On My Nightstand-February

I recently finished reading:
Keeping the Feast: One Couple's Story of Love, Food, and Healing in Italy by Paula Butturini
Finally Alive by John Piper
Holy Subversion: Allegiance to Christ in an Age of Rivals by Trevin Wax

I read/scanned portions of the following in preparation for teaching at my church's marriage retreat this weekend:
Radical Womanhood by Carolyn McCulley
The Excellent Wife by Martha Peace
Feminine Appeal by Carolyn Mahaney
Womanly Dominion by Mark Chanski
Lies Women Believe by Nancy Leigh Demoss

For Bible study we are still reading:
Holiness: The Heart God Purifies by Nancy Leigh Demoss

I just began reading:
The Lost Art of True Beauty: The Set-Apart Girl's Guide to Feminine Grace by Leslie Ludy

I hope to read soon:
The Lumby Lines by Gail Fraser
Dug Down Deep by Joshua Harris
Evangelism and the Sovereignty of God by JI Packer
The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas

You can keep up with my reading progress under the (conveniently named) "Reading" tab under my header!

What are YOU reading this month? Let us know by linking up at 5 Minutes for Books!

The Week in Words

From Finally Alive by John Piper:

This is key to personal evangelism: Have you tasted the word of God--especially the gospel--that the Lord is good? Have you tasted it? I am not asking: Have you thought about it? I am not asking: Have you decided to affirm it? I am asking: Have you tasted it? Are there living, spiritual taste buds in your heart that taste Christ as more desirable than all else?

This is where we need to get serious. We will spread the seed of God's mighty regenerating power if we have tasted that the Lord is good. The Lord is our delight. The Lord is our Treasure. The Lord is our meat and milk and water and wine. This tasting happens through the word of God. May God loosen our tongues and make us bold gospel-tellers because we are drunk with the win of the word of God and the goodness of the Lord.

And, because her writing is so beautiful, from Keeping the Feast by Paula Butturini:

Morning after morning for an entire year, I walked to the Campo before most people were up. Noisy, honking, shouting Rome is almost quiet at that hour, and what began as a simple routine soon took on the trappings of ritual. I woke up early, dressed, walked out the door and over to the Campo. I would buy a shin, plump, purple-black eggplant. Or a handful of slender green beans, so fresh and young you could eat them raw. I bought three golden pears, or a heavy bunch of fat, green grapes. I bought a few slices of Milanese salami, a bit of veal. I bought a thin slab of creamy gorgonzola, to spread on crusty, still-warm bread. I bought milk, yogurt, butter and eggs, and finally the newspapers. Then I would head home, stopping in the tiny church of Santa Brigida, which lay halfway between the Campo and our apartment. The first few months, I would rest my bundles on the cold marble floor, kneel for a moment at the back of the church under the gaze of a painted Madonna, and try not to cry. Months later, I would still kneel for a moment in the same spot, but when I felt the tears coming, I'd make a fist and pound once or twice on the pew in front of me. It made a fitting, hollow sound in the almost empty church. Then I would collect my bundles and continue my short walk home.

I needed both parts of the ritual, the buying of the food and the stopping in the church. We all must eat, and there is nothing more normal than buying the food that keeps us alive. When I performed the ritual of buying our daily bread, the world seemed more normal. Pounding a pew a few minutes later brought home how far from normal I still felt.

The Week in Words is a weekly carnival hosted by my dear friend Melissa at Breath of Life. Participants can post quotes and excerpts from anything they've read that week, from the Bible to books to magazine articles to blog posts. Want to join along? Link up your week in words at Melissa's site!

On mission in Nicaragua: Our Arrival

We landed in Nicaragua at night, in the dark, so my first impressions are comprised of smells and sounds. And the heat. We'd left Atlanta in sleet, temperatures hovering in the low 30's; the 80-plus degrees of the Nicaraguan night were something of a shock to our winterized systems.

We emerged from the sliding doors of the airport into the Nicaraguan night, no doubt wide eyed as the full blast of the heat and the rapid fire cadence of Spanish greeted us. I'm here, I thought to myself. I'm here; far away from home and all that is familiar. In fact, that is what I remember most about the bus ride from the airport to the mission house in Masaya: the mysterious sounds and smells and the sense of the surreal.

The mission house is beautiful. There were grapefruit trees and other lush tropical plants and trees that I can't name. We stayed one night there; the plan was to head out to Juilgapa and to the orphanage on Sunday morning and then return to Masaya on Friday before going home on Saturday.

Sitting in rocking chairs under the ceiling fans in one of the rancheros at the Masaya mission house, singing songs before we boarded the bus to Juilgapa: a great way to begin a mission trip. We knew not what awaited us but we were so excited to get there. Making introductions, getting to know one another, anticipating the week ahead; the bond that would mark our team began there, that morning as we drank coffee and sang to the Lord.

A three hour bus ride (an air conditioned van ride for the girls) brought us to Juilgapa where we were greeted like rock stars by the children in the orphanage. We had no translator with us while we were attempting those initial introductions but it didn't seem to matter. The girls of the orphanage were especially eager to greet us with open excitement. We spent the afternoon hanging out, doling out the attention so many of them seemed to crave.

We also walked down to the construction site where some of our team would spend the week building a house for a family of four orphans. I know very little of construction and even less of site prep but even I could tell the site presented major challenges. It was nowhere near the stage of readiness the team had been told to expect. They were discouraged and were beginning to seriously doubt whether they would be able to accomplish much of anything toward getting the house built.

I also met my translator that afternoon, a nineteen year old young woman full of fiery passion for the Lord. She asked to study my notes, a request that surprised me somewhat because I have a suspicion that my notes mean very little to anyone other than myself, but I complied (of course) and she and I went over the highlights of Brokenness, Surrender and Holiness side by side at one of the tables at the orphanage mission house. I thanked her for translating for me; she thanked me for doing the work of preparation and for coming to teach. It turned out we were both newbies and incredibly nervous. She'd never translated in a teaching/lecture type presentation; I, of course, had never taught/lectured with an translator. We were to figure it out together and we were both anxious.

We went into Juilgapa that afternoon to an internet cafe. I was able to call home and talk to my husband, as much talking as I could do what with the poor connection and my own crying. It only cost me less than a dollar for the whole conversation so I wished often through the week I'd talked a little longer, crying and static or not.

Sunday evening we attended a church service just down the road from the orphanage. We clapped as praises were sung to the Lord God in gusty Spanish. One song we knew: At the Cross and I think most of us sang along, our English words blending with the Spanish to offer a fragrant sacrifice to the Lord of all tribes, tongues and nations.

One of our team members gave testimony of the Lord's faithfulness in his life and one of our team leaders preached. I was amazed by the passionate "preaching" of the translators. I don't know what I expected, maybe I was thinking of the dry, monotone translators you see at the U.N. or something. Not so here. A passionate plea in English was met with an equally passionate plea in Spanish. It was thrilling to watch the gospel being zealously proclaimed in both languages.

My journal notes for those first couple of days make note of the beauty of the Nicaraguan countryside, particularly the mountains in the distance beyond the orphanage. I mention the delicious fresh pineapple we ate for breakfast and the contrast between the Lexus that passed us on the highway to Juilgapa, the giant Old Navy factory, and the homes we saw that were literally built of sticks. There was garbage all along the roadside and everything seemed dry and brown. No rain since November one of the translators told us. And the heat! I'm hot and exhausted, I confessed in my journal. Less anxious now that I'm here but still overwhelmed. Praying for safe travel to Nuevo Guinea the next day and for an outpouring of the Spirit.

And, I miss my family.

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Nostalgia

I am so thankful for pictures like this...

...because before you know it, you wake up one morning and they look like this:

Honestly

My friend Carrie at Reading to Know tagged me awhile back with an "Honest Scrap" shout out. In this meme, I must post ten honest things about myself, which I assume to be ten honest things I haven't already posted. Nearly all of my posting seems, at least to me, to be a perpetual confessional of sorts so finding ten more honest things isn't as easy as it may seem...

1. I do not drink milk. Yuck.
2. When I renewed my driver's license a few months ago, in a noble burst of integrity, I put my actual weight. Yeah, really. Why, I do not know but I will admit to the occasional flush of regret and embarrassment, not to mention fear that someone might take note.
3. Nerd alert: My DVR is set to record all new episodes of Masterpiece Classics on PBS.
4. I keep a hidden stash of dark chocolate.
5. I do not like talking on the phone.
6. Nerd alert #2: Two of my favorite websites--dictionary.com and thesaurus.com
7. I do not watch the local news. Ever.
8. I do like to watch "House Hunters," most especially "House Hunters International."
9. My favorite hymn is Be Thou My Vision. Other favorites (among many): Garden Salsa Sun Chips, Pride and Prejudice (the novel especially but the movies too), and 2 Cor. 4:6.
10. Nerd alert #3: One of my dreams is to go back to school.

Want to get honest with your readers? Then consider yourself tagged and let me know when you post your ten honest things!

It was good...

I've been in something of a funk. I've been told by friends who've been on similar mission trips that this kind of heaviness is normal. Something I'm glad to know because, well, I was wondering.

Friends, family, acquaintances, all are asking: How was the trip? They want to know. They are excited to know. I want to answer. I just don't know how.

Sometimes I say it was good. And it was. It was good to go. The Lord was good in His faithful provision. Proclaiming the gospel is always good. Making new friends, definitely good. Gaining a global perspective, being a part of God's plan for the nations, experiencing a culture in stark contrast to my own: all of that is good.

It was good.

It seems an inadequate answer though, because one word can't begin to describe all that I saw, felt, experienced. It was good, yes. It was also at turns heartbreaking and hilarious. Joy, grief, homesickness, worship, wonder, inadequacy, humility, exultation--all these emotions were mine at some point or another, sometimes simultaneously, sometimes in such a sudden weight that I couldn't (and can't) find words to begin to articulate the experience.

I tried, to find words. I took a small journal with me and each day attempted to list the events and emotions, the sights and sensations that I wanted to remember. I thought the act of jotting down phrases would serve as a remembrance, a guard against forgetfulness, and it does. To some extent.

My life here, now, today, is in such direct contrast to all that I witnessed in Nicaragua that I struggle to reconcile the two. That week in Nicaragua seems like it happened to someone else, despite the fact that I feel its repercussions reverberating deep within. Though at times it seems surreal in retrospect, I know the reality in my heart: I am different. Glory to God, I am different.

On Thursday of our trip, those of us who had spent the first part of the week in Nuevo Guinea went out to one of the poorest sections of Juilgapa, Los Torres. Our leader wanted to visit a woman there and take her some rice and beans and other provisions. This woman is a mom, a widow, with three sons at home, two of which are disabled and unable to walk. Their living conditions were deplorable, just as the rest of the homes in Los Torres. You cannot imagine it and I cannot describe it to you. Even as I was struggling to make sense of all that my eyes were seeing and all that my heart was feeling, our leader asked me to pray aloud for this family, for this woman, a fellow believer and sister in Christ, and, for her boys.

What does one pray for? As we walked through the three rooms that comprised her home, I thought of the health and wealth gospel hustled by so many so-called preachers. What promise does this woman have for her best life now? She can't even visualize a daily supply of water or indoor plumbing. Her request of us? A washboard.

I prayed, with a broken heart, for God's protection. That He, in His sovereign purposes, might have mercy. For His divine strength to sustain her as she cared for her boys. For hope.

I know that Christ is her only hope. Bringing her rice and beans is necessary and good and God-glorifying. Yes, indeed. But ultimately, such gifts will only sustain for a time. A couple of weeks, maybe more. Finally, ultimately, her only hope is in Christ. He is all she has.

One day she and I will stand before the Lord, shoulder to shoulder, as sisters in Christ. We both of us will only have one plea: the finished work of Jesus Christ. He is her only hope. He is mine as well.

I don't understand the Lord's purposes. I know His Word says He determines the exact times and places we live. I don't understand why in His sovereign wisdom He ordained that I know such plenty and she such want. Again I must remember: the only hope she has, the only hope I have, the only hope any of us can know is found in Christ.

So, yes, the trip was good. Thank you for asking. I really do plan to post more details and pictures. Soon, perhaps.

Home

I'm home, finally. We got in last night, a full 24 hours later than scheduled, thanks to the snow and the subsequent cancelled flights at Atlanta Hartsfield. After a week of intermittent to zero (mostly zero) wifi access and consequently intermittent to zero communication, I was so glad to see my husband and children. After a week of cold showers, I was so glad to be able to take a long (L O N G) hot shower last night. After a week of 95 degree weather, I was so glad to see snow!

In short, I'm glad to be home.

The week was amazing. So much so I'm having difficulty reconciling it all in my mind. Some of us on the mission team joked about needing to deprogram, but I do. Part of the deprogramming process will be, or so I hope, blogging about the trip here. I know many of you prayed for us and for the Nicaraguan people we were privileged to minister to, so I want boast in the Lord's faithfulness with you so you may know of the investment you made toward His kingdom's work.

The short version: It was good. It was surreal. In many ways, it was heartbreaking. In many ways, it was a lot of fun. Our team was great. I'm glad I went and I'm humbly grateful for the opportunity to teach women of the surpassing worth of Jesus.

I took some pictures but I'm a terrible photographer. I hope to get some of the pictures my friend Julie captured, she a photographer by profession and therefore her shots way better than mine. Until then, I want to post just one shot to show you my class at the women's conference so you can see the faces of the women it was my privilege to serve:


Long version(s) coming soon.

Thank you for praying. To God alone be the glory, great things He has done!

Maybe I will dance

Several years ago my friend and I attended a women’s retreat/conference that encouraged us to look deep within ourselves and identify the latent dreams and desires residing in the hidden recesses of our hearts. Once identified, the Lord would then be free to grant that which we so fervently desired. Name it, sister, and go for it; your wish is His delight. Okay, so maybe I exaggerate a little but only a little because, really, that seemed to be the essence of their message. One conference speaker had dreamt of dancing so dance, she did. There, on the stage, as part of the conference. You go, girl.

Somewhat sheepishly I confessed to my friend that what I really wanted was Beth Moore’s job. Of course, I said it with a slight chuckle, like it was something of a joke, really, not to be compared with the dancing dream (and, indeed, what can?). To my friend’s credit, she did not laugh nor even snicker, at least not to my face.

Looking back on it, I understand my embarrassment, and still share it, but I’m also apt to cut myself some slack. What Bible teacher who believes in the message she proclaims doesn’t long for an open mike and a captivated audience? Bible teachers want to teach. Actually, they must. Or such is the case with this one. Whether it's five or fifty, I am so grateful to those who come along for the ride. And yes, it is far closer to five than fifty.

Of course, if I am honest with myself, I’ll admit that the perceived glamour of such a gig as Beth Moore’s also appealed to me then—this of course before my freely confessed state of cynicism concerning the current culture of personality that seems to mark most women’s Bible studies. In other words, let's just say the appeal, it's waned somewhat.

However, next week, beginning Monday, the best part of Beth Moore’s job will be mine--it will be my joy and privilege to lead a women’s conference, teaching women of the call of Christ to brokenness, surrender and holiness. But it won’t exactly be as I’d dreamed so many years ago. In fact, there will be nothing glamorous about it. No cute and trendy fashions, instead I will be wearing a thrift store skirt. No mike, no stage, no praise team; instead I will no doubt be stumbling over my words even as I beg the Holy Spirit to make sense of them first to the translator and then to the women, those precious women eager to hear God's Word taught.

I will be teaching a women’s conference in Nicaragua.

I am so excited.

I am so overwhelmed.

We, eight of us from my church as part of a larger team, are going on a mission trip to Nicaragua: to an orphanage, to a women’s conference, to a men’s conference, to a construction project, to door-to-door evangelism, to discipleship with young women, to any and every opportunity we have to share the good news that Jesus saves.

I am so excited.

I am so overwhelmed.

I am not scared for my safety. I am scared of my own inadequacy. I am scared of the homesickness that already weighs on my heart. I am scared of mishandling the message, the priceless, beautiful message that beckons sinners to be reconciled to God.

By the time most of you read this, I will have already left. Will you pray for us? Pray for our travel and for our health. Pray for our families here at home. Pray for the women's conference next week (Mon - Wed) as I seek to teach on Brokenness, Surrender and Holiness. Pray against homesickness. Pray that we will love the Nicaraguan people with the love of Christ. Pray that we will proclaim the gospel boldly as we ought. Pray that the Lord in His mercy might shine the light of the knowledge of God in the face of Christ to those who are lost and desperate for His saving grace.

I do not know what to expect. I am eager. I am anxious. I am encouraged as I put my faith in the promise that the One who calls is faithful. He will do it. To God alone be the glory!

This is my dream and who knows? Maybe I will dance.

Thankfulness on a Thursday (or Friday)

I'm a little late (like by a whole day) but this week, as I join Kim of The Upward Call and other blogger friends in expressing gratitude on Thursdays (or Fridays), I am grateful for:

• Friends and family who love my boys and share our joy as we celebrate important, milestone birthdays


• Family members who made the trip in order to celebrate in person and my mom who brought a lot of the party food


• My thorough and copious Bible study notes as they are making my preparation for the women's conference in Nicaragua that much easier


• My church. I've been overwhelmed these past few days by gratitude for my church family. I love them all.


• Friends who pray, friends who volunteer to pick up kids from school, friends who tell us "If you need anything, please call" and mean it


• My sons and the easy, generous forgiveness they grant so readily to their stressed out, imperfect mother


• My husband and his unwavering support and unrelenting love

What are you thankful for this week?

The Week in Words

From Finally Alive by John Piper:

The new birth happens as we are brought into contact with the living and abiding word, the gospel. The first effect of this new birth is that we see and receive God and his Son and his work and his will as supremely valuable. That's faith. This faith overcomes the world, that is, it overcomes the enslaving power of the world to be our supreme treasure.

Faith breaks the enslaving spell of the world's allurement. In that way, faith leads us into obedience with freedom and joy. God and his holy will look beautiful and not burdensome. The new birth has taken the blinders off. We see things for what they really are. We are free to obey with joy.

May God confirm your spiritual reality--your new birth--by overcoming the seductive power of the world in your live. "Everyone who has been born of God overcomes the world. And this is the victory that has overcome the world--our faith."

The Week in Words is a weekly carnival hosted by my friend Melissa where participants post words and quotes from something they read that week. It can be anything: novels, magazines, the Bible. Click here to see others' words of the week and link up your own!

For my firstborn on his sixteenth birthday

Today my oldest son, my firstborn celebrates his sixteenth birthday. Sixteen! How can it be? It seems just yesterday he looked like this:

Or this:

But now it's this:

I really can't believe it. I'm caught between the bitter and the sweet, between sadness over the passing of his babyhood and pride over the Godly man he is becoming. I am happy; I am melancholy. He is an amazing kid and being his mom is a joy and a privilege. This morning as he backed out of the driveway, his brand new driver's license in his back pocket, I thought of my friend's wisdom when she told me many years ago "We raise 'em to let 'em go." So we do. And it is bittersweet, indeed.

It may seem I am far more sentimental with my number one boy and perhaps I am.  All my children are special and unique and cherished and loved just as much and with the same fierceness as my first, but there's something different about that first taste of motherhood that persists even sixteen years later. I think it has something to with the fact that with every stage of the firstborn's life, we break new ground. All is new, untested, and foreign. The learning curve, for all of us, mother and father and  first son, is steep and we have to figure it out together.

In honor of that bittersweet sentimentality, I'm reposting a couple of reflections of birthdays past since much of my emotion then is echoed today, only more so.

When he turned 13:

I think of our journey to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning thirteen years ago. How young we were! How naive! And, dare I say it, how ignorant! I cannot remember what was in my thoughts, but I know this: I had no idea my life would be turned upside down and my heart inside out.

I am not the sentimental type. I mean, I never cry, except in the privacy of my own home and then only when overtired or overstressed. I don't scrapbook. I didn't mourn the start of kindergarten nor anguish over any other of the milestones we have encountered.

But today I am melancholy. Today I see how quickly time passes and those stages of life you thought would last forever really slip by like sand between your fingers. Today I find myself wondering where the days went and why I didn't cherish them more. Today I understand he is becoming his own man and I see all I did...and didn't do...and should've done...and wanted to be...and wonder if it was enough. Today I am so proud of the person he is becoming. Today I know how hard it is to be thirteen and part of me wishes he were little again, in my lap reading Good Night, Moon, carefree, safe from teasing and insecurity and all the other plagues of adolescence. Today I want to hold him close because I sense that time will pass all the more quickly and before I know it I will have to let him go.

My boy loves the Lord Jesus. And that is all this mother could wish for. I do not ask for wealth or prominence or the trappings of worldly success. Rather, I pray he love the Lord Jesus with his life, following hard after Him with boldness and determination.

And on his fourteenth birthday:

Fourteen years ago, there in the hospital room, in an instant, when the doctor lay this wriggling, slimy person on my chest and proclaimed "It's a BOY!", my life was forever altered. Forever and ever altered.

Fourteen years ago I had no idea that motherhood was far more than playing house. It is exhilerating, challenging and heartbreaking, full of joy and anxiety, all at the same time.

I've learned much over the last fourteen years, and I've made a lot of mistakes (a LOT of mistakes). I've seen my own frailty and failures as a mother, over and over and over again. But I've also seen joy, great joy, and love, overwhelming love. Much, much to savor: first tooth, first step, first word, first day of school. "I love you, Mommy" and more hugs and kisses that could be counted. There is the yuck too: stomach viruses and spankings and temper tantrums in Wal Mart.

I've been there for it all and it is all worth it. All of it.

Yes, motherhood changed me, but in every respect for the better. I am grateful, profoundly and inexpressibly grateful, for the privilege and responsibility of being a mom. That God would call me to this, the raising these boys, is amazing and humbling...

I'm proud of this boy of mine. He is quickly growing (and growing and growing and growing...) into a man; this morning I looked (up) into his eyes, attempting to trace the little boy of my memory. He is there, sometimes more than he should be, but yes, he is still my baby.

As he grows (and grows and...) and matures and becomes his own man, I am tempted to pray that he will know popularity and favor, success and comfort, all the temporal blessings this world has to offer. Instead, I pray he will have courage to choose the hard thing of living for Jesus, of pursuing righteousness and purity before God, of taking up his cross and dying to self, of being a bold and unashamed witness for Christ.

To my son: may you never forget how much you are loved by your parents. May you walk with the Lord Jesus all the days of your life and may you live for His glory and His alone. Happy, happy birthday!