraculous and joyous, but I weighed nearly as much as my 6 foot 3 husband and they came out way too early so there was lots of fear and tears and worry weaving itself through that happy day.

We’ve had a lot of great vacations together, from our honeymoon trip to Maine when we were wide-eyed and sun-kissed, to our family trip to Disney last year when every moment was magic. Ish. But those were so built up, so planned for and looked ahead to, that it was hard to simply go with the flow when the flow wasn’t on the schedule.

And then a memory came to mind when I was pregnant with the twins, but no body knew they were twins yet. The Man and I went in for a routine appointment to hear the baby’s heartbeat, and the edges of our nervous excitement quickly shook jagged when she said she couldn’t find one. And so we walked foggy-like into the dark ultrasound room and waited. And when she put that cold wand on my tummy, peered close to the screen and turned it our way, she calmly said to us Well, you aren’t eleven weeks after all. You’re only seven. And there’s two. Two what? Two babies. There are two babies. You’re having twins! Congratulations!

And nurses gathered in the hallways to look at us and the doctor came in and pointed at the screen Ahhhh, that explains it! and I had visions of two car seats and matching outfits and my husband couldn’t stop laughing. And we somehow made it from the exam room to the car when we realized, twins. And the best part was yet to come because now we got to tell everyone. And we’ve never had so much fun. It was one of the purest, happiest, days in all my life. Terrifying, but only vaguely. I never expected it in a thousand years.

I think that’s part of what makes most of the happy days happy. Unexpected gifts. Snow before Christmas. Hot chocolate with vanilla. Telling the family there’s two! What was one of your happiest moments?