MollyMadonna.com

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claustrophobia and childlike faith.

It’s amazing what a little alone time in an MRI machine can do. I spent some time in that tight, awkward, noisy space tonight and tried as best I could to find a little peace. I should preface any reflections by saying that I didn’t go into this test with a high level of apprehension (outside of knowing I’d need contrast midway through). Needles and I have a tough history, and tonight was no exception to the normal shenanigans of hunting down veins and a lot of trial and error. But besides all of the poking (and foreign chemicals running through my body–yuck), the actual reason for the test wasn’t terribly stressful to me, because we’re not anticipating anything major in the results. I’ve just been anxious to put it behind me, as I figure is normal with any kind of hospital test or procedure.

But back to the isolating, albeit loud, tunnel. I figured if I was going to be alone and stationary in a tube for a while, I should take advantage of the space to think. It’s hard to sleep in that machine, and just lying there does nothing for passing the time. The beat of the machine kind of naturally conjured up songs for me, so for a while, I was worshipping in my head. But beyond that, the space elicited a daydream like mode that I rarely discover in a house with two little ones running about all day.

That is to say, I discovered an odd sweetness stuck in an otherwise claustrophobia-inducing situation.

Why am I sharing this tonight? Because since last night when I told Henry (our oldest) that I was having a test done at the hospital, he has been praying for me non-stop. “I’ll pray for you when you leave the room tonight, Mom,” he promised as we said our goodnights before bed. And this morning, “I’m praying about your test mom and that it won’t hurt you.” At lunch time, “Jesus, please be with mommy and her test tonight and help it not to sting in her arm and help her not to feel scared.” And tonight as I left, an extra long hug from my sweet boy, followed by “I prayed for you just now, Mommy,” as he kissed my arm and didn’t want to let go.

Man, that kid blesses my heart in so many ways he’ll never know.

Admittedly, there were moments tonight when being alone in that room and confined to that space were a little less than comfortable for me. I get super nervous when I know the techs are going to have to work hard to find my veins, and I don’t do that well without a hand to hold (ok, squeeze). But tonight I wasn’t quite so worked up inside. Instead, peaceful reminders just kept floating my way.

During one test, the machine hummed a rhythm that sounded just like “As I Went Down to the River to Pray.” I’m sure the technicians in the room would have found it strange if they could see the tears welling up in my eyes. I imagined singing that sweet song with Henry–one we’ve sung over and over together at bedtimes for the past few years. At another point, I was reminded of other situations, people, patients under far more duress, while I was just hanging out in an inconvenient machine for part of the evening. The perspective filled me with gratitude and prompted me to pray.

On the whole, the experience could have just been another routine medical procedure, but instead it was a God encounter–a reminder to me that when we invite him in, and when we invite others to invite him in, he is there. Ready and waiting to meet us in any place, at any time. 

Outside of the great peace that I experienced during my scan tonight, I am also just filled to the brim with gratitude as I watch Henry’s heart form for Christ. It is so affirming to see the trust building, the expectation of his childlike faith teaching me, right in front of my eyes, as he prays with anticipation for what God is able to do.

henry in crows nest

Tonight when I got home, I went upstairs to say goodnight to our little ones, already tucked into bed. I knew that Henry would be awake, as he so often is when I’ve been away for the evening. As I rounded the corner to his bedroom door, he looked up from bed and asked immediately, “Did it hurt you, Mom? Because I prayed that it wouldn’t hurt you so much.” What a joy to be able to share that moment with him, where I could tell him that it really didn’t seem so bad afterall–that I’d had a lot of peace, and that I knew God was hearing his prayers.

This is everyday faith at work. In the little things that I’m afraid I miss all too often. Yet somehow, when God is working in the hearts of our children, it feels so obvious and tangible to me. This is grace made flesh right in front of me! I am challenged afresh to seek faith like a child, and stretched in a beautiful way to continue cultivating the faith example I set for our babies.

The test is over. The results will come, and I’m truly at peace about them. In a few weeks or months, the whole thing will likely be a blip on the radar screen. But this joy in watching faith grow in our kiddos? That will linger for a long, long time. And I will remember Henry’s determination to pray me up well, and his precious little heart trusting deeply that God will answer. This is balm for my mama soul.

digging in deeper to find the Henry heart in me,

mm

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in the desert place.

I realized something sitting in church this weekend. Something that struck a chord in me when I didn’t expect it, and something that has brought me to tears and is bringing me (again) to my knees. I’ve heard the story of Jesus wandering in the desert before, but I haven’t heard it so clearly as it applies to me until this past Sunday.

Do you know the feeling? When someone is addressing a crowd but they are speaking directly to you? As if you’re the only one in the room?

Yep, that was me on Sunday. And now I’m trying to listen harder as I open my hands up to God and attempt to say, “Ok, God. I hear you. And I’m going to trust you in this desert even thought it’s really not the place I want to be.”

I’m sure Jesus didn’t really want to wander for 40 days either.

Here’s what I’m holding onto with new perspective, and the bit of the story that made me realize this is God at work again–in a deeper way than I’ve previously recognized in a particular area of my life: When Jesus was tempted by Satan in the desert, He did nothing but what his Father told him to do. And he didn’t have days to think about it before acting. He had to respond to temptation in what was most likely seconds, and still to honor God and to trust him fully. So he only did what he knew for sure, and that was to rely solely on God for his provision, sustenance and timing.

He only acted in the present, and he was present with God.

Jesus had just received the Holy Spirit upon being baptized in the Jordan, and he could have acted as Satan tempted him to do. He could have rushed into a different future than the one God had for him–he was fully human and had a will of his own. He could have turned that rock into bread.

He had been anointed by his Father, and then he had been asked to wait.

I don’t think Jesus knew just how long he would roam in that desert. I doubt any of us longs to roam after we feel like we’ve been given a vision for the future.

desert 2

As for me, once given a picture that I feel is the result of prayer and listening for God, I kind of want the future to be RIGHT NOW. As in, yesterday. Let’s make this thing happen, God. I’ve got my marching orders, so let’s march.

And when things don’t pan out the way I imagined they would from there, I get discouraged. I begin to doubt. I wonder if I can still hear from God, or if maybe the thought was all my own and I was trying to drive some crazy bus without a license.

This time, I really can’t drive the bus without God handing me the key. This is the very best thing for me, I’m sure, but it is SO stinking hard. I absolutely feel like I’m wandering in a desert, and I feel like God just keeps saying to me, “Wait a while longer.”

There is something to be said for trying to live in the will of God, but something human in me that absolutely resists it, too. I know what I want. And I thought I heard what God wanted. So why don’t they line up? Maybe because I can only see the very corner piece of the puzzle when God is looking at the whole picture.

In a desert season, it is harder for me to see the silver lining in things. I have to strain a bit more to look past my disappointment and discouragement to trust my Father, and to believe with all of my heart that if he has truly anointed me for something, he will see me to it.

Maybe you feel this way, too, in some area of your life–like you’ve been given a picture or a dream or a goal, but you can’t quite see your way to it yet? And maybe it feels like the absolute hardest thing to stay positive and hopeful for this thing you’re dreaming of, when all you want to do is experience the fullness of it…the magnitude and beauty of it as you imagine it could be.

It is SO hard for me to say this, because it’s a daily exercise of faith for me to believe it and apply it in my own life, but…

If God has anointed you for something and you are still waiting for it, this period of wandering in the desert is the very best thing he has for you (for me) right now. Our obedient waiting will be for his glory, just as he was glorified when Jesus resisted temptation and found sanctification in the waiting. For all of the days that God says, “Wait…still wait,” I believe he is writing an even greater story than the one we can imagine. I believe he is strengthening our faith and building our testimony.

It is hard work, this waiting. This sitting still and pressing in, longing for breakthrough and direction. But there is beauty in the wandering. In what feels like silence. And in someday breaking fast and stepping into whatever story God has for us in the journey.

Our desert places are sacred. We find ourselves alone there with God. We discover new depths of desperation, brokenness, hope, resolve.

i am with you in the desert place, dear friends. may God be glorified in the waiting!

mm

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*all* of the things, and a lie.

Today is an *all* of the things day. As in, no matter how hard I try to stay positive and joyful about my circumstances, life is throwing curve ball after curve ball. I feel like I am wading through jello as I approach even the normal, typical, daily tasks.

I know for certain that everyone I’ve ever met has had an *all* of the things kind of day. This is not because it’s lost on us that we are still crazy fortunate and can always count blessings if we stop to think about it. This is because we are human, because we have young children, because some things are just plain out of our control…because someone else is having a bad day, or the moon is getting full, or simply, because we aren’t well rested or well fed or stress free. Some days the things just pile up, one after another. And I’m sharing because I realized something today in the midst of my own pile:

The world doesn’t have to be crumbling…our lives don’t have to be turning upside down…we don’t always have to compare our “small” problems to someone else’s “big” problems and feel guilty that we’re temporarily frustrated. It’s OK to feel the weight of *all* of the things and to acknowledge that we are more desperate, more sold out, more human, more imperfect, more in need of a Savior.

This year has been hard. Maybe harder for our family than any other to date. And certainly harder than I ever like to admit to myself or others.

It’s much easier for me to carry guilt around for having a bad day than it is to acknowledge that a bad day is a fine thing to have. I see people…not just any people, but very dear friends, members of our family, people we do life alongside…who are experiencing really, really hard things. And no matter how difficult some things have felt here, in my heart, I’ve continued to tell myself that they’re not as hard as what so-and-so is going through. Not as hard as what most of the rest of the world faces.

And then I pile on guilt. And I minimize the hard in my own life because I believe the lie that it doesn’t stack up to someone else’s hard.

The lie: Because my hard isn’t as big as someone else’s, I can’t be honest about it and how it makes me feel. I can’t let it be hard, or admit that it’s hard, because it’s not nearly as significant as someone else’s struggle. To admit that something has been crazy hard is to minimize what someone else is going through. And it means that I’m obviously not grateful for all of the good in my life.

Calling this out as a lie is credit and testimony to the handful of friendships in my life who are willing to do real life–beautiful, crazy, terrifying, messy, hard life, with me. These friends have been honest about my struggle with guilt as our family has faced hard things. These friends have named my guilt. And they are the first to pray, to check in, to love, to be honest, when I start believing the lie again that I’m not allowed to call a spade a spade. To call the hard things, hard.

To have an *all* of the things day, like today, is to acknowledge that the little things stacking up are enough to send us to our knees. I’m not saying the 32 inconveniences today even remotely measure up to someone else’s really, truly devastating day–or to my own. I’m saying that I don’t think we need to beat ourselves up over being frustrated, when sometimes the 32 little things can make a regular day feel really rotten.

I’m saying that I’m going to try to be honest with myself and not feel guilty (and I don’t think you should either), when days like today feel really raw for *all* of the little reasons.

Today I struggled over dollars lost when I’m trying so hard to be a good steward. Today I strained with all of me to put a fighting, 46 pound four year old in the cart at Target to try and hold my ground as a mom. And I got kicked in the gut. Literally. Today it took me 45 minutes to get through the store when all I went in for was diapers, hand soap and kleenex. I changed another, countless poopy diaper in the parking lot, I battled wills from all angles, I broke my sunglasses, and I cried in front of my kids in the driveway.

TOMSsunglasses

These are not big things, but they’re my things. And in total, they were either going to put me over the edge or send me to my knees. I know God can be glorified in the latter.

So I put my big girl pants back on, but not before I asked God for help. Not before I took a moment to be honest with myself that things felt hard. What else is there to do? This, I suppose. To share openly about the stirrings of my day so that when you have a day with *all of the things*, you allow yourself to have it instead of feeling guilty that you couldn’t pull it all together or hold back tears.

Because it can be hard to extend ourselves grace. And it can be hard to ask God for it sometimes. He gives it freely though, if we’re willing to ask, and I believe He extends it far beyond the hard and the ugly and the things.

grace to you, my sweet friends. grace for it *all*, big and little, today and every day.

mm

 

P.S: Care to say NO to guilt with me as I keep working on it this year? I hope you will 🙂

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a story for bedtime. and every time.

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” Matthew 6.25-26

I spotted it while washing a tomato at the kitchen sink before dinner. The fragile flit of wings against a rock below the hedge. I shouldn’t have noticed it, not really; not while the kids were clamoring for food and the bacon was sizzling right out of the pan, not while a new storm was rolling in and the sky was darkening corners of the house. But, instinct. Instinct rolled in, too, like a mother bird who knows to build a nest…who knows to warm the eggs…who knows to keep the nestlings safe, and then…

There she was, and she was calling out. That same sweet sound I’ve heard from the window over and over again, but desperate. That same sweet mama hopping anxiously from her baby to the tree above and back. I was sure of what had happened before I could clearly make it out through the panes. New life had fallen on her watch and she was panicked. Nothing to do but try to convince her babe to take flight, and it was much too soon.

Something moved in me to take action, and as I think on it, I know three reasons why:

1) I have loved these birds through the window for months on end and they bring me great joy. They belong. Here.

2) My mama heart imagined being her mama heart and in an instant, I ached.

3) I love a happy ending, and darkness doesn’t win in the end.

God drew my attention to this little life today–I’m convinced of it. Even if only to spare the life of a tiny bird, but more likely, to spare mine. To provide a glimpse into His heart, without question.

The details of what followed are important, and not. I set my babies up quickly with something to stay safely occupied indoors. I Googled how to save a baby bird. No, really. I called my neighbor for help, because I’m a little crazy and that’s just the kind of thing you do when you have amazing neighbors and you’re trying to save a baby bird. I prepped a box and ran all around for gloves (plastic bags), a shovel, foil to cover the bacon. I ran outside and prayed to beat the rain.

Overhead, a hawk flew circling. Looming like the gray clouds behind him. Looming as if to thicken the plot. Honestly. I really think God had a story to tell here in our side yard tonight, and God doesn’t miss the details. As my dear friend and I tried to figure out getting this sweet baby back to where he came from, Jason arrived home. Knight in shining armor in that moment. Between them and their enviable height, my willing recruits managed to pick up the tiny cardinal and separate the hedge just enough to set him back in his place. (I only managed to take pictures.) No matter. My heart was light. I nearly cried a few minutes later while I watched from the dinner table as both mama and dad returned to the nest. Such joy!

***

Tonight, as is often his request once tucked into bed, Henry asked me to tell him a “new” story. Something he’s never heard before. Something good, but off the top of my head. Hm. Thinking on my feet as best I could, I recounted the tale of a mama bird and a daddy bird who fell in love, got married, and flew everywhere in search of the perfect home. Without luck, they finally found a place to perch one night and offered up a prayer to God for the home that He intended for them–a place where they could raise a family and where He would keep them safe. Naturally, they found a home…in a lovely hedge in a sweet neighborhood in a smallish town. And naturally the mama soon laid an egg and the egg soon hatched and the daddy returned home to find a sweet baby boy bird in the nest that day.

And then I started to tell Henry that the wind blew a little and the baby bird wobbled and fell out of his nest. But before I could barely get the words out, he began crying and begged me not to let the bird fall out, “It’s too sad, Mom! It’s too scary! Don’t make the bird fall out of the nest! He can’t!!” He wouldn’t let it go until I changed the story altogether. Obviously then, the nestling never fell and the mommy and daddy and baby bird lived happily ever after in their cozy nest. The end.

As I finished, Henry thanked me. “You mixed up my feelings and made them all ok again,” he said. And this really gave me something to consider.

We never want the part where we fall and things are hard, and for a while they even seem dark and looming and impossible to overcome. Of course we don’t. We hate that part. It makes us want to cry and scream, “It’s too scary! I can’t!!” But here’s the thing:

There’s no great story without the fall, and there’s no amazing ending with out the Rescue.

In between, there’s no great plot without the great writer orchestrating all of the details and crafting a reality that none of us could dream up on our own. Without the noticing. Without the calls for help. Without the tugging at our hearts to choose what we know deep down to be the very truest bit of it all, that we have a Creator who made us and sees us and knows when we sit…when we stand…when we fall. And He has sent a great Rescuer on our behalf to scoop us up and put us back. Home. Where we belong. Right with our Father.

“But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” Matthew 6.30-33

He cares for us. He cares for us. He cares for us.

Far more than the birds of the air or the flowers of the field, and yet He cares for them, too. Tonight is a perfect tidbit of proof.

“Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Matthew 6.34

We worry and we fret over the details…big and small…that we’re not sure He sees. But He sees them, I promise you. He covers them, I promise you. And He longs for us to tune in to an awareness and knowledge of Him that He can use for good. Nothing goes unnoticed by the Father. Even when it seems impossible. Even when we fall and fall hard. It’s really an incredible story.

humbly asking to be your hands and feet tonight, God, and to hear your voice even in a whisper. even in a helpless baby bird, a mother crying out, a boy who desperately seeks a happy ending to your great story.

mm

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a “little” thing called Lyme.

It’s tick season here in Michigan, and this year, the little pests are out in full force. In years past, we’ve seen a few here and there…the dog comes in with a couple each summer, and I had one several years back while pregnant with Eloise. I’ve never liked the little things, but for the most part, I’ve not feared them either. That is, until this summer.

I’ve been more attuned to ticks this year because a dear friend of mine was recently diagnosed with advance stage Lyme Disease. She is one of the most beautiful people I know, and she is weathering the disease with grace and amazing faith. But she is suffering, and to witness her journey is both humbling and eye-opening. God has woven so many graces into my life through this woman and her family, but this week, her suffering–and her desire to spread awareness about Lyme, has blessed our family beyond measure. Without her story, I would not have been so vigilant with tick checks here at home. And without her story, we would likely have a very different tale to tell about Lyme here in the little blue house…

Our sweet, teensy Eloise was diagnosed with Lyme on Tuesday, after just a few days of watching a tiny bite on her leg go from unremarkable and skin-colored to red to the telltale bull’s eye rash. Friends, this is a God story if I could ever tell one, because a few months ago, I was convicted in my fear of ticks and Lyme and began praying that God would cover our children and family in this arena instead. I am SO unbelievably thankful for the prompting to pray over this area of our lives! Here’s the short version of our week and why I believe God showed up in a mighty way:

-Last weekend, we noticed a small, skin-colored bump just below Eloise’s knee. It had a hard little top, but nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve been doing tick checks on the kiddos regularly this summer, usually at bath time every other night or so, or when we’ve been in an area where we’d suspect a higher tick population (rare, because we’re usually playing in the back yard). We never noticed a tick on Eloise, and this bite seemed very minor. We made a mental note to keep an eye on it.

-On Monday, three days had passed and the bite was now reddish and looked more like a mosquito bite. Eloise complained about it a little, but didn’t seem to want to itch it much. By bedtime, it was red and spreading out to the left and right, with the slightest hint of a white ring around it. My radar was a bit heightened, but I was trying not to worry. 😉

-By Tuesday, the ring was more prominent, and a new red ring developed outside of the white. A friend confirmed my concern that it wasn’t your average mosquito bite, and I called the doctor “just to be safe.” They had an opening an hour later and we snagged it (that never happens!) Our regular doc was off for the day, but the Dr we saw was proactive and cautious. The presence of an erythema migrans (bull’s eye rash) was so fortunate as a tell tale sign of Lyme. Less than 50% of all Lyme cases present with this rash, and it can come and go quickly. Eloise was prescribed an antibiotic and should heal well with early treatment.

-By Wednesday, her leg was looking less remarkable again–the bull’s eye was already on its way out. Can I say how thankful I am that timing was what it was?! We might not have caught the very obvious symptom only 24 hours later.

Leaving the doctor’s office on Tuesday, I was admittedly questioning God a bit, “My little girl? Really?! She’s so tiny! Why not me, instead? I’ve been praying about this, so why the bite? And Lyme?!?! I asked you to protect her!”

I’m not proud of this course of thinking, but I am grateful for it. Over the past few days, and as I’ve read even more about Lyme, God has answered my questions, one by one. He did protect our sweet little girl–in a mighty way! Considering that we never even saw a tick on her (the nymphs that bite and primarily spread Lyme are about the size of a poppy seed), how amazing is it that both her bite and the rash were in an obvious and prominent place? How fortunate are we that Eloise had a rash at all?! How blessed to have health care and great doctors and medicine at our fingertips, that she could be treated early, and that we have access to the appropriate follow up to ensure her health and a full recovery!

And how incredible that God is always turning beauty out of ashes, using one person’s story to make waves and make a difference in the lives of others! I would not ever wish the pain and struggle that my friend is experiencing in her fight against Lyme right now…on anyone. But I know that her heart is to glorify God and to serve Him through her story, and just look! I am so humbled by the way God moves and weaves and protects and carries us.

I wanted to share about Eloise and the week we’ve had because I think awareness is super important. I don’t want anyone else to miss out on treatment at the earliest possible stage, and by nature of where we live, I do want others to know that Lyme is a very real thing. A little soap-boxy, perhaps, but bug spray and tick checks go a long way 🙂

To learn more about Lyme, symptoms of Lyme, and what to do if you suspect it (rash or no rash), I’ve found the following links helpful:

Children’s Lyme Disease Network (also linked above)

The CDC’s Lyme Disease Fact Sheet for Parents

Boston Children’s Hospital

In case you’re wondering, Eloise has exhibited just a few other symptoms, which I would describe as flu-like and mild in nature. She’s had a very low-grade fever here and there throughout the week, is low-energy with a reduced appetite, and has complained of her leg and knee hurting her, especially when there is any pressure applied to that area. Joint pain and swelling to the knee are also indications of Lyme in children, so something to consider if your child displays any of the above symptoms through these summer months.

Below are pictures of Elle’s rash as it looked on Monday night and in the doctor’s office Tuesday, as well as a new favorite photo of our girl drinking her “coppee!” this morning on a family outing. Thanks so much for your prayers and well wishes this week for our sweet Eloise!

be well!

mm