Joining Five Minute Fridays with Lisa-Jo today. Thankful for an opportunity to capture a few thoughts in the midst of the crazy beauty of our new life (three biological boys plus two foster children).

Prompt: Worship


There’s a beauty in the gross things. The little things. The things that make you sweat. The things that leak and smell and cry or whine, the things that won’t look you in the eye. The small smiles. The trusting hand that finally grabs hold. The time invested so they finally call you by name.

It’s worship. All of it.

Right here, right now, my worship is in these moments. It’s five little heads–some smaller than others–looking for my hands to come upon them in prayer. Waiting for the sticky kiss on foreheads–the kind that won’t rub off (ever, I promise). My diaper duties sing songs to my King and when I bathe that one child (for the second time that day because of a potty accident) my soapy hands and aching knees are as much of a hymn as I have ever mustered.

My feet are chanting as they walk back and forth down the halls of this house, opening doors and closing them, checking eyelids to make sure they’re closed.

My eyes–they’re leaking tears of praise and fear and adoration and anxiety and love for the Father who brought me to this temple.

And by the time I come to Sunday and the music surges through my veins, I find my mouth cannot even open for the rawness of it all.

The worship I’m doing is always right now. The hardest, most beautiful, messy poured-out love letter I’ve ever written.


Hate Mail

photo credit: Today is a good day via photopin cc

photo credit: Today is a good day via photopin cc

The moment can come in the middle of the Costco parking lot. (Hypothetically speaking, of course.)

That moment when the line between keeping it together and losing it completely is a bit hazy and the behavior of one child is like a stack of hate mail sitting on your heart.

When you read the words of these imaginary letters they spew things like “you don’t know what you’re doing” and “here you go again” and “this will never stop” or “you can never change.”

These words sink deep and make a panic rise as you try to figure out just how to get that child out of the car in the middle of the Costco parking lot, when he’s having a temper tantrum and people are looking at you like they want to write a letter of their own.

Or in the moment when you feel like no soul in the world (or at least at the pool) wants to consider you a good friend. The kind of moment when you notice in aching clarity the laughter and smiles and girls night outs around you and you realize you’re just sitting on the side holding onto your kid’s goggles and the idea that the conversation you’re missing sounds very similar to “who invited you?”

I’m over at “Next Level Mama” today . . . continue reading here!


Lemonade2Participating in Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday (A day late–oops). Five Minute Saturday just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Here’s the deal: Write only for five minutes. Word prompt: Belong


There’s a pitcher of lemonade on my counter, too tart, sticky all over. But that’s no matter. The middle one has had a rough 2 weeks and I’m not going to lie, he’s made it rough on me too. An ear infection gone wrong. Too many doctors appointments. Pediatricians. Specialists. Medication. Too little swimming, too much pain.

So for days now, long, long days, it’s been hard. He’s been upset and I’ve been frustrated.

It reached a fever pitch yesterday and I closed my eyes and prayed. God, I’m either going to apply him to military school right this instant or please, please help me parent him through your love.

The military application has been left empty. Enter in the lemonade.

It’s as if that sticky pitcher of too tart lemonade was a membership card back into each other. That boy, the unhappy one, smiled and stirred and poured. Tasted and offered. Laughed again which in turn made me laugh as well.

I hummed the Lumineers, a song I love always on my lips at times like this. I belong to you. You belong to me. You’re my sweetheart.

Sweetheart indeed. A little tart. A little sticky. But God is good to help us belong again.