guest post | chatting at the sky

he goes before :: a guest post

July 14, 2010

Paige is living her dream raising four daughters, ages 9 – 17. She also works part time as a pediatric nurse. After her first husband went home to Heaven much too young, she married the man who has been her husband for the last 11 years. To learn more about Paige, visit her blog, Simple Thoughts. Her lovely style and beautiful photos will have you hooked right from the start. You may also follow her on twitter.

I’m a runner. Running has been a part of my daily life for as long as I can remember. The road on which I run is a busy one, complete with all the things you would expect to see on a busy road.

One particular day I was running with my dog while my youngest daughter rode her bike alongside us. We came upon a large amount of broken glass on the sidewalk, much more than you would normally see from just a broken bottle. Something large had broken and left hundreds of tiny pieces of glass. The owner of the house was sitting outside and I (very kindly, I might add) walked up and explained to the young man that there was a huge amount of broken glass…too many for me to pick up with my bare hands. He looked up and saw my little girl & our dog and promised to get right on it. I jogged a few more miles, came back & sure enough all the glass was still there

The next day I once again ran by the house with all the tiny pieces of glass still laying there. Later that evening, I gave my sweet hubby an earful about all the frustration I had towards the negligent home owner and “all the thousands”– of course the amount increased– of pieces of glass. I had quite the lengthy list of potential hazards that could occur. Children walk home from school along this sidewalk every day, for crying out loud.

The next day I ran by the spot and all the glass was gone. Completely picked up. Not a single sliver could be seen. My sweet selfless protective husband had gone back out, after his earful, and cleaned it up for me. Every tiny piece of glass was gone. He had gone before me.

“The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” – Deuteronomy 31.8

Moses is speaking to the Israelites just before they are to enter the Promised Land. Did you catch that? The Promised Land. The Lord wanted to make sure His people, His chosen people, knew that even in their promised land, there would be potential hazards. There would be times where they would need His promise of going before them, tucked within their hearts.

I think of the times in my life when I have been blissfully unaware of the broken glass that lies along the path ahead of me. These shards of glass are not a surprise to Him. They are to me, as inconveniences always are, but not to Him.

He’s not caught off guard.

He never slumbers.

He never sleeps.

Sometimes He removes the broken pieces without me even knowing He was there. Sometimes, however, the broken pieces remain. The test results were positive, the tumor has grown, the husband cheated, the child ran away, the job was given to another. Broken pieces that catch us off guard and remind us how fragile we are and how easily we can be hurt. While we maneuver through a crisis, stumbling & fumbling around situations that threaten to hurt us, He has already been there.

He will continue to be there.

To be honest, I wanted to write this post about two months ago, but I was awaiting my own test results: clear? pre-cancer? cancer?

Anxious & nervous,

fragile & worried,

I couldn’t bring myself to write an encouraging post about His promises.

I wish it weren’t that way. I want to walk it out in my life. Every day. Not just on the days when my run along the busy road is quiet and seemingly free of inconveniences. I want to walk it out in my life on the days when my daily run has dead critters along the road, trash in the grass, honking horns in my ears & of course,

broken glass.

He goes before us

. . . always.

He will never leave us

. . . ever.

Please visit Paige. You will love, love, love her. And I made her put in punctuation for my blog because I am pesky. But on her blog, she just writes free without it and it totally works. So go see her in her element, because it is a beautiful element.

Filed Under faith, guest post 29 Comments

the daisy :: a guest post

July 9, 2010

photo credit

I want to be a daisy
unassuming, humble,
Willing to share my joyful face
wherever I am found.

In a prairie of grass
Unseen,
And alone,
I will tilt my face
toward the Son.

Bordered by peonies showy dresses
or the scandalous red of poppies
I’ll not be intimidated.

I won’t droop in the rain.

I will stand tall
And outlast them all.

I will pretend nothing.

I will smile

And be content to be me:
A bloom,
A delight to my Maker.

I want to be a daisy.
Washed pure white
With a heart of gold.

Kristina is a follower of Christ in pursuit of un-wavering joy. She home schools her three kids and is married to an entrepreneur. Together they ride the roller coaster of new adventures. She loves living under the open sky of rural Minnesota where every farmhouse window gives view to the glory of God. I am so glad to have Kristina here to share these few words with a big heart. To learn more about her, visit her at A Joy Walk.

Filed Under guest post 11 Comments

flower patch farmgirl :: a guest post

July 7, 2010

Shannan is an ordinary girl who finds beauty in the everyday. She is the wife of a man who thinks all of her jokes are funny, and who regularly indulges her late-night, thinking-out-loud ponderings. They have three funny babies who came to them across rivers and oceans. Together, they are embarking on a fresh adventure and they are confident that God will meet them there. To learn more about Shannan and her brood, visit her at Flower Patch Farmgirl.

I have always been drawn to stories of craggy farmers with their industrious wives at their sides. I’ve come to know them quite well. They are suntanned and serious, eyes fixed to the horizon, sniffing the air for rain. Always overalls, always apron. They are church-going, but with faith that runs deeper than the pond waters of their rebirth. Their foreheads are lined as much from heartache as from years. This is what I decided, as I plucked from the shelves, again and again, a novel with a white farmhouse on the cover.

I turned the pages and I sewed those seeds vicariously, longing for an apron and a tin of Gardener’s salve of my own.

I turned the years, and found myself living in a white farmhouse, with a slice of acreage just begging to be tilled.

Sod gave way to chocolate cake earth. Rows were staked. Hope was sewn.

We waited, brim-filled with expectation.

And then, I fell in love. With the beans and the Brandywines, of course; but also, with the weeds. Ever-persistent, they forged green. Ever-persistent, I plucked. With each pinch, my soul settled. Things made more sense. My mind exhaled. It was up to me to protect my seedlings. I was dutiful, even without the apron.

As that first summer became the second, then the third, my confidence grew. I dreamed of ranunculus – that dreamy combination of symmetrical and ruffled and cotton-candy colored, with the occasional willy-nilly stem. I balled up hope and tossed it into the sky as hard as I could. I whispered practice condolences to myself, “It’s ok if they don’t grow” and “Even if they don’t bloom, as least the leaves are pretty!”

And then.

The blooms arrived and the Sugar Snaps clapped and the spinach bowed and the honeybees delighted. My heart ached, in the best kind of way, to see the tight-fisted buds of lemon meringue and watermelon sherbet.

I set out to clear the intrusive green, always knocking, knocking still. I plucked and I dreamed. I considered what it took for them to become what they were meant to be: dirt diet, perpetual rain, sun scorching. But beauty can be hard-won, and hard-won beauty is lasting, and lasting beauty is really the only kind that matters.

My fingernails packed tight with grit, I considered the woman I have always wanted to be. It turns out it’s not the fictitious farmer’s wife with the sun bonnet and the sensible shoes. It turns out, the woman I want to be is the one who knows all the way into her heart and back out the other side that the only life worth living is the one that was decided from the Beginning. So, let the sun burn me a bit. Let the drops fall. I have learned first-hand what it means to grow. I know for a fact that there is One very near to me watching, protecting, cheering me on.

Any day now, the fuzzy claws will unfurl rows of ruffled deliciousness and we’ll host a ticker-tape parade fit for a garden queen.

I will look to the horizon and my heart will beat one less with the thought of what might lie in wait. And I will know it’s sure to be good.

“The Sugar Snaps clapped!” Y’all, I’m in love with this girl and her writing. I am blessed to have her here today, even if she does put my just-learning-to-grow-things self to shame. Her home is lovely, her photos are beautiful, and her writing is laced with humor and charm. Please welcome her and visit her at Flower Patch Farmgirl.

Filed Under guest post 21 Comments

the gift :: a guest post

July 1, 2010

The following is a guest post by Kelly Langner Sauer. To learn more about Kelly, see below.

There is a new side to me from which I’ve been living in recent weeks. It hails from some new-healed place in my heart I didn’t know existed. I want to call it confidence, and indeed, it is. But it is not simply “confidence.” It is love. A “being loved.” An “I know that who I am has a place in someone’s heart.” It says “who I am is beautiful” and “I don’t have to measure up.”

I told someone once that I wouldn’t believe I was beautiful until I heard it from a man who loved me. I figured at the time this one who would make me beautiful would be my husband. I was half-begging anyone to love me then.

As it turned out, it wasn’t my husband. I got married, and I still didn’t believe it. Because you see, husbands have to say we’re pretty. You know. Like they have to tell us we’re not fat. (Which of us really believes them when they tell us that?) My poor husband completely believed I was beautiful. And he told me so. And I completely didn’t believe him.

He told me he loved me too. And I acknowledged that, like I acknowledged that God loved me. Of course he loved me. He married me. Of course God loved me. He sent Jesus for me.

But I didn’t believe it. Not really. Not deep down.

.

A couple years ago, I received a comment from Amber Haines. Emily had roomed with her at Blissdom that year, and I guess they had been sharing links and friends.

“Emily said you have an amazing blog,” she said – or something to that effect.

All I read was “Emily said.”

She had noticed me. Me, puttering away and not thinking about too much and thinking about way too much at my blog. I straightened up a little. Realized that there was someone reading my words. Someone thought I mattered, enough to recommend me to someone else as cool as Amber.

.

Someone else thought I mattered too. Someone whose heart for me caused Him to take on my dust, walk around in it, die condemned in my place.

I didn’t know how He loved me. I was still waiting for the “I love you” to be real enough to make me believe it. Then, “while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”

While I was what I was, while I was where I was, before I was ever born to become the mess that I’d be, God noticed me. He’d created me in His image for His glory; for that alone, my dust was worth redemption.

He had noticed me.

.

I don’t think Emily meant to be Jesus to me. I don’t think she knew when she shared my blog around that I was one of “the least of these.” But her gift opened my eyes to God’s gift, the Jesus I now dare to speak without shame. He spoke His love over me, and He spoke deep into heart-wounds that said love could die.

I’ve got news. It can’t. It doesn’t.

Because He who is Love died already, once for all. “Who I am” was no longer condemned. “It is finished,” He said.

And He doesn’t have to say “I love you.”

…..

Kelly is a talented writer and photographer, wife and mama. She sees, not only with her eyes, but with heart and spirit. She writes about the invisible grit, the soul parts that we feel but can’t see. And she does so with grace, honesty, and whispered words of faith. I’ve not yet met her in real life, but I hope to one day soon. She is a gift to me. Visit her at A Restless Heart or at KellyLangnerSauer{dot}com. You’ll see what I mean.

Filed Under a friend, guest post 18 Comments

the step stool :: a guest post

June 30, 2010

Stacy is a wife and mama who loves the Word of God and connecting with women. She and her husband, Mike, have served with Campus Crusade for Christ for the past 17 years. They have four girls, ages 8 months to 10 years. In her own words: “Most days, I try to teach them a thing or two about having a Biblical worldview, math, and language. Everyday, they teach me how to grow in grace, patience, and dependence on the Lord!” You can learn more about Stacy by visiting her at 29 Lincoln Avenue.

It has happened again. We are late. I yell up the stairs to her as if my barking will make her move faster. Waiting on her I assemble all the necessary items. She takes her place in front of me and I begin once again to pull her hair up into its required ballet form. Brushing and pulling, I work quickly. I reach over with my foot and pull the stool to myself. I step onto it so that I can rise above her to finish the job.

And I stop in the middle of the most beautiful bun I have ever made and I wonder: When did this happen? How is it that she is tall enough that I’m the one needing the step? All at once I see her in the mirror. The room seems to be spinning but I am only seeing her. She is 3, 7, and 10 all at the same time. What happens when the step is not enough for me? What happens on that day when she is more than me?

“Mom!” She calls me back to the moment and hands me a hairpin. I smooth her hair, kiss her head, and step down. I look into her face and we see nearly eye to eye. She has her daddy’s baby blues and eyelashes worthy of a mascara commercial. She is beautiful.

“Grab your bag and let’s go.” I watch her exit, half dancing, half running, and I smile.

So many minutes I have spent with her that seemed to drag on (nursing, potty training, listening, making peanut butter sandwiches). But the years have flown by faster than I could have imagined. I am well aware that my time with her is half dancing, half running away.

She will be more than me. Isn’t that the point of parenthood? I want to send her into the great big world to live bigger than I have. I know that if I am going to continue to mold her that I will myself need to be daily shaped by the Lord. I can’t pour into her what I don’t have. This drives me hard to His side.

My prayer for her is that she will listen for God’s voice every day, love Him with her whole heart, and hold fast to Him all the days of her life (Deuteronomy 30:20). He has big plans for her. I just know it. I’m honored I get to see it unfold. The view from the step stool is pretty amazing if I do say so myself.

As a mom who doesn’t need a step stool yet, I am thankful for this reminder to remember to enjoy. Take a moment to say hello to Stacy either in the comments here or at her place, 29 Lincoln Avenue. I love her blog name and header photo! Makes me want to stay a while. . .

Filed Under a mother, guest post 22 Comments

are you called to write? :: a guest post

June 28, 2010

Mary DeMuth is an award winning author of both fiction and non-fiction. Her memoir, Thin Places, boasts of a God who brings redemption and beauty from even the most tragic circumstances. She is passionate about seeing people be set free from their past and turn their trials into triumphs. Find out more about Mary’s books and ministry on her blog, or follow her on twitter. And ps? I want to be her when I grow up. Amen.

As a writer, I’ve written my way through a long journey. I considered writing a pursuit and a dream twenty years ago, then spent ten years writing in obscurity, typing miles and miles of unpublished words. Through that decade, I did what Malcolm Gladwell talks about in his book Outliers. Genius comes mostly from persistent hard work—namely 10,000 hours of dedication. My decade was my 10,000 hours.

But even as I made fake deadlines and made myself meet them, even as my children grew from babyhood to toddling busybodies to elementary scholars, I felt that deep wooing inside. A calling to write. It’s something I knew way down deep. I was made to write words.

The sheer joy of writing sustained me ten years. And the calling kept me hungry and tenacious. After I wrote my first novel (still unpublished) in 2003, I’d had several small-scale successes. I’d joined a critique group and fetched valuable feedback. I met who would become a dear friend and mentor. I got published in several magazines, and I landed a small newspaper column. When the novel garnered me an agent, I felt that flutter of joy. Someone important valued my words!

That joy continues, but now it’s tempered by reality. I’m having to circle around again to calling, remembering that Jesus has gifted me to write, that my words somehow (through His grace) touch folks. Amid the worry of real deadlines, fickle sales numbers, marketing pressures, and a constant low-grade stress about money, His calling seems like a whisper. Everything else shouts.

Wherever you are on your writing journey, you must settle this issue. Have you been called to write? How do you know? Here are 10 unscientific questions you can ask yourself as you determine calling:

Do you wake up at night and jot things down? No matter where you are, if you hear an interesting turn of phrase, do you determine to remember it?
Have you risked enough to send a query letter? Have you been rejected and learned to develop a thick skin? Have you had anything published? (Many “writers” say they’re writers but never risk having their words out there.)
Have other people told you (not your family or your best friend) that you have unique talent to write?
Have you received positive feedback about something you’ve written? Have your words changed the course of someone’s life, or helped another person see things differently?
Do you love to hang around other writers? Do those writers give positive feedback on your writing journey and encourage you to continue?
Do you absorb and devour books, particularly in the genre you’re interested in?
Are you enraptured by critique? Have you learned to accept constructive criticism? Does the craft of writing excite you? Do you write at least 500 words a day?
Would people describe you as disciplined and tenacious?
Can you trace a line through your life showing your tendency to write your heart on the page through the years? Journaling? Story writing? Poetry? Songwriting?
Has God specifically spoken to you about His desire to see you write?

How did you do? Again, remember this is my list, a reflection of my own journey. It may not resonate with you. But what should resonate is this: calling.

The calling to write helps you endure the ups and down of the publishing journey. It carries you through the dark places of unwritten words. It woos you back to the page when you’ve strayed. It kicks you in the behind when you’re tired of revising again. And again. And again. It encourages you when you’re tired of the publishing industry and its seeming insatiable demands. It steadies you when you feel like quitting. It reminds you why you write.

So settle this now. And if you’re discouraged today in your journey, revisit calling. Remember the sovereign God who calls you. He is able to accomplish amazing things through surrendered pens. Rest. Wait. Hear from Him. Settle your calling. And then write like the wind.

Thanks, Mary. I truly love this post. For a long time I was able to answer ‘yes’ to a lot of these questions, but I didn’t do anything about it. To be called to write, you have to actually write. I ignored that part for a while. Thank you, Mary, for settling your calling and encouraging us to do the same. Are you serious about taking the next step in your writing journey? Consider hiring Mary or another writing mentor at The Writing Spa.

Filed Under a writer, guest post 51 Comments

summer camp :: a guest post

June 23, 2010

Dayle Allen Shockley is an award-winning writer in Houston, and the author of three books. She has contributed to many other works, including multiple Chicken Soup titles. To learn more about Dayle, visit her website or her blog, A Little of This and That. This story is adapted from her book, Silver Linings.

My daughter turned nine in what I call the summer of my bleeding heart. It all started when her cousin, Leslie, mentioned the two of them going to summer camp. Anna Marie was ecstatic. I, on the other hand, terrified.

I asked my husband what he thought.

“Absolutely not!” he fairly thundered. “She’s too young.”

But parents aren’t always as firm as their voices. After much pondering, amid pleas from the girls, we capitulated.

As the day of departure approached, I couldn’t stop thinking about my child spending a week without me. Would she remember to bathe? Who would come her hair? What if she cried for me at night?

Despite such tormenting questions, several weeks later found me and my sister driving our daughters to the place of surrender. Upon arrival, maternal terror washed over me like a tidal wave as I observed a sea of youngsters swarming in every direction, looking as I feared my child would, as soon as I was out of sight. Hair disheveled; clothes rumpled; hard candy hanging out of their mouths. Lost and without hope. It was all I could do to keep driving, but the campers in the backseat had ants in their pants.

By mid-afternoon, we stood inside a dormitory, staring at rows of metal bunk beds and stark concrete floors. I couldn’t imagine leaving my child—my baby—here for one minute, let alone for a week. I considered grabbing her and running, but it was too late. She and Leslie now stood beaming beside the bunk they had chosen as “theirs.” Could we please unload the luggage?

Exchanging horrified glances, Gayle and I stumbled outside and returned with suitcases. As I spread sheets across a puny mattress, I decided to offer my umpteenth lecture concerning housekeeping and oral hygiene.

While I rattled off a list of ingenious tips, Anna Marie’s eyes remained on my face, but she appeared to be in a trance. “Are you listening, sweetie?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Mama, I know you’re worried about me and everything, but—are you finished?”

I wasn’t, but just then a dorm monitor announced that teams were being formed for a volleyball game—commencing in thirty minutes. Anyone interested, please form a line.

Like calves out of stalls, the girls bolted forward and were assigned to a team. It appeared to be our cue to leave.

“OK, girls,” my sister said, as faint as I felt. “I guess this is goodbye for us.”

That’s when my child’s face wilted. “But I’m fixing to play volleyball, Mommy,” she said. “Can’t you stay and watch me?”

Upon hearing her call me “Mommy,” I was renewed. Maybe this was a sign she still needed me. Of course, we’d stay.

The volleyball game ended quickly. My little camper was among the losers, but didn’t seem to notice. She dashed over to where I stood, her face flushed.

“Mommy’s got to go, sweetheart. We’ve got a long drive home.” I hoped for a bear hug, but she only nodded and smiled. Kissing the top of her head, I said, “Bye, angel. I love you.”

Watching the girls sprint toward the line forming in front of the cafeteria, Gayle and I let out a collective sigh. My heart hurt.

As we drove away, I circled the grounds, unable to resist a final look. When I spotted them, they were side-by-side, discussing whatever nine-year-olds discuss on such occasions, their faces anxious and eager. It was almost unbearable to look at them standing there, because I knew they would never be that small again, because of the way they were growing up, right in front of my eyes.

I gave a long blast on the horn. When they finally saw me, I waved frantically out the window. Timidly, Anna Marie waved back. And, ironically, I was filled with an intense pride that she was able to stand there—without me.

The thought of leaving my babies at camp is terrifying. But I also know when those letting go times come, knowing they are ready makes it easier. Dayle, thanks for this beautiful perspective. It is certainly encouraging to those of us coming on the road behind you. This post nicely rounds out some of my thoughts this week on mothering and living in the moments this day has to offer. If you have a moment, please visit Dayle’s place and say hello at A Little of This and That.

Filed Under a mother, guest post 19 Comments