There’s more to prayer than any lecture or book reveals.
Even scripture itself is varied in the use, expression, and purpose of prayer though the Christ himself seemed to keep it simple: pray like ‘this’ (The Lord’s Prayer), don’t put on show, be confident that the Living God does hear and will answer and will even intercede on our behalf (um, whoa).

And then there’s this:
“Pray always”

I’ve heard too many interpretations, explanations, and conversations on this statement. At the end of the day it remains:
1) Impossible
2) The way to pray.

When I look at my life I see very few things which happen always and which are impossible to stop of my own accord. The most obvious, to me, is the act of respiration. Breathe in. Breathe out. Heart pumping. Blood moving. Air exchanging deep within the unseen closets of my body.

Unstoppable.
Essential.
Life-giving.

The other night, my eldest son was struggling. When this son struggles, the earth shakes and the only rock I can rely is the Christ as everything else falls away. As the hour passed and some girlfriends stopped by and the struggle continued, I continued to see the need within to avoid pity, to be still, and to stay rooted so he had something to fall on, when he finally fell.
At one point, it was time to step back into his room. A close friend requested if she might pray with me. I stopped and fumbled with my words. The gesture was genuine. And praying together is good.

But the prayer Jerah needed at that moment was the breathe-in-breathe-out Presence of Christ,
in me, for him, praying always.

He did not need to hear someone talking to God about him.
I did not need to hear words which made me feel better.
I did not even need the cozy sense of God-and-tears that comes from a prayer well-said.

I needed God.
And my son needed God.
And we always need God.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

Pray always.

The main character, Ms. Frizzle, has a motto:
“Take chances! Make mistakes! And geeeettttt MESSY!!!!”

Confession:
I don’t like getting messy.

Chances are a thrill and mistakes sometimes hold a silver lining and a spin, but getting messy is…messy. It’s not pretty. It’s not nice. It attracts the wrong kind of attention. It takes work.

Confession #2:
I am messy.

I leave a fat trail of choices and chances and spills and almosts and was-going-to’s and oops wherever I wander.

To top it off, in the real world of “taking chances and making mistakes and…” with others…
I’m a terrible housekeeper.
I’m a poor parent.
I’m a learning-hoping-someday spouse.

Any messier than that and I’ve got sheer chaos!

However {yes, there is always a ‘however’ in this World Without End}

The other day I took the baby-baby outside.

Last season, he was on home oxygen and still too young to move about. This season he scoots.
He saw dirt. And pots. And puddles. And…the opportunity to take chances, make mistakes, and
to get messy.
And he dove in.
He touched and tasted and felt and wondered and got stuck and needed help and figured it out and learned.

Cleaning it up took effort.
Some resources were lost in the mix.
But he engaged his world and was thrilled with each touch and taste and memory. As he matures, testing and mistakes will lead to conclusions and someday, perhaps, contribution.

I am a mess.
And I need to get messy.

And as I get messy I discover God.
And as I discover God…
I find the Beautiful.

My current, dedicated, points of focus include:
‘The obvious’ {God, marriage, three boys ages four and under}, renovating a trashed house, moving, running a small business in which I hand-make the products that I sell, studying towards midwifery {currently preparing for my Anatomy final—eeks!}, holding the fort and pieces while J’ studies as a Paramedic while serving as an EMT and fulfilling his practicum requirements out on a First Nations reserve, and then…more of the usual {garden, meal prep, early homeschooling, freelance writing, doula, etc.}.

So, sure, the days are full.

I often receive comments and conversations about balance and self-preservation. I’m often reminded to keep things in balance and to remember “everything in moderation”. I’ve appreciated these reflections and have often paused to think, “Is my life balanced? Is this too much?”

But then one day as I was hauling a screaming toddler out of the sanctuary, a dear soul gently said, “Friend, sometimes it’s not so much balance as it is rhythm”.

Rhythm.

And the other night, as J served on the reserve and I painted that house while listening to a lecture on “the urinary system” and danced for the baby on my back and the cocoa butter melted for that new product and I tossed the boys a bag of carrots and quickly did a set of jumping jacks because they asked if we could “take a break for jummin’ jats’” before I rolled the next color, I realized:

I am an unbalanced person.

And I love the rhythm.

Rhythm invites movement.
It gives freedom for expression.
It can be entirely original.
Or as simple as a solo…steady…beat.
It incorporates levels; inviting new beginnings while founding notes continue and others fade away.
It spins and spikes and flows…within order.

And it’s all at once and changing and steady and creating memory within our feet and heart.

I like the rhythm of my life, as long as I’m finding my feet and keeping with the tempo. Fast or slow, there’s no “god or bad” about it, as long as I’m  still finding my heartbeat and inner beat with that True Source; that One who could sing creation into being and who sets my feet to dancing; that one who wasn’t ‘balanced’ incarnate but fully this and fully that and bringing the two into Story.

Here’s to finding The Rhythm….

–

I’ve been thinking lately…

If I had just met this man, how would I conduct myself?
And…or….

If we had one last year…or month…or week together…
how would we choose to spend it?
Would we chatter and mumble on this
and that?
Would our eyes see this while our minds blurred and our ears wandered and our mouths pretended?
Would we even say that? Think it? Even let our hearts use that pumping pump pump thump…to feel it?
If our days were, indeed, numbered,
would I care about those bills? That decision? That indecision that led to that path that created a now?
And what would matter? And…unmatter?

And why would any of it make a difference if I knew, or finally believed, that these days, our days, were numbered?

I’ve been asking myself:
When people are sitting in divorce court and spouting deepest hurt out of their mouths while their hearts ache…and ache…might they reflect,
“If I had just been quiet…that time?
If I had made issues…of issues?
If I had put value…on that which held value?”

Or not even in court.
Just….
in the evening.
in the silence.
in the car.
in the night.
and the Night.

I’ve been thinking lately of my longing for romance:
For an opportunity to wear a dress, or even heels.
For an excuse to smell lovely at the nape of my neck. For a reason to be fancy and…paid for.

I’ve been thinking….

And I’ve been witnessed the depth of my desires.
The yearning.
The hurt.
The fickle selfishness.
and my valleys and shadows and longings and darkness and questions and rights and wrongs.

And my heart is drawn to my Lover. To The Christ. To the One who promises to be Husband and Hen and Forever.

I am reminded that all that I NEED is found, and is TO be found, in Him.
In His arms.
In His bosom.
In His voice.
In His promises.

{Find it.
Seek after it.
Knock and ask and EAT it. }

He rescued me.
He sees that, while I was a whore in the gutter,
I am beautiful.
I am FOUND.
I am whole and embraced and of value.

And now,
now,
I am called to love.
and to Love.

Without expectation.
or demand.
or resentment.
or if/thens and maybes….

But to LOVE! To love to love to Love.
because He first loved me.
And He is all exepectation and not.
And all explanation…and not,
and…ALL.

And I am called to this with Joy. With sweet…sweet…expectation.
Not that sense of waiting, and then stifling, and then resenting, and then… defiling.
But with the expectation that says this:

I have received Love, and so Love shall flow from me.
Love is Good, so Goodness shall flow from me.
Goodness creates Beauty, so beauty shall flow from me,

And so I receive….

And so I expect….

And so I flow…and overflow…and wait…and rejoice….

And ask.
So that when I am asked of, I will overflow. 
And when there is no asking, I will overflow.
And when I ask of myself, I will already by full.

Because He is Good to me.

See, we bought a house. And it’s not pretty. It’s stark and stained and sad. It’s worn and weary. It has solid bones, but any accessories were draped in 1982 and abused thoroughly until it was left; empty and waiting.

And I love this house. To be honest, I loved it the moment we parked in front of it. It just…fit—mess and all. For me, a wanderer with a decade of changing paths, stilted dreams, dream-home-turned-empty and mobile-home-turned—home, I was ready for a solid structure with a foundation akin to our intentions in this community.

That first visit, when we walked through with silent words speaking hopes between our eyes, I could see points of beauty. I could see the boys playing in that {someday soon} cozy spot beneath the stairs. I could see a tree painted on that wall where the light played; highlighting story and art. I could see bread rising on that counter, and wine racked on that wall, and a Christmas tree in that corner.

What I didn’t see with my heart’s gaze, that first walk-through, was new flooring. I didn’t see a matching set of stainless steel appliances. I somehow neglected to notice a new maple banister to replace the {very old, very damaged, very ‘82} banister edging the {very worn, very stained} carpet on the stairs. {Though please, it’s not that I don’t want those lovely things! New flooring would be gorgeous and an updated stove would be grand! But…first we need to fix the roof and the toilet and keep enough money for some groceries to fill those faded cabinets}

When we lay in the night, that first night after that first walk-through, after we confirmed with voices what our eyes were telling each other and after we signed that offer committing everything we owned, I saw color on the walls. I saw growing boys jumping down the stairs as they swung around that increasingly aged banister. I saw women gathered in a sparse livingroom that was brimming with safety and Light and warmth. I saw jars of real food filling those dated cabinets and filling tables beyond my own.

I saw a home.

And it was beautiful.

Our new and soon and for-the-next-decade-or-three home is not going to be that home where people comment on the sense of style.  It will never be featured on a magazine. Some might even consider it…lacking.

But it will be safe. It will be clean. It will be warm.
It will be a place where love multiplies and where joy abounds.
Her corners will be places of sanctuary. Her closets without secrets. Her shelves laden to share.
Her walls will tell stories and legends.
And her doors will beckon: sister and stranger, griever and guest, the wanderers and the Wonder. 

Once upon a time {well…this month} we purchased a house. Now, purchasing real estate isn’t entirely new to us. We have own a lovely mobile home on a fantastic yard for several years. But, owning our own “it’s a house-house!” home, with stairs, and a basement, and a room to let the wildlings roam, that’s new.

Now this home, well no, this house, it’s a unique piece. From what we’ve heard from friends and passersbys and, um, several random and chatty anonymous folks throughout this town, this is quite the house. From what these tellers have told, this house has been the sight of all expressions of abuse, all forms of damage, all levels of fear and Evil. It has witnessed the heartache of sons, the enticement of Dragons, and lust of substances.

All accounts together: we have purchased a pit of despair.

Recently I received my first FaceBook message admonishing me to “pray through the house”. One message led to another, and then conversations with strangers in the street, and people in my yard, and onlookers in the store and….

“Wow!” thought I. That’s…bold.

I mean, one the one hand it was sweet that people were looking out for us. Yet, there was also something somewhat discomforting about the outpouring of information and the assumption of our approach to spiritual engagement. Was my new house that cloaked in darkness? Were the Titled Believers of the town that much more able to expel the spirits with their prayers and oils? Was the indwelling Present of Light within us so weak as to abandon me upon crossing the threshold?

Hmm.

I found my heart deeply troubled.

This was to be our new home. Of course I wanted it to be a place of Light and Life. I did not want to subject my children to Shadows or to expose myself to an unseen danger. At the same time, I was unsettled at the idea of drama and ceremony. In the home of my youth, I had been partaker to such gatherings: the prayers of the elders, the oil anointed onto the door frames, the hands upon my head, the collection and destruction of artifacts. Years later, in my own journey and ministry, I spent a day ascending a waterfall deep in the jungle of the unreached. We reached their High Place and called on our god and railed against their witches and trekked back down to our huts; muddied, divisive, and without a sign.

I prayed. I asked for insight. I discussed.

One Sister reminded that, “When you turn on the light in a dark room, that light overcomes darkness, not the other way around…”. I meditated on the fact of an indwelling Savior who is fully and always present and who dispels darkness simply by existence. I considered the promises that my God turns my darkness into Light, that He is the Light that shines into the darkness, that no darkness can overcome It, that He is the one who makes rough places smooth, who draws us into the Light, who is Life!

So, one week ago, we were given access to the house {it’s a special ‘early access before possession’}.We drove over there to take a good long look at the work ahead, to let the boys test the floors and stairs with a decent game of chase, and to invite the Light.

We didn’t beg of the heavens with raised voices. We kept to one shared language. We didn’t implore anyone else to join us.

We brought a round of bread. A bottle of wine. The Sunday cup. Scripture. The Green Book.

We sat on the rough floor with curious boys.

We read:
“Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent, for the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and forgive us; that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways, to the glory of your Name. Amen.” {Book of Prayer}

We read from Isaiah 60:
“Arise, shine; for your light has come,
And the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
“For behold, darkness will cover the earth
And deep darkness the peoples;
But the Lord will rise upon you
And His glory will appear upon you.
³ “Nations will come to your light,
And kings to the brightness of your rising.

⁴ “Lift up your eyes round about and see;
They all gather together, they come to you.
Your sons will come from afar,
And your daughters will be carried in the arms.
⁵ “Then you will see and be radiant,
And your heart will ^[thrill and rejoice;

…Violence will not be heard again in your land,
Nor devastation or destruction within your borders;
But you will call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.
¹⁹ “No longer will you have the sun for light by day,
Nor for brightness will the moon give you light;
But you will have the Lord for an everlasting light,
And your God for your glory….”

We confessed, read, prayed. We broke the bread and drank the wine. Then I asked the boys to be still and to listen to the reason for our gathering.
I explained to them  that before we began work or moving or planning, we wanted to ensure our hearts were right before our God and that we had, together, given this home to Him. We told them that this home was to be a place of safety; safety for us as a family, and safety for all who might come through her doors; guest or griever, saint or sinner. We told them that this house would be a place of generosity; open doors, bountiful shelves, extra beds. We reminded them this dwelling would be a place of Light and Joy.

They giggled and squirmed and snacked on extra bread and snagged the empty goblet. They asked to play tag and tumbled off down the hall towards rooms where walls had witnessed darkness but where Light was now welcome.

Husband and I remained sitting on the floor, considering the scope of the project ahead and feeling entirely at home, welcomed in our sanctuary, at ease in the rhythm of dust and worship.

As I was unloading the van, I was saddened to find our Cup squashed. But then, I looked closer…. Because Love transforms. We are His workmanship, He is our home.

You are welcome in this place….

Somehow, within it all, we are expected to emerge beautifully unscathed: clutching babes to the breast with a roast in the apron, bible in hand, cherry lips puckered, and a dozen classically educated prodigies skipping in a queue in our manicured footprints. Talk about a calling!

Lately, I have found pleasure in reading fiction connected to birth and natural care. The ‘Red Tent’, the ‘Birth House’ , and various reflections and collections of local and international herbalists, Birth Mothers, and other elders in this sphere of care.
Something common to the each account, whether focused on birth or herbs or natural medicine, is that each practitioner began their journey with a need to know. They were not masters, not even close. They began as apprentices.  Instead of beginning their first day on the field alone and ready to take on all tasks with perfection, they submitted themselves to masters in their field and committed to learning their trade.

They practiced. They listened and watched and gained knowledge to inform their experience. They recognized that Good things take time, and time moves in seasons.

Unfortunately, as mamas, we seem to have embraced a different approach.

We prefer to be recognized for our gold stars and valiant efforts. We are the masters. We were born masters in that same instance that the wet and bloody babe was born from our body. We pin it and post it and parade it in the sanctuary. “Look! Look at my child! {his cooperation or speech or agility obedience or memorization or crafts or…. } Just…look at that!” Meaning: Look! Look at me! I’m a master! I’m a master mommy! I did it! I’m doing it! YES!” Or, if not directly through our children, it’s the fridge door of other life moments in the home: the shiny floor, the ultimate-Lego-organization, the globally-inspired meal.

Essentially? Talents turned  tapemeasure to ensure that we’re one step ahead of ‘her’ and ‘successful’ as a young mama. Then, a quiet smile, a declining comment, and one more instagram shot to go with that humbly thankful status update.

Phew! What’s an apprentice-mama to do in the company of such accomplishment!? I thought we were just starting out! Did some gals get mama-training in early? Somehow I thought that grandest of the mamas were to be…oh…the GRANDmas…. But I guess I was wrong. Apparently the cycle of seasons moves from young girl to woman to GrandMama without the need for job shadowing, without the need for apprenticeship. Looks like it’s a free ticket gals and we don’t even have to pass the test!

What happened to the world wherein young moms struggled, confessed, and received the guiding hands of the elder women? When did it change from the “older women urging the younger women…” to the younger women attempting to tutor each other?

Young mamas, we are not masters. We are not grand. We are not yet wise.

We have no need of pretending.
{And no, I’m not writing as advocate of sloth, sinful excuse, or a lesser expression of this task and opportunity.}
But because we are in season, in motion, and in a terrifyingly beautiful period of schooling.

As we submit to Wisdom and purge our boastful points of value, we will discover the fruit of righteous children and eventually { spiritually if not physically} that title of ‘Grand’ so that we might serve as hands and heart to other young apprentices, falling upward.

Until then, let us “take chances, make mistakes, and get messy!” (oh Miss. Frizzle… ) as we learn the liturgy of being a mama.

Lately, I have felt divided.
Pulled apart. Set against myself. Confused.

I have tried to silence my desires. I have searched my heart and looked at all the reasons why my steps are dangerous. I have told myself that the world is just fine: without me exploring this path, without me testing if it could indeed be permissible, without me pushing the line.

But it’s difficult to hold back.
This closet, hung with such an evangelical collection of labels including “Stay at Home”, “Domestically Gifted, and “Fulfilled Helpmeet” is getting cramped.

Obviously, I’m being tempted. These desires couldn’t come from The Creator. Following this path would obviously be contrary to my deepest purpose as a female…or at least contrary to that of an acceptable kinda-evangelical mother and wife.

At the end of the day, with three gorgeous babes and a brilliant husband, what more could I want? What more could the world need? What more could anyone need…outside my four walls…in my province…in my community…in the walls of others…? Oh no, here I go again! Fantasizing….

I know I need to blame it on the devil and I’ll be fine. Name it, claim it, and away I go. But damn if my temptation doesn’t seem to have a righteous hint of light to it.

I ask myself, “If Woman was made solely for the Mister, children, table, and floors, then what of those who do not share those? Are they unfulfilled?”
I ponder, “If I were to step out from the covering of my roof, and participate in the stories of others, would that mean I had less to offer my own children…or more?
I consider, “If Men were made solely to be breadwinners or providers, why do I lift up She who “considered a field and bought it?” And why do I glow when I see roots and weaves connecting those three with him?
I reflect, “Am I fearful of them missing out on me…or is it me fearful of missing out on ‘me in the moments’”
I conclude, “I am called to be for them: to be thoroughly, entirely, absolutely present as their advocate, nurturer, defender, and participant. While I cherish and adore {to the point of tears} holding that privilege 24/7 with them, under the same roof, I also see the value of sharing that privilege, letting him kiss that knee or cheer that game, acknowledging those passions and paths that I have tried to silence.

And so…
I open the closet and begin to see a Whole Home. It is not a home divided or lacking or built on absence or fear. It is a home built on courage. It is a home built on risks held in Confidence. It is a home built with hearts looking out. It is a home protecting those wee-hearts within while allowing them to see that a box unopened is a cage.

It is a home and it is a Life which beckons and says,
“Taste and see! Step out onto the water! Breathe! Today has only begun!

It’s Passover. Seder night. Maundy Thursday.
All kinds of terms and titles and descriptions, but really, one reason:

The Lamb.

As I sweep and cook and wipe and prepare, my sons are at my side. The eldest; grabbing first and asking later; begging a taste, a touch, an answer. The middle one; not caring what task is actually at hand but wanting to help, to see, to be included. The youngest; on my back, always kicking, always brimming over with lashes and quiet delight. My sons my sons…. Themselves, young rams wrestling in thickets.

As I rub the bitter herbs into the meat, my heart is suddenly with those young mothers of long ago. With bloodied hands and watchful children, I weep. I can’t help it. I look to my eldest and ask myself, “Do I trust this God? Do I trust Him to be faithful to Himself? To be that One who can both smite and yet pass over?”

I think of those mothers and taste their salty, bloodied fear. What sickening panic must have filled their chests. “The LORD! He is coming…tonight! Will He see the blood? Is the blood enough? A lamb’s blood?! On our door? Will my son be saved? What yet waits in these dark hours?”

I see them tending their babes; at their side, on their backs, in the homes they have known. “Quickly, the bread. Where is the lamb? Husband, did you choose the right lamb? Did you listen?! Did you obey?! Do you believe what is at stake here?! Death is at our doorway!  Children, come near. Away from the shadows. Away from the door! The Lord our God, He will pass over us this night. Let us wait….”

Preparing. Reading and praying and whispering. Cloaks gathered. Sandals on. Waiting.

Silence. Darkness.

The heavy smell of blood.
Blood on the doorways. Blood on the hands. Blood in the cradles of others.

And He did come. And He passed over.
For He was present with them.
As chosen Lamb, slaughtered. As blood, clotting thick on the beams. As first-born son, waiting.

–

And so we share the story and tell our sons. We include the bloody details: the fear, the tragic loss of sons unknown, the commands, the actions…

And the promise.
The fact that, though hours of darkness were heavy before them, Redemption was on the horizon.

The ‘uniquely overflowing’ season lends all sorts of material towards words and comments and marks upon the wall. The uniquely…quiet…season, shrouds her thoughts in shadows teasing of dusk and dawn and question. “Am I doing it? Is this Lent? Is Easter here already? Why don’t I…feel it?” It’s neither overflowing nor full of exclamation as it is yet in the desert; skipping the crowd of Jerusalem and waiting in that silent tomb with the others who were yet dead those days before.

The ‘uniquely quiet’ season lends itself towards question, then defense, then…silence. It is in the silence that we finally stop and feel the cold dread of death; the pallored certainty of utter end; the rattle of bruised reeds and smoking wicks…waiting…silent.

Lent.  Born in the shifting sands of the desert; refusing schedules and expectation as it mocks the fasting seeker with mirages of gravel turned decadent and danger turned glorious.

But in the silence….
in that whispering chill of night…
we hush our grumbling and eat the quiet,
craving the tearing of bread,
and the dripping of blood.

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength…”
Isaiah 30:15