A Life Unimagined

Yesterday I caught myself in a moment, standing at my kitchen sink, smiling. As I washed the dirt from every crevice of an ironman figurine that had been taken for a ride through the mud, I could hear Tom and the boys belly-laughing at America's Funniest Home Videos downstairs. When I think back to a decade ago, I couldn't have ever imagined a moment like this. I couldn't have imagined a life like this, one in which I'd be cleaning dirt off of ironman (and off of everything really); I couldn't have imagined I'd breathe in such terrific joy from hearing people laugh; and I certainly couldn't have imagined that I could love three people as much as I love these three. I couldn't have imagined this life and I'm so thankful it's mine. 

It's wild to reflect on where I was a decade ago and how I had no idea of what all would unfold in my life - the unexpected, the hard, the beautiful, the hoped for, the painful, the lovely. 

It makes me wonder, what is it that I can't see or imagine today that I will be giving thanks for in some down-the-road tomorrow?

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

I Am Her, She is Me, and We Are We {Reflections on the Paris Attack}

{My earliest thoughts last night, raw, incomplete, and for the most part, unedited. But I had to get them out.}

I was slow to hear the news today, but when I began to listen, all I could manage was a string of one word prayers...hold, love, healing, light, courage, hope, strength, peace...

As the stories and images of people in Paris poured forth, so too the emotions erupted within. I couldn't find words at first {and still really can't}, only emotions. And questions. Seated in the comfort and current safety of my own home, I felt the urge to turn it all off, to go to sleep, to look away. But I can't look away. I can't. We can't. 

I would love to give someone credit for this photo...

When I see an image, like the one to the left, of the American Flag laid out in front of the Eiffel Tower, with a caption that reads: WHAT THEY DID TO HONOR US ON 9/11, I think to myself, there is no us and them {France and the U.S.}. They are us, and we are them.

Earlier, I kissed my boys goodnight, as I do every night, but tonight the massive wave of that indescribable something washed over me, the one that leaves me wanting to hold them ever so tight and never let go. My mind turns to the Parisian mom, holding her kids tightly tonight, hovering in the dark, covering their ears from the never-ending scream of sirens. And it hits me, I am her and she is me, bound together not only by the thread of our humanity but also by the commonality of a love something fierce, that of a mother's love. I think of how we are probably more alike than we are different. Tonight, see her tears. I hold her pain. I stand with her in her fear. I make room for her sadness. I think of her tonight. I am her, she is me, and we are we.

I think of those who have lost and are devastated today, those who have loved ones unaccounted for, those whose innocence has been shattered. I feel a deep sadness for their pain. And if I'm honest, I also feel deep gratitude - for where I am right now and for my people, here sleeping soundly under this roof. That always bizarre and never comfortable juxtaposition of two strikingly different emotions, held together in one tiny beating heart. To feel thankful for what I have, in light of someone else's have not, feels on one hand cruel, and on the other, strangely right.

As I feel the sadness and the gratitude, I also see the injustice and I see the terror in their eyes and I feel angry, so angry. There is this sense of feeling so very small and yet still capable of holding such big, big emotions.

And then I watch the powerful video showing thousands of strangers joining together in singing the French national anthem as they walk with trepidation toward the exit of the soccer stadium, unsure of what they will find as they cross out into the street. Why is it that we come together in tragedy? That in a blink of an eye what was "us and them" gets traded in for "we." That suddenly we see each other in both our humanity and our glory. That we finally realize, I am her, she is me, and we are we.

I know that people will be working long and hard to figure out who is responsible for this horrific attack on innocent people. As they should. There absolutely needs to be a response on the larger scale. But I also have to ask myself, what do I do with all of this? Right here where I live. How do I allow it to change me? How do I stand with Paris? What does that even mean? Because Paris isn't just a place with a big tower. It's a city filled with people, people like me. People with names and faces and stories. People who are hurting. People who don't have the option to look away. And these hurting people are not just in Paris, they are everywhere. They are in Beirut, where a deadly bombings ocurred two days ago. They are in the Horn of Africa. They are wandering refugees looking for a home. They are right next door. Because when we peel away the layers of difference, they are us and we are them. And so, no, I cannot look away.

There is a temptation to let fear and anger lead the way. But they cannot win out because alone, they don't lead anywhere worth going. So, I stand and I listen and I watch and I think and I feel and I shout and I pray and I hope. I hope not for understanding but for healing, the kind of healing which I don't, in fact, understand. I call out to the one who heals, for the light to rise, because I don't believe that darkness wins. I hope for comfort and strength and light - light to shine into the shattered and broken places. And I am reminded to see, to really see people, near and far - the neighbor, the store clerk, the person on the other side of the political aisle, the homeless person on the corner, the bank teller, the parent at school drop-off - and I enter into what she is experiencing and feeling. I stand with her, because I am her, she is me, and we are we. And only when we see, can we truly love. And love is the only thing that can drive out hate.

Hello, Slow-vember

Coming off of an action-packed summer and a wild Fall, I was longing to slow down and restore a rhythm to our days and weeks. Just when we had hit our stride, November came knocking and with it, the impending holidays and the allure of busyness. You see, in general, I have a tendency to try to pack an unreasonable amount of things into a particular time period. It’s my effort to you know, maximize the time. This often leads to me feeling rushed, tired, irritable, not to mention, late for most things. Then, enter the holiday season of November and December with all of the extra fun events, and it’s like my personal catapult into a deep pool of stress. 

And my kids, well, they're along for the ride. Trying to get out the door in the mornings is the antithesis of fun and you know why? While I’d like to blame it on dawdling pre-schoolers who can’t seem to ever find their left shoe, I can’t because that’s just what preschoolers do. No, our morning stress is not because of them, it’s because of me. It's because I either don’t leave enough time for us to do all that we need to do or because I’m trying to pack too many things in before we go. 

This is not at all how I want to live, rushing from one thing to the next. One of my favorite things about my time living in Costa Rica was experiencing their slow pace of life. At most, I would have two events scheduled in one day. Meetings that take an hour here in the US would take at least two hours there, because the first hour was always spent drinking coffee and socializing. I spent a good part of my day walking because that was my major form of transportation. Each afternoon I’d partake in “cafecito,” when we would stop our work and share some conversation over coffee and sweet bread. It would probably be fair to say that the Ticos (Costa Ricans) are not the most productive or efficient people but I would dare say, that’s not at all a bad thing. When I moved back to the U.S., I remember longing to live as simply as I had in Costa Rica, with both my time and my money. Yet, I felt that it was next to impossible to do so in a culture like ours that moves at break-neck speed.

While I may not be able to live as simply as I did in Costa Rica, I don’t think it’s impossible to find some middle ground. So, as we rounded the corner into November, I decided to make an intentional effort to slow us {our family} down, and instead of adding more to our schedules during this holiday season, I’m actually removing things. I’m re-naming this month, SLOW-vember, and I’m so serious about it, I actually changed the name on our calendar.

My goal: to reduce the amount of scheduled events and create margin for spontaneous, organic connection and fun to occur. What does this mean for us? It means saying no…no non-urgent doctor appointments in the next two months; no weekly kids activities until January; keeping our weeknights out to a minimum; putting only three things on my to-do list each day; saying no to certain fundraisers and holiday parties; delaying the dog’s annual check-up at the vet until January; not having an agenda for my time with my kids; limiting our playdates - both of the kid and the adult variety; saying no to gift, book, and cookie exchanges. You might be thinking, it sounds like you’re saying no to all things fun. I know, I know. It hasn’t been easy. I’m not very good at saying no. 

But let me tell you about our first week of Slow-vember. We didn’t have any week day afternoon or evening activities planned, which afforded me time to do something I love - cook in a slow and relaxed manner, everything from scratch. {This is my thing. It may not be your thing. You do your thing.} I had all kinds of goodness coming together in my kitchen. So, when I heard a friend’s husband was going to be out of town all week, I decided to bring them a meal because I know what a gift to me that can be amidst a busy week. In all honesty, this idea probably wouldn’t have occurred to me if I had been going at my usual pace. I likely would have missed the opportunity to bless my friend. But because we were going slow, there was room for this idea to well up inside and I had food ready to give. 

Fast {or slow} forward a few days to when I was once again, cooking…a giant batch of butternut squash soup and fresh bread this time. I had just pulled the bread out of the oven when I heard a knock at our door. There stood our next door neighbors, asking if they could hang out at our house for a half hour while they had an unexpected house showing. Because dinner was already made and we had no where to be, it was easy to welcome them in, open a bottle of wine and enjoy an impromptu happy hour. That bottle turned into three bottles and before we knew it we were enjoying soup, bread, and wonderful conversation together - an unexpected and beautiful opportunity to connect before they move.

Oh and then there was Friday morning. It’s my one-on-one time with Ben, so I usually try to plan something fun for us to do together while Blake is at school. Recently, our favorite biscuit place re-opened so I thought it would be fun to take him there for breakfast. In typical fashion though, I attempted to fill the remaining time as I wondered, what will we do after biscuits? We could go to the library. We could go to the park. We could…And then it hit me, SLOW-vember…why not just leave that time open, unplanned, and see what happens. So, I did. 

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On our way to biscuits, Ben was asking me questions about the North and South pole and why they are cold. Because I wasn’t rushing to get anywhere nor did I have an agenda, I felt relaxed and easily engaged in conversation with him {not always the case}. This led to a discussion about the equator and the continents. The next thing I know, I hear myself asking, “Ben, would you like to make a model of the earth together? We could quick stop at Target and buy a ball and some markers and work on it while we have biscuits.” If he hadn’t been strapped into his carseat I think he might have lept out of it in excitement. So, we stopped at Target, picked up the supplies, and we made the earth! It resulted in such a sweet, fun, and connecting morning together. Instead of seeing his zillions of questions as annoying, I had the space and time to appreciate his wonder and curiosity. My point in telling you this is that when I woke up that morning I had no plans to make a replica of the Earth. I had not previously pinned a pin of the Earth on Pinterest. The idea had never occurred to me before that moment in the car. But because we had left that time unplanned, the idea had room to bubble up and there was time for a spontaneous trip to Target so that we could make the Earth!

Slow-vember thus far has reminded me that when I intentionally slow down, beautiful, wonderful things happen. But for me it does indeed take intentionality. A lot of it. 

Slowing down allows us to see ourselves and each other in a more clear light. It creates an opportunity for the many thoughts marinating deep within to rise to the surface, allowing us to become aware of what we’re actually feeling in any given moment, and it brings our values into sharper focus. It creates space in our minds and hearts to see other peoples’ needs. When we’re so busy frantically trying to keep up with our own schedules, it’s all too easy to fly by people without really seeing them - their personalities, their struggles or their joys. When I slow down, instead of seeing my kids as loud and messy, I am able to see them as energetic and creative. I have space to appreciate their curiosity and questions rather than be annoyed by them. I feel margin in my schedule and my heart to linger over Saturday morning coffee on the deck with my love, dreaming about the future together instead of just discussing the weekly schedule; to take walks around the lake; to pause and see the beauty all around me. Slowing down leaves room for us to hear the gentle whisper, the one leading us to love others. It opens the door for organic, spontaneous, wonderful things to happen that likely wouldn’t have occurred had there been an agenda and a rush. 

It isn't easy and it isn't perfect. There are sacrifices to be made. But I'm discovering more and more, that when we say no to good things, it allows us to say yes to the best things. 

So, cheers to SLOW-VEMBER!

Lessons From The Mountain {Part III: The Gift Is In The Journey}

I still find it difficult to believe.

If you were to rewind to a year ago, you’d find me hobbling around on hideous pink crutches with a fractured hip, wondering if I would even be able to run again.

9 months ago, I was staring down in beautiful disbelief at a positive pregnancy test - later only to find myself in disbelief of a different kind as we lost the baby and with it, a million tiny hopes.

6 months ago, still reeling from the miscarriage, I still couldn’t bring myself to run, weighted down by a lack of motivation and depression.

And a mere 4 months ago, a relatively flat 3 mile trail run felt hard. But I was running again.

And on Saturday, I’m preparing to run 17 miles over a 13,000 ft. mountain pass. I don’t know how the race will go. I don’t know what state I’ll be in at the finish line. I don’t know if I will even cross the finish line. But one thing I do know, the gift has been in the journey.

How often do I want to fast forward through the hard places in life, the places wrought with big, uncomfortable, painful, feelings? The answer to that is ALWAYS. Who wants to stay in the hard places? We want to be done with the pain. We want to arrive at the unforeseeable end, with the pain fading away in our rearview mirror. But the truth is, we can’t get to the end unless we go on the journey. We can’t get to the finish line unless we run the race and log the countless grueling training miles. We can’t get to the end of the pain without going through it first.

Grief is a tricky beast. We can’t just sit down and say, “ok, now I’m going to do this whole grieving thing and then be done with it.” It doesn’t work like that. Grief comes and goes and comes again, sometimes sending it’s counterpart, sadness, to hang on with a vengeance. I couldn’t make myself feel all my sadness at one time, so I took a step. And then another one, and then another one, and before I knew it, I was covering miles and climbing mountains, pounding out the sadness, one step at a time. I was living it, feeling it, and with each mile, letting a little more of it go.

When I set out on this wild adventure, carrying a tired body and a sad heart, chasing a seemingly unattainable goal - some how self-propelling my body from one mountain town to another - I could not have fathomed the many gifts that would come along the way. I started off thinking that the race would be the gift, but no, the gifts were in the journey. Gifts like watching a growing strength emerge with each steep hillside and rugged peak I climbed; the whisper of God meeting me on the trail, beckoning me forth, and using fields of brilliant wildflowers to fill me with hope and life; the gift of time and space to think and feel and pray; the gift of running up a lung-busting mountain only to find that while I couldn't breathe physically, I could breathe emotionally for the first time in months; the beauty of powerful, rushing streams to remind me that water, the softest of elements, has the ability to cut right through rock, the hardest of elements; a greater appreciation for the body that God gave me and all that it can do; a swelling confidence in my ability to do hard and unimaginable things; and a growing comfort with being uncomfortable, for it is in the struggle that we grow. The journey too meaningful and the gifts too many to recount.

{The slideshow below shows a some of the journey and the gifts I've received along the way}

Regardless of how this race turns out, the gift was definitely in the journey. 

As I struggled and {often reluctantly} heaved myself up mountain after mountain, feeling like I was going to die, I re-learned how to live. And it all began with a step, a step in the direction of pain rather than away from it. 

Does a part of me wish that I would be hitting that "full-term" milestone of being 37 weeks pregnant tomorrow rather than being pregnant only with the pain from running up and over a mountain? Of course I do. And yet, I can't help but feel thankful for the sweet unexpected gifts that have come along on this unwanted journey.

 10,000 reasons for my heart to sing.

Lessons From the Mountain {Part II: Fear}

For the first time ever while training for a race, I have run every one of my training runs alone. And the good majority of them have started in the early hours of the morning, often before dawn, with only my headlamp to light the way. People have asked me again and again, "Aren't you afraid running out there in the woods in the dark by yourself?" And my answer is always a resounding, "heck yes, I am." Because in all honesty, I am a bit terrified running around the mountains in the dark with cougars and bears as my company. And yet, I've learned that slightly terrifying is a necessary element in the equation that adds up to the undoubtedly exhilarating.

When I run through my fear, the rhythm of my breath and the sound of my feet hitting the trail one after the other is magnified by the quiet of the darkness. I feel strong and empowered, my confidence growing with every step. If I weren't a little bit terrified, I wouldn't have the sense of exhilaration and strength either - and that would truly be a loss. I guess that's to say, that when we let fear win out and let it paralyze us or prevent us from doing something we're meant to do, the question is, what have we just missed out on? 

                                                                                               Don't Worry, the only place I saw this was in my imagination!

Now don't get me wrong, fear can be a good thing. It can keep us from doing stupid things. Ask my parents and they will tell you that as a child I really could have used a bit more fear in my life. But I'm pretty sure there's far less of a risk of something catastrophic happening from running the trails alone than there is getting in my car every morning. So, I think there's a fine line between fear that helps us and fear that hinders us. 

So, I keep running, even when I'm scared - whether the fear is of the physical or the emotional kind.

Because if we're going after truly big goals in life, fear is going to be present. A big goal means there's a risk of failure, a risk of feeling vulnerable. With this upcoming race, I've felt all kinds of fear - What if I don't even make it to the start-line? What if I don't make the cut-off times? What if I don't make it to the finish line? What if I get injured again and repeat my time on the hideous pink crutches of yesteryear? What if people will then say, 'I told you so?' What if I am the last one to finish {admittedly while I'm terrified of this, I also think it would be pretty cool - much better than second to last}? What if I get to that point in the race where the pull in me to give up is so strong that I just give in to it? What if I don't have what it takes mentally? - so many fears. And all of this, this is the healthy side of fear, the side that leads us to the fork in the road where we can choose to risk and be vulnerable or choose to play it safe. It's the side of fear that if we lean into it, rather than run from it, will lead to growth.

So, what if instead of aiming for "fearless," we aim to acknowledge the fear and to embrace it - to run straight at it, to run right through it, to come out on the other side, the side called growth. I'm going to give it a try this Saturday. I'll let you know how it goes!

Lessons From the Mountain {Part I: Perspective}

Perspective.

Back in the day, when I spent my summers as a backpacking guide, we would give a little talk at the end of the trip that went something like this: Everyone loves the mountaintop - it's awe-inspiring and amazing. And while we wish that we could stay on the mountaintop forever, the truth is that life is not meant to be lived up there, nothing grows on the mountaintop. Life is meant to be lived in the valley. But the beauty of the mountain top is that it offers a view and a perspective of the land down below that can often get lost when you're traipsing through the valley.

From the Summit of Imogene Pass looking down towards Telluride 

These last 4 months as I've trained for the Imogene Pass Run, I've spent a good deal of time on and around mountain tops. My two little feet have taken me up to some of the most beautiful peaks and ridges this state has to offer. But no matter how breathtaking it is up there, I always know that at some point, I need to head back down and re-enter my everyday life. Though before I descend, I take a moment to pause, to take it all in, to notice the winding creeks, the fields of wild flowers, the switchbacking roads and the old structures that dot the landscape below - things I can't see when I'm in the trees. And I look out around me in every direction, attempting to get my bearings, noting the mountain ranges to the north, south, east, and west. I get perspective. And when I make my way down, I have a little better sense of the features unique to that mountain and where it sits relative to everything around it. 

Similarly, these last four months "on the mountaintop" have offered me some perspective on my day to day existence, on who I am at the ripe old age of 41, on what I hope for my life to be about, and on the current state of the landscape that surrounds me everyday. I've been given a more clear understanding of each of my kids and their unique personalities and needs. This has motivated me to want to hunker down with them and press in, with the realization that these formative years are flying by. The mountaintop has brought definition to both my personal and professional goals. And it has given me a greater appreciation for the beauty and richness in my everyday life, my marriage, and my friendships.  

Sometimes I think we get so lost in the frenzy of our daily lives that it's easy to lose perspective, forgetting where we are, where we've been, and where we're going. The busyness and daily demands may blind us to the beauty that's existing all around us. The noise of the critics, the cry of the insecurities, and the shouts of the unimportant can drown out the sounds of the quiet whisper, calling us to live and love more fully. And perhaps more bravely too. While life is meant to be lived in the valley, I think we also need those mountaintop experiences to gain perspective, a perspective that we can take back down the mountain, allowing it inform our everyday lives. 

What have your mountaintop experiences taught you? How has your perspective changed from stepping outside of your everyday life?

In addition to perspective, there are 6 other lessons I'm taking with me down from the mountain and I'd like to share one each day leading up to the race next Saturday, so stay tuned!

Birthday Reflections and A Holy Big Goal

Since I was born late in the evening, this is my first full day as a 41 year old, FORTY-ONE. That sounds old, to me at least. And lest I forget, my body is quick to remind me of my middle-age-ness. As I’ve spent the last week celebrating - and by celebrating I simply mean living out life like usual, with as much fullness as I can - it’s occurred to me how much our culture shapes us and steers us to do things a certain way, unless we are intentional about bucking culture, doing it another way. Culture tells us that our birthdays are supposed to be these huge celebrations with lots of people, the bigger the better, in every respect. Or at least that’s how it feels to me. But as I recently wrote about here, I am an introvert, and while I love people, big parties are definitely not my scene. So, in effort to live a little more authentically into who I am rather than who I think culture or people want me to be, I celebrated my birthday with a whole string of one-on-one fun experiences with people near and dear to me, as well as with my family. It was perfect. It was me. And it felt good to choose to do it that way.

Another way in which I think culture dictates our choices, if allowed to do so, is in the goals we set and the things we go after. I think our culture tells us to go after big dreams, but do-able things, dreams that are a reality - out of reach but not out of sight. Why? Because no one wants to fail. So we often set our goals big, but not so big that we might actually fail. We play it safe.

Well, at 41, I think I might be done with playing it safe. I’ve been talking quite a bit with both my kids and my clients about failure, the fear of it as well as the benefits of failing. I’ve also questioned what failure really is? And I’ve concluded that maybe the biggest way we fail is by not trying in the first place. If we try and we fall short, we feel vulnerable, we get up, we learn from it, we try again, and none of that sounds like failure to me. Not to mention that we often feel more connected to other people in our shortcomings than we do in our successes. 

So, I began asking myself, what are the things that I could go after or live into that I might very well fall short in? I’m ready to really go after the HOLY BIG things in life, to lay it out there, with the risk that I might very well fall flat on my face. As many of you know, I often set physical goals that parallel my every day life and hopes. And you may also know that this last year has been, shall we say, a rough year physically. Between my fractured hip and the miscarriage, my body feels beat up and out of shape. 

So, never in my wildest dreams did I think this would be the year that I’d attempt to chase one of my bucket list, holy big, I-truly-don’t-know-if-I-can-do-it running goals: The Imogene Pass Run. But I let my husband convince me to do the unthinkable, to sign up for the IPR and to talk me into believing that I could actually it. And by it I mean a 17.1 mile trail race that starts in Ouray, Colorado and climbs over 5,000 feet in 10 miles to the summit of Imogene pass at 13,114 ft. before descending 7 more miles into the town of Telluride. I know, crazy right? I mean, I think it’s crazy for someone who’s in shape, let alone someone coming off of the year I’ve had. But what was it that I proclaimed a few paragraphs up? At 41, I think I might be done with playing it safe. Well, there is nothing that feels safe about this goal. It is an absolute possibility that I might not make the cut-off times necessary to continue on in the race. My body may not even make it to the starting line. But I darn well am going to try.  And maybe success will look like listening to my body and pulling myself out of the race. And maybe it will look like running through fatigue and pain, feeling more alive because of it. So I’m going to train. I’m going to lay it all out there. I needed a fire under my behind and this is a rager. So, here goes nothing. Here goes everything.

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Imogene Pass. Image courtesy of Chad Essex.

I also love that this is a point-to-point race, meaning that it starts in one place and finishes in another, with a really really large mountain in between. It’s pretty symbolic for where I have been emotionally this last year and for where I desire to be - not going backwards to where I was before, but going forward to a new, unimaginable place with new meaning - climbing the obstacles that stand in the way, looking for the beauty as I go, and embracing it all.

As I was second-guessing what I just signed myself up for, err, reading the course description on the race page, I came across this advice:

As you contemplate the journey ahead, remember: "To get to where you want to go, you have to start from where you are"; and think IFM: "Incessant forward motion". It is up to you to get yourself, by your own two feet, from Ouray to Telluride. Only through continuous forward motion, even at a walk if necessary, at low or high elevations, on steep or moderate terrain, and in good or bad weather will you arrive at the finish line goal. Then too, one must not forget to "Smell the roses along the way", and to appreciate the natural and human history through which you will pass, along the way.

Holy big goal. Incessant forward motion. No more playing it safe. Happy 41st to me. Let’s go.

Where are you letting culture or people dictate the choices you’re making? What is one thing that you want to go after but that you run the risk of falling short? I’d love to hear from you.

Confessions of An Introvert Mama

Just me and my introvert self, hiding in the shower!

It's confession time! Today I'm over at Denver Metro Moms Blog, sharing about how being an Introvert has become more challenging since I've been a mom. Check it out here.

"Don’t get me wrong, I am perfectly aware that I will miss this someday - their sweet voices, their cute mannerisms, their need for me - it’s the ultimate parental paradox. But I’ll be honest with you, while I love my children to the ends of the earth, I sometimes feel like their incessant chatter might just cause me to lose my mind. I mean, you moms out there know, you can’t even go to the bathroom alone."

http://www.denvermomsblog.com/mental-health/confessions-of-an-introvert-mama/

Hope On A Rainy Day

When life gives you {seemingly endless amounts of} rain, you go on a worm hunt {and find some puddles to splash in along the way}. While my kids aren't always the best at waiting for tomorrow, they are excellent at hoping for tomorrow. They continue to teach me about what it means to hope - to stare rain in the face and say, rain means worms, so let's go look for worms because worms mean we will get to fish sometime soon and we LOVE to fish. They live fully into today, whatever the weather, with great hope for tomorrow. And I can't help but learn from them.

Little Image Bearers

Today I'm honored to be a part of a beautiful series, The Meaning of Children, for the blog of a long-time friend, Mihee Kim-Kort, from my Wilderness Ranch guiding days. I'm writing about what I learn from my children as unique image-bearers. You can read the piece below or over at her blog, here. 

It's easy to overlook my children's uniqueness, as it is God's vastness.

Not long ago, I found myself on a Mommy-Son date with my oldest child, who is all too quickly approaching his fifth birthday. I was about to tell him how much I love his curiosity when I looked into his big blue eyes and asked, “Do you know something I love about you, Ben?” And much to my surprise and delight, he threw this back at me, “that I am the only Ben like me and that there is no one else like me in the whole wide world?” I smiled a proud-mom-sized smile, “well yes, that is absolutely something I love about you. I love that you are a unique, one-of-a-kind kid.”

Amidst the many messes made, the toilets clogged by 100 times the needed amount of toilet paper, the incessant sibling bickering, the feisty little attitudes hurled my way, the all-around chaos that is my everyday life, it is altogether too easy for me to forget that I’m raising two little image-bearers. God has entrusted me with these two little people, each of whom is unlike any other human being on the planet; each of whom beautifully reflects different characteristics of their creator.  If I pause long enough, look deep enough, my knowledge and understanding of God can be expanded, blown wide open, simply by observing the unique ways that my little guys bear the image of their maker.

When my oldest recounts to me every last fact there is to know about Colossal Squid - it reflects to me a God who is concerned with the minutest of details.

When we’re at the grocery store picking out a snack and with great concern, he says, “Can we pick out one for my brother? - because he would be sad if we didn’t get one for him.” -it reflects to me a God who is thoughtful and cares deeply about each one of his creations.

When he senses that I am feeling sad and proceeds to sit down beside me, put his head on my shoulder and ask, “want a hug, Mom?” - it reflects to me a God who enters into our pain with his presence.

When I have to apologize, yet again, for yelling in frustration, and he says, “I forgive you, Mommy. Want to play hide and seek?” - it reflects to me a God who is quick to forgive and desires to continue on in relationship with me even when I repeatedly fall short.

When I witness him reach out to a friend on the playground and invite him to join in a game - it reflects to me a God who is invitational in nature, beckoning me to engage and eat with with him.

When my youngest son notices a tiny insect on the ground and bends down to count how many legs it has and marvel at its unique features - it reflects to me a God who engages with his creation and takes pride in his craftsmanship.

When he spontaneously begins to dance without inhibition and unaware that anyone is watching - it reflects to me a God who moves in power and freedom and in whom we live and move and have our being.

When he repeats something to me again and again until I acknowledge him and he feels heard - it reflects to me a God who is persistent and desires to be heard and known.

When he slobbers all over his apple slices then offers me a piece - it reflects to me a God who welcomes people to the table and generously shares of his riches.

When he tells me at least 30 times in one day, “Mom, I love you.” - it reflects to me a God who is extravagant and unconditional in his love.

When my sons, together, invent a wild game of Toodle-zoo with specific rules that any player must follow - it reflects to me a God who is both full of imagination and creativity, and who initiates order.

When my oldest screams out to me, “but that’s not how it’s supposed to be. Make it right.” - it reflects to me a God who desires to make things right, to restore and redeem his creation.

When my youngest, tender caregiver, gives great attention to the things in his care like feeding the dog and watering his plants - it reflects to me a God who provides, nurtures, and brings forth growth.

My children’s uniqueness is easy to overlook, as is God’s vastness. On the days when I struggle to see good in my kids, I long to pause and remember that I’m interacting with little image-bearers who reflect to me a unique set of God’s characteristics in a way that no one else can.