Is He Enough?

I'm tired.

You know, that kind of soul weary tired.  

I'm tired of caring so much. 

I'm tired of worrying about my children.  

I'm tired of meeting every little need of my precious family.  

I'm tired of the violence and hatred in this world.  

I'm tired of wondering if this world is going to be a safe place for my children.  

I'm tired of people who have a constipated sense of humor.  Lighten up already!  If we don't have the relief of humor, how do we survive?  Laughter is good medicine.

But I digress.

Every woman goes through those times of feeling under appreciated and used.  I'm having one of those times.  It's lasted, oh, approximately a year.  Give or take.

Could it possibly be because I have a 1 year old? Because that first wonderful, but life, time, energy, and mind sucking year is barely over?  I dunno.  All I know is that I have a 1 year old who routinely pulls himself up on my skirt, grabs my leg, and proceeds to scream for however long it takes to break me.  This usually happens when I'm in the kitchen trying to meet a deadline.  But Sunday mornings and any other time when I need every limb free to get ready to go somewhere are also great times to find my extra appendage firmly attached.

Could it be that I'm so busy that I can't keep up with everything? But for real.  Tomatoes don't wait for a better day.  Nor does corn.  Or beans.  Or nieces getting married.  Or the lawn. Or school. And let's be realistic, the bathroom needs to be cleaned oftener than once a month.  Just sayin'.

Am I feeling tired because my girls feel the need to pick at and badger each other endlessly?

 Day. After. Blessed. Day.  (Pray for us.  We are works in progress.)

My hubby is busy.  Very busy.  I feel a bit neglected by him.  Most all of his time and energy is thrown into farming and the children.  I sometimes feel a bit left behind and more like a mother hen than a wife.  It's not really a good feeling.  

Soul suckingly tired of it all.  (Strangely, while I'm tired of it all, I'm also keenly aware of just how incredibly blessed I am to have children and a husband and material things. Wierd huh.)

God has been gently lifting my chin and telling me to look up at Him. 

You know, I sing God's praises and I proclaim that He is enough. But will I choose it?

Will I chose to find my worth in Him? Can I hang on to the promise that I am valuable when I really just feel like an old pack mule?

If my children never appreciate anything that I've done for them, can I still look up and bless my Creator?  

If my husband never finds time to date me or forgets to compliment and encourage my heart, will I still choose to remember that God loves me and His appreciation and love is enough?  

Will I allow Him to fill my every need for love, attention, and appreciation?  Because He's really the only One who can fill me to the top.  But I must choose it.

This is where words become reality.  Can I really believe in God and trust that He sees and cares? 

I choose to shut out my disappointment and disillusionment and lay my expectations at His feet. 

I choose to allow Him to fill my every need.

I choose to believe that His favor is enough.  And there I must rest.

Passion

"What is your passion?"

The question took me by surprise and even kind of embarrassed me.  God was giving me a gentle nudge.

Then it hit me.  

I'm passionate about a lot of things, but most of them in the negative.

I passionately hate spring and summer. (Don't even get me started on summer.)

I passionately hate gardening and taking care of the lawn.

I passionately dislike animals unless they are gracing my dinner plate.

And snakes deserve their own line on my list of passionate hated.

And on the list could go.  I'm a pessimist.  I'm not proud of it.  I wasn't always this way.  In fact, some would have even called me an over-the-top optimist at one time.  Annoyingly optimistic even.

So, what's my deal?

I got hurt.  I became dissillusioned with people.  I became afraid.

God has been patiently ridding me of fear these last few years.  I'm getting better.  It's really slow, but I'm seeing progress.

I've made some wonderful friends!  Friends full of grace and kindness.  Oh, how I love my church!  I can be free to be me and everyone will still love me for me!

I'm still healing from the hurt.  Some days I struggle with the why of it all.  I'm not sure why people I thought were friends decided to turn on me, but they did, so I'm dealing with it.  I may never get closure, and I have to be okay with that.  I'm not going to lie, it's hard.

I feel God calling me to set aside my negative passions and pursue the positive passions.  But first I have to figure out what they are.

So, naturally, I asked my husband.

I could almost hear him scratching his head over the phone.  "Well, I would say that your passion is writing."

I let out my breath.  I was hoping that he'd say that, but yet I was scared that he wouldn't.  

I called my sister, "Hey, what do you think that my passion is?"

"Hmmm, probably writing."

Two for two.  I was going to call my mom, but I knew what she would say.  Plus she's on Alaskan time, so it gets messy with the time difference.

I think that my true passion is encouragement and the way that I best share my gift is through writing it out.  I thoroughly enjoy encouraging people.  I love to offer grace and hope to those who are down and hurting.  I feel that God gives me the words I need at times to offer encouragement.  It's something that I truly enjoy.

I felt like God was confirming to me what He has been calling me to do.  I've been dragging my feet.  I'm scared.  What if I share too much of myself?  What if I don't share enough?  What if I anger or hurt someone unintentionally.  I'm not the type of person who strikes out in revenge.  

Yet, God has given me a gift.  I feel like it's a very rough gift.  One that needs sanding and maybe some varnish.  

I'm working on throwing out the fear.  You see, my gift was belittled, and I felt, mocked by former associates.  I was even told at one time that my writing was a waste of time.  That hurt.  I've always carried some guilt with me when I sit down to write.  I feel a bit like I'm not using my time wisely.  I've got to conquer that. 

I feel inadequate to write what God has shown me.  I'm always sure that someone else could have shared it more clearly, more eloquently than I can.  And yet, He has called me to just be me. Hot mess that I am, He can still use me. Honestly, that amazes me. I'm just a nobody.

You know, for years, I've not known what my passion is.  Well, I've known that I enjoyed writing encouraging notes, but I've not allowed myself the full joy of doing it.  I wasn't sure it qualified as a passion. I've not wanted to admit that I even had a passion.  Because then I'd have to pursue it and that's scary.  The fear of men and all that.

I'm not out to be the best blogger ever or build a fan base or write a book, all of that sounds exhasting. I'm content to lift the chin of the discouraged and share a smile of hope to maybe only the one or two who read my stuff. It's enough because if only one person is encouraged to carry on, I've done what God is calling me to do.

What is your passion?

What is the gift or gifts that God has given you?

Is it time to pursue it?  Is it time to admit it to yourself and get over your fear?

I think it's time.  

My gift looks a lot like a kind word here.  A secret note there.  The occasional blog post.  A prayer offered up for a friend in need.  A listening ear.  The giving of grace to someone who needs a break. A smile of hope to the weary.

What does your gift look like in practical terms?

Maybe it's time you found out and pursued it!

The Love Letter

The sun hadn't come up yet.  I was reveling in the silence and waiting for the coffee to brew.  My chair was comfy and warm.  

Then I felt it.  The gentle prod to write my daughter a love letter.  A still small voice told me to build a bridge to my little girl's heart.  

I reached for the notebook I keep handy by my easy chair.  Something stopped me.  

"Get the pretty stationary paper." 

(source)

"But God, I'm not sure where it's at.  I'm not even sure if I still have any.  Besides, if I have any left, it's in the basement." I whined.

"She will like the pretty paper."

"Yes, God, she will."  

He was right.  I knew it.  My daughter loves pretty things.  They touch her heart in a special way.  She's all girl.

I went down and found the paper and began to write a short love letter to my 6 year old baby girl.  

Bri is learning to read.  It's been a...deal.  Reading seems to come harder for her.  While math facts are easy to pull out of her head, reading is slow and laborious at times.  As of right now she isn't fond of reading.  At least that's what she says.  I often catch her reading things when she thinks I'm not listening.  But it really does come harder for her.

I wrote my letter to her with easy words that I knew she would be able to read or sound out.  I crossed out the silent letters and wrote in all the symbols necessary for her to be able to read the letter in it's entirety without any help from me.  I folded it and sealed it.  I hid it in the pages of her English book; knowing that she would find it when she started her school day.

I wanted her to be excited, to feel special.  I wanted her to know that I love her and that she is important to me.  I wanted her to see that I went to extra trouble to make it easier for her to read.

She found the letter and opened it.  She read the first few words then handed it to me.  "Read it to me Mom."

"No, I wrote it so that you could read it to yourself."  I thought that this would inspire her to continue reading to find out how I felt about her.  

It did not.

Let's just say that there were tears and anguish.  She gave up.  I'm still not sure that she read it the entire way through.

You know what?  It hurts.  

Now, I realize that she is just a child.  She doesn't totally understand what she did to me.  It's my job as a parent to help her to realize how her actions and words affect those around her, but right now, she has a blind spot.  We're working on it.

As I listened to her whine and fuss and looked at the tears and saw the frustration on her face, I was saddened by it all.  God's voice spoke to me as I stood there silently.

"You know, Jody, I wrote a love letter.  Mine is rejected too."

Then it hit me!  This is how God feels!  He wrote the biggest, most eloquent love letter of all time, and it is rejected, ridiculed, twisted, misunderstood and ignored.  He inspired men to write the Bible so that we can know about His great love, and so often it goes unopened.  Our selfishness and immaturity get in the way of our truly knowing the heart of the Father who loves us.

It was convicting to me.  Lately I've been struggling with doing my daily devotions.  It seems that if I don't get up before the sun, devotions go undone and my day goes haywire.  

The other night before going to bed, I was SO tired, I jokingly told God that if He wanted me to have devotions, He was going to have to wake me up.

You know what?  He does.  For some inexplicable reason, I have been waking up at 6:00 sharp.  I can't go back to sleep.  I feel awake and ready to go...okay, some mornings I feel ready to go.  Some mornings I just want to finish my interrupted dream.  

I've heard so many excuses as to why some choose not to crack open God's love letter.

"It's boring."

"It's ancient history that has no relevance to my life today."

"It's too hard to understand."

None of those are valid reasons.  None of them are true.  

How it must wound the heart of God when our lives fall apart and we then turn to blame Him for the ruination of our dreams.  Yet, how many times could pain have been avoided if only we had opened His book and sought His face. Played by His rules.  Surrendered fully to Him.

When I say seek Him, I mean, really seek Him.  Storm the throne room, kneel at His feet, and grab on to Him and refuse to let go until you hear from Him.  Hearing from Him requires reading the Bible.  It's how He speaks to us.  So many times I've found direction and His loving arms wrapped around me through the pages of His Word.

I'm studying the Gospel of John and I'm blown away by the concept that God's love letters became flesh and lived among us, and died to reconcile us to God.  It's no small thing.

If He went to all that trouble to reach me, how important it must be to Him that I read the love letter that He went to great and painful lengths to write to me.  Though, it is my firm belief that in order to understand His Word, one must pray.  Really, the two can't be separated, this prayer and reading.  I will admit that sometimes understanding is hard, but it's not impossible. God reveals secrets to those who care to dig for the treasure.  But you do have to dig. 

The interesting thing about the Bible is the many layers it holds.  I'm quite certain that we will never fully understand or know all of the mysteries it hides in the symbolism and seemingly unimportant verses.  It's deep.

As I looked into the face of my tearful daughter, God caught my heart and showed me a picture of myself.  It wasn't pretty.  It's a lesson that I hope I never forget.