Goodbye, Blogland. Thank You for Everything.

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A sacrifice to be real must cost, must hurt, must empty ourselves.

(mother theresa)

Cost.  Hurt.  Emptying.  Yes, but some things are worth sacrificing in order to better cherish that which will last forever.

Numerous studies have been done and books written showing that time is our most precious possession, D. Ross Campbell writes.  Focused attention does require time, and sometimes a lot of it.  It may mean giving up something parents would rather do.  Loving parents will detect when a child desperately needs focused attention, even if at a time when the parents feel least like giving it.

To articulate the complex simply, it's just time.  Period.  It's time for me to gaze into faces instead of a computer screen.  It's time to feel fingers in mine instead of a keyboard.  It's time to ponder what's going on inside my children's heads rather than what's going on in the minds of my readers.

I took a little break last spring in hopes that a three week social media fast would do the trick.  But the truth is, you can't change deep priorities and engrained habits in a few weeks.

I'm not a multi-tasker.  In fact, I'm quite focused.  My mind doesn't flitter to and fro.  I really wish it did.  You see, I'm intense with tasks, and engaging in community requires discipline sometimes.  Yeah, even the community within the four walls of my home.

While they're more independent than ever, my children hold questions and contemplations deep within their hearts.  They feel.  They think.  They react.  They initiate.  They celebrate.  They grieve.  And their dad and I have been specifically chosen by the Redeemer to guide them through it all.

After a busier-than-expected summer, I'm eliminating much in my life in order to better engage with those I love the most.  And sadly, this repurposed blog is part of the simplifying process.  Oh, how I wish it wasn't true.  Oh, how I wish I was like many of you who can multi-task beautifully.

I'm deeply grateful.  Please hear my sincerity.  As many of you know, this blog that was initially created to encourage others has ended up healing me during some originally unforeseen transitions in our lives.  God's grace is so mysterious sometimes.

I've loved meeting many of you through cyberspace.  I've loved connecting with those of you who live near me in "real life".  I'm thankful for your vulnerability, your authenticity, your encouragement over and over again.

But two little ones aren't so little anymore.  And their thoughts aren't so little anymore, either.  And while their mom feels inadequate most of the time, her Redeemer has a way of speaking through her brokenness when she's ready and available. 

Yeah, it's just time.  Thank you for walking with me these past two years.  We may meet again someday, but for now, I must choose a different road.  I can't wait to hear where your own paths take you.

When You're Pretty Sure You're Just Beyond His Reach

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(Part IV in Our Rescuer's Female Ancestry)

Oh, her wandering mind -- a pathway to her aching heart.  In the morning while cleaning.  In the afternoon while shopping.  At dusk while anticipating another job.  In the night when her work seemed to last forever.

There had to be something more.  Her heart had melted, and her ache was leading her to something real.  To Someone real.

Rahab.  The prostitute from Jericho.  Rahab.  God's choice to help His people redeem what was once theirs before slavery.  Rahab.  "That woman" with an unprotected heart was about to play the role of protector.

Who would have imagined it?!   Oh, that's right -- our counter-cultural God.  He woos me out of judgements and man-made religion.

She hears a knock on the door and welcomes two spies from Shittim.

Shittim - the very town where God's people began to whore with pagans generations before finding themselves enslaved in Egypt.  (Numbers 25:1-3)  Yes, Moses really did write those words.  The Rescue is all the more beautiful when we can get honest about our messiness.

How absolutely mysterious that Joshua chose two men from Shittim -- the memory of Israel's physical and spiritual harlotry -- to help recapture their Promised Land.  To recapture their hope.  To recapture their hearts.  Again.

She had the perfect job for this plan to unfold.  Two men entering her home looked rather commonplace in her doorway.  But Rahab's future -- her redemption -- was anything but ordinary.

I know that the Lord has given you the land and that the fear of you has fallen upon us, she speaks with confidence, and that all the inhabitants of the land melt away before you.  For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea before you when you came out of Egypt... 

And as soon as we heard it, our hearts melted... for the Lord your God, He is God

in the heavens above and on the earth beneath. Joshua 2:8-11

Aching for truth that Rahab was.  Fashioned for something greater than man's empty lust, her purpose found her.  Practically stumbled upon her doorstep.  

And the spies knew it, too.  They believed her, the woman with the stained reputation.  The future of the nation of Israel depended on them trusting her to help the plan unfold.  

Can you see the woman in bondage to shame?!  Can you see the spies -- the former slaves -- held captive by consequences of their ancestor's mistakes?!  Can you see the Maker choosing those with heaps of baggage?

The story has a pretty radical ending.  The scarlet cord from which she lowered the spies from her window served as her protection upon their return with an army.  The rescue tool she provided really saved her.  She married an Israeli and bore a son named Boaz... a son who years later would be known for his sacrifice and deep commitment and care for one of society's outcasts.

It doesn't get much better than that.

Do you have 3 1/2 minutes right now to watch the most impacting video I've ever seen?  Do you have a tiny bit of privacy?  I dare you to experience this song and believe it. 

I'm pretty sure Rahab would have downloaded it to her iTunes.

(To read the full redemption, see Joshua chapters 2-6.)

When You Want To Hide Your Family History

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(Part III in Our Rescuer's Female Ancestry)

As I read through His Words -- unravel the ancient stories -- I'm uncomfortable.  More and more. 

I mean, there's relief knowing my spiritual ancestors avoided the perfection game... ignored the game I unsuccessfully played for years.  But sometimes, when I've had enough of this modern drama,  I long for the dream that things might not have always been this way.

But they have. 

From the first moment woman believed her Maker didn't fully love her, we've danced with brokenness.  We avoid it.  We run after it.  We ignore it.  We foster it.  At least I do.  Sometimes.

I wish I could find an anchor in the ancient people's strength.  Instead, I find lessons by looking into their raggled and wrinkled stories.  Lessons are hard to learn when your magnifying glass is really a mirror.

I struggle to reconcile my Maker's lineage is born from Jacob.  Jacob, the Deceiver.  Jacob, the favorite son of his mother.  Jacob, the man who married Leah only to marry her younger sister a week later.

Ponder her pain.  Ponder watching your younger sister love a man while waiting seven years for their wedding.

Ponder your father telling you to sneak behind the bridal veil.  Oh, the anger she must have had toward him. 

Ponder fully knowing a man who didn't love you in the least.   Imagine the embarrassment and shame she knew when alone with her husband.

Ponder welcoming your younger sister into the marriage.  I'm sure she tasted resentment.  Probably choked on it every day.

This is Leah's story.  This is the awful truth.  God didn't edit it out of His Word -- out of His family tree.  I really wish He had.

No, instead, the Author keeps the brokenness right there to reveal a coming Restorer.  He knew we'd need to be reminded of that.  Knew our pain would drive us deeper into searching for Someone.  As my spiritual ancestors seem less and less like heroes, less like role models, the Love Story becomes about Him again.

At whom are you angry?

Over what do you feel shame?

Who do you resent?

The story we are to live and write doesn't truly begin until we face what we have lost and then turn to see the horizon of uncertainty ahead, Dan Allendar writes.  Our story will gain momentum and depth only to the degree that we honestly embrace both loss and fear.  Whether it be our own flaw or the sin of others, God uses the raw material of sin to create the edifice of his redeemed glory.  This point cannot be overemphasized: your plight is also your redemption.

So I reach out my fragments to Him as an offering.  It almost feels like a dare.  "Take this, God, and restore this.  Redeem this."  But it's what I'm wooed to do.  It's what's been modeled for me -- dwell amidst the mess and brokenness and then look to the One who can heal it all.

It's such a painful way to worship.  But then, again, the healing might be all the more beautiful.

(To study the full mess, read Genesis 29-30:24)

Where the Struggle Points You

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(Part II in Our Rescuer's Female Ancestry)

I remember the struggle during my first pregnancy.  September 11, 2001.  The due date of my son was just three months away.

What are we thinking bringing a child into this world?  Into this brokenness? I pondered, feeling inadequate.  And foolish.  And fearful.

But he came, and his sister followed two years later.  And brokenness still rages outside our home.  Well, yes, it even rages inside our own walls sometimes.  But redemption is big.  And my babies are a part of it.  Already.

Thousands of years ago, my ancient spiritual ancestor carried twin boys.  Rebekah was her name, and she was no fool.  She had heard stories of pregnancies.  But she knew -- she knew -- something bigger was going on within her womb.

She didn't run to the midwife.  Or to her friends who'd tell her what she wanted to hear.  Or to the wisdom of the ancient world.

No, she went to her Maker.  To her childrens' Maker.  And, oh my goodness, He answered her and trusted her with news of Israel's future.  Trusted her, a woman, a pregnant woman living in the ancient Middle East.

My God -- He's so counter-cultural.  Even back then.

 The children struggled together within her, and she said,

"If it is thus, why is this happening to me?"

So she went to inquire of the Lord. And the Lord said to her,

"Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples from within you shall be divided;

the one shall be stronger than the other.  The older shall serve the younger."

Genesis 25:22, 23

Heavy stuff for a pregnant woman to ponder -- two children, struggling against each other already.  And the future looked all the more complicated.

Bless her.  Bless Rebekah's little hormonal, emotional, nesting heart.  Her present struggle foreshadowed even greater drama and family tension and messiness.

(Ah, the Eternal Rescuer came from this family line.  From this shame.)

And I want to escape the drama of today, but He pulls me back to it.  I was made in His image.  I was made to redeem.  I was made to restore.  Made to know Him who calls me His own.

Yet I run again to idols to help make sense of it all.  I grab books off the shelf and read man's self-help wisdom.  I scan social media for tips on creating, and restoring, and making beauty in the world.  I get uncomfortable around those who boast a different worldview and might not affirm what I say. 

I try to fix the messiness by seeking that which isn't so threatening.

I am the Door, Jesus claims. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved... The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.  I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.  (John 10:9, 10)

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So I follow Rebekah to the Door.  To the Giver of Answers.  To the Giver of Peace when there are no answers.

Go on.  Enter the Door.  You don't even have to knock.

(Part 2 in Our Rescuer's Female Ancestry.  To get more of the drama, read Genesis 25-28.)

How to Make Your Life Matter

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If we don't tell our stories, our stories will tell us.

(dan allender)

It's no secret.  I may just be the youngest person ever to enter into a mid-life crisis.

No, I didn't go searching for a new house or go back to school (although I burn with envy when others get to do so).  I wouldn't say we're in "mid-life" financially, either -- a teacher and a social worker-turned-school-staff -- still budgeting away.  And my kids are returning to elementary school, not college, in the fall.

No, I've entered into a different sort of crisis altogether -- the one that keeps you up at night.  I frequently engage with that gnawing friend/enemy called "self-reflection".  Oh, how I wish I could silence her sometimes.  But she always has something to say.  Always.

You can leave the room when you no longer want to hear someone talk.  Or close your laptop.  Or press that red "end" square on your phone.  You can't silence your thoughts, though.  And no matter what we try to do to escape, we have to return to the conversation eventually... to the conversation that isn't as quiet as we pretend it to be. 

If we don't tell our stories, our stories will tell us, Dan Allender writes.  Whether we revisit the past or not, who we are today is profoundly shaped by the events in our lives and our responses to those events.  It's up to us to decide whether we'll be passive recipients or active agents in the shaping of our lives.

... The difference between living well and writing well is that writing requires me to face the fact that my first draft is a mess, needs significant editing, and requires much more honesty, depth, and passion.  Yet for most people, living well means simply doing our best according to the standards of our culture.

... What makes my life a glorious bestseller is that my plot reveals not a mere moral or lesson but the very person and being of God.  A merely good life reveals little beyond the fact that goodness exists.  But a life that knows its plot, characters, setting, dialogue, and themes will possess a clear and abiding passion that reveals something about the Author.  A life that is familiar with its story reveals much about the character of God.

I'm going to trust Dan Allender on this one.  I'm going to trust him that knowing my story -- especially the messy drafts before edits -- will reveal the very character of God.

It seems a bit ironic... an awareness of my messiness reveals the how pure and holy He really is.  Admitting my mistakes presents Him as the Giver of the Clean Slate.  Acknowledging my wounds -- and how I've wounded others -- reveals Him as the Healer.

Yeah, I can do this.  At least there's a guarantee unlike the quest for greatness here on earth that leaves you unbearably lonely while pushing away the shadows.

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 It sort of doesn't sound like a "crisis" at all.

Fathers Day

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Can a mother forget the baby at her breast

and have no compassion on the child she has borne?

Though she may forget,

I will not forget you!

See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands;

your walls are ever before me.  Isaiah 49:15, 16

Happy Fathers Day.

How Picking Up Pennies in the Projects Became Meaningful

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(All children's names in this post have been changed.)

It was a simple farewell gift, but I held it close to my heart after opening it -- literally.  A penny in a frame.  Just one penny in a teeny, tiny frame.  All meaningful gifts have stories behind them.  And so, of course, this one had a story, too.

Years ago I was a director for a drug and crime prevention program.  While our agency also worked with school-aged children, my program was similar to Head Start, targeting three to five year-olds.  On paper we were a "Kindergarten Readiness Program" for at-risk children living in government-housing.  But in real life, well, we did all sorts of things.

Yes, we tried hard to uncover their pre-reading skills and their God-given ability to learn.  We welcomed their curiosity and praised every single effort.  We sang songs and showed them how to hold crayons for the first time.  We taught them how to function in a classroom environment. 

But we taught them life skills, too.  We wooed good manners out of them and explained the importance of using them well into adulthood.  We gave them a safe place to make mistakes.  We extended natural consequences followed by unconditional love and acceptance.  We modeled how to love others.  And we taught them how to receive love.  (That's the one that often broke my heart.)

I had ringworm for nearly two years straight.  It's a skin fungus that's highly contagious but really harmless.  Our kids often had it growing on their scalps, and it always surfaced on the front of my neck, my collarbone, my chest.  My boss finally had me fill out workman's comp papers to fund my medicated cream.  I loved holding these forgotten kids, and their heads would rest upon my neck as we snuggled together.  I'm sure I was breaking the law by embracing kids who weren't my own in an educational setting.

I loved them.  I. loved. them.

I remember walking Crystal home and hearing her mom moaning in the back room because she was high.

I remember hearing Jasmine's sexual abuse story for the first time.  Her intense shyness made perfect sense after that.

I remember having conversations about Johnny with my brand new husband.  Could we adopt a boy our first year of marriage if abuse finally ripped him away from his mom?

On Mother's Day I gave cards to my female employees -- all college girls with no children of their own.  They played the role of mom at our Center way more than the role of teacher.  They had ringworm, too.

After two years, I was forever changed at the young age of twenty-five.  Walking into this small, unknown housing community made my world bigger.  It made my heart bigger, too.  But God provided a new job for my husband two states away, and so we packed what little we owned and hugged our friends good-bye.

Leaving the kids, as you can imagine, was incredibly hard.  I had to trust my co-workers would take care of them.  On my last day at the Center, one of my employees held out a tiny gift.  It was a framed penny.

You see, we walked our kids to their apartments each day after our program.  Bits of random trash and discarded coins were always under our feet along with the potholes and weeds.  I could never walk by pennies without picking them up... it just felt weird to ignore them.  From the asphalt into my pocket would go these beat-up, dirty pennies.  My co-workers laughed at me.

Heather first planned to frame a new, perfect penny.  You see, her gift was merely going to be a reminder of the hours we'd spent together.  But it didn't look right to her resting there in all its shine.  Her heart was too deep.

So she removed beauty and inserted a penny from the neighborhood instead.  It was filthy, discolored, scratched.  It was so bad you'd be embarrassed to buy something with it.

"It's our kids," she said.  "They're neglected and thrown away and forgotten.  But their Maker sees them and picks them up... just like you could never pass up a coin on the ground.  This is to help you not forget."

Fifteen years later, I have compassion on their moms now, too.  They were probably thrown-away children before they had their own babies.  I wish I would have shared coffee with them each morning before I started loving on their kids.  I'm sure I could have learned a lot from them.

And, well, I finally see how desperately I'm the one who really needs the Great Rescue.  I'm the one who needs to be pulled out of life's forgotten neighborhood, out of the struggle, out of eternal hopelessness.

Time sort of has a way of revealing your need for grace.  Falling short in relationships.  Losing sight of our purpose.  Living consumed by smaller chapters and forgetting God's Great Love Story.

He pulls us out of it all.  Out of the filth.  Out of the brokenness.  And He gives us value, transforming us by His own beat-up and wounded Son.

A Mirror I'd Like to Ignore But Can't

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 "What a wife desires is what she spends time thinking about, daydreaming about,

planning for, and longing after... What you have your heart set on will make all the difference

in the world in your fulfillment and joy." - Martha Peace

Last month we got really honest about body image -- about cultural expectations and lies and shame.  Many here in the Repurposed community are consumed by unworthiness, and this self-absorption leads us to do some pretty drastic things.  We hurt ourselves.  And those around us.

But I'd much rather look at myself in the mirror than see my heart in one.

Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life. Proverbs 4:23

I grew up hearing preachers equate our check book ledgers as proof of what's important to us.  I agree -- my bank statements show I love food and modern utilities and traveling and education and clothes and random bits of home decor.  I'd be a tad embarrassed if you saw my spending, but not really ashamed.

But put a mirror in front of my heart and mind -- in front of my deepest privacy masked by a smile -- and I don't think I could bear it. 

What you have your heart set on -- what you spend time thinking and dreaming about, planning and longing for -- will make all the difference in the world in your fulfillment and joy.

Sometimes I look around at my blessings and still find myself just shy of feeling fulfilled, wondering if what I do or accomplish or have will ever be enough.  Put a mirror in front of my heart and you may just have to look away.  I certainly would.  The discontentment might be too much for you to bear... especially if you can relate.

What do we repeatedly find weaving itself into our thoughts?  These quick moments -- over and over -- eventually turn into daydreams.  And then into plans.  And when those plans remain but a dream, they command center-stage of our thoughts, becoming all too important.

Oh, how unmet expectations can be so dangerous.

Just across the sea from Greece, in the ancient town of Colosse, broken Christ-followers wrestled with the same mess.  If you have been raised up with Christ, Paul wrote, keep seeking the things above... Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on the earth. Colossians 3:1-3

Keep seeking.  I'll try to grab the on-going choice, for when I forget there's a battle waging for my heart, the daydreams creep in again.  And turn to plans.  And become unfulfilled dreams.  And on and on and on.

And the silent whining and bitterness could cause almost any looking glass to crack.

The Radically Special Chapter in Woman's Creation Story

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(Part I in Our Rescuer's Female Ancestry)

God said.  And there was light.  Promise born from void.  Hope rising over fear.

God said.  And there was sky and water --  reminding us  the world is much, much bigger than ourselves.

God said.  And there was land, dirt, earth -- the very canvas on which His Love Story would unfold.

God said.  And there were trees and plants -- forever fostering life.

God said.  And there were sun, moon, stars -- the eternal promise of morning for those that weep.

God said.  And there fish, birds, animals -- reminding us we are more complex, more cherished.

But with man, and with woman, the Master Orator becomes the Master Potter.

Up close and personal, He fashions man from dust and breathes life into him.  Breathes purpose.  Breathes hope.  Breathes the Love Story right into him.

He gives him rest -- deep rest -- and then intentionally forms another one in His image.  Woman.  With bone, He creates and opens her eyes, beaming into her face.

The first image she saw was her Maker, not Adam.  God planned to be alone with her.  Eve's first page in her story was the Redeemer she did not yet know she would need, the Rescuer that would save her from her own mess.

The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save.

He will take great delight in you.

He will quiet you with His love.

He will rejoice over you with singing.  Zephaniah 3:17

Go back there.  Go to the One who wants to be with you.  Go to your Rescuer.

Go to the One who delights in you.

Go to His peace, His quiet, His rest.

Go to the one who celebrates over you.

Return to the sacred relationship when life seems to get the best of you.

Return to intimacy with your Maker when the drama becomes too much.

Return to that place when all you can see is your Rescuer, your Redeemer, your God who delights in you.

Believe the truth of the One who got up close and personal, forming a Love Story with His hands after a week of speaking Creation.

Why I Want a Small Life When the World Keeps Telling Me to Dream Big

"We can't keep living to impress strangers while the ones we love suffer our indifference.

Focused love.  Small life.  Big rewards." - Don Miller

Focused love.  Small life.  I'm not sure that I want this.

I mean, I do.  But these words are a bit abrasive to the insecure me who keeps searching to find significance.  And um, yes, they're a bit abrasive to the exhausted me who often feels I have nothing left to give come evening.

Love takes work.  Love. takes. work.

It's almost easier to reach for the sky than to look into the eyes of those around you.  No, really.  I think you know what I mean.  Try harder and people notice your effort.  Conquer new goals and people admire.  Be successful and people see you.  People see you. 

People.  People.  People.

What is it about the admiration of the masses that feeds our soul only to leave us empty?

And what is it about being anonymous that makes us question our worth?  Question in a really scared sort of way?

Laugh at your son's joke, and you're still unknown.  Play the never-ending board game Life with your daughter instead of Tweeting, and you don't have a voice in the crowd that day.  Engage in conversation with your husband instead of pouring over Pinterest, and no one gets to know your style, your taste for good food, your amazing sense of home decor.

Yeah, engage behind closed doors with those you care about the most, and no one will notice you in those moments.

Focused love.  Small life.  Big rewards.

My son will know I'm crazy about him and will hopefully take that into adolescence.  My daughter will cherish the gift of time -- translated into security -- and might remember it when other girls leave her out.  My husband, bless him, who pursues me above all others will know I'd rather talk to him than anyone.

Treasures.  Big rewards.

So, today I'm choosing to get to know my family again.

You may need to get to know your friends all over again.  Or your co-workers who spend their days just an arm-length from you.  Or your neighbor who waves to you daily... the one whose last name you don't know.

I'm choosing to look my kids and husband in the eye each time they speak to me this week -- even when I'm cooking dinner.  Please keep me accountable.  I need all the help I can get.

Focused love.  Small life.  Big rewards.  Our kitchen is getting a face lift this summer.  Nothing drastic. Or expensive.  Just a little pick-me-up.  Maybe I'll paint these words on the tiny piece of wall above my kitchen sink window.   On the canvas of our everyday room.  On the canvas of our everyday.  Period.