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Recently I was sitting in a meeting—paying only a small amount of attention, quite frankly—when the leader said something that made me laugh and reach for a pen to write it down.
“Well, you can’t worry about that,” she said, in answer to someone’s question. “You just have to munch away on your caterpillar leaf, every day.”
I laughed, first of all, because I couldn’t help but picture everyone in the room munching on leaves. But I also laughed because her simple words were very wise. Too often, I get bothered by other people’s business. “Why did she say that?” “What was he thinking?” Or, I get upset over my own “bang-ups and hang-ups,” as Dr. Seuss would say. Fear, doubt, hardships—all things that distract me from obedience. From simply doing the things that God instructs.
A caterpillar munches away on his leaf, every day, until he enters his chrysalis and emerges a beautiful butterfly. Transformed! Changed because he simply did his thing.
“You need to persevere,” the Hebrew writer says, “so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.” (Hebrews 10:36)
Or, in other words? “You just have to munch away on your caterpillar leaf, every day.”
We Stormses are hardly what you’d call rule-breakers. In fact, I rather enjoy keeping the rules, and the mere thought of breaking one makes me feel a little itchy inside. I’ve also, for better or worse, passed on my rule-keeping tendencies to my children.
However.
In spite of the fact that we don’t, as a rule, break the rules, lately we’ve had a few run-ins with our home owners association. Nothing much…one parking violation, and one tree-climbing violation…but oh. My. Lands. The reaction!
And to be clear, we did break those two rules. We parked where we shouldn’t have parked and we (well, one of us, anyway) climbed where we shouldn’t have climbed. We were in the wrong and we accept the consequences.
However.
The drama? The over-the-top meanness? I think we can all do without that. A few ladies in our HOA take rule-keeping to a whole new level. These women make Javert from Les Miserables look like a pansy.
One of us came home in tears today, and finally got composed enough to say, “I was in a tree, and an HOA lady came by and said, ‘Hey, KID, get out of there!’ So I jumped out, and then she said, ‘Did that hurt when you landed?’ I said, ‘No.’ And then she said, ‘Well, it SHOULD have hurt…I WISH it WOULD have hurt…because YOU are a BAD kid who did something BAD, and it should always hurt when you do something BAD.’”
Excuse me?
You wish it would have hurt?
The rule-breaker and I hugged and dried our eyes and blew our noses, and yes, we discussed that we were wrong to climb the neighborhood trees (which, by the way, are so puny that we can jump out of the tops of them). At the time, I was outside sanding varnish off an old rocking chair, so during the eye-drying and nose-blowing, I took my frustration out on that poor chair. I was so angry with Mrs. Woman-who-was-never-a-child-and-has-too-much-time-on-her-hands that it’s a wonder I didn’t sand it into a pile of toothpicks.
But then, the rule-breaker walked back outside and said sadly, “Maybe that lady was so mean ‘cuz she had just, like, buried her sister or somethin’.”
“Maybe,” I said, “and I’m proud of you for trying to understand her.”
“I guess,” continued the felon, “that I’m supposed to ‘love my enemies, and pray for those who persecute me,’ right?”
“Right.” (That, or, just sand the daylights out of a rocking chair.)
So, that’s what we did. Right there, in the middle of rules and rocking chairs, we took turns praying. We asked God for help remembering to not climb trees, and we especially asked for extra love for someone who may have just buried her sister or somethin’. The rule-breaker even asked God to bless her. Finally, we thanked Him for His forgiveness…to her, and to us. And then, we blew all the sandpaper dust off the rocking chair. Every last particle.
It, and we, were ready for a new start.
My poor kids are three-for-three on illness this Christmas season. Anne started it all with a virus a few weeks ago, then Molly woke up sick on the weekend of her Nutcracker ballet performances. Her cough, sore throat, and fever turned out to be bronchitis and “suspicious” pneumonia.
(I think that just means the beginning of pneumonia, or possible pneumonia, but I prefer “suspicious.” You know how untrusting pneumonia can be!)
To top it off, Nathan started to run a fever on Christmas eve, and we’re currently in that “wait and see” stage of his illness. Wait and see if he’ll get better in a day or so. Wait and see if he has Anne’s virus, Molly’s bronchitis, or something all his own. And most of all, wait and see if we have enough money leftover from his sisters’ illnesses to afford a copay for him.
“Wait and see” annoys me, and not just with regard to health. I don’t like to wait. I don’t like to wonder. I like to know—to have the whole course charted and the details planned and the questions answered. I’m rather suspicious, like pneumonia. This wait and see? Not for me.
And yet…over and over again, God says, “Child, I want you to wait and see. Wait on Me. Hope in Me. And just watch what I unfold! Not all at once, not today. But over time, little by little, as you continue to abide in Me…you’ll see.”
“Wait for the Lord,” wrote David. “Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” (Psalm 27:14) And Isaiah said, “I will wait for the Lord, who is hiding his face from the house of Jacob. I will put my trust in him.” (Isaiah 8:17)
Oh, Lord, how I wish You wouldn’t hide Your face! It makes me suspicious, and You know how untrusting I can be! But God, You are faithful and good and always at work, for Your glory. I will put my trust in You, even as I wait and see. Amen.
My son is 12.
Need I say more?
I could go on. I could write about his tension between being big but not quite big enough. I could tell what a mix Nathan is of confident and afraid, grown-up and childish, intelligent and ridiculous, mature and yet…not very. Hygienic but also at times, so very not.
I could tell you all these things, but really, all I need to say is just this: my son is 12.
We all understand.
And we all understand Mary’s confusion, then, at her 12-year-old Jesus. He left the family caravan and decided to stay a little longer to teach the teachers.
“Son, why have you treated us like this?” Mary asked when she finally found him three days later. Why, Mary? Because your son is 12.
Jesus explained that he had to be in his Father’s house. He seemed surprised that Mary didn’t read his thoughts. I know the look on his face, because I’ve seen it on Nathan: astonished at her astonishment. Mothers and 12-year-olds often view one another with mutually astonished faces. Luke explained, “But they did not understand what he was saying to them.”
Oh, Mary, don’t try to understand. Your son is 12!
Luke then recorded that Jesus returned home, obeyed Joseph and Mary, and grew in wisdom, stature, and favor. (He didn’t stay 12! A word of hope.) Of Mary, Luke wrote, “…his mother treasured all these things in her heart.” No need to explain more there, either. We mothers get that. Mary treasured Jesus’ teaching that day in the Temple, just as she’d treasured his birth in the stable (Luke 2:19). No doubt she’d treasured up a million other memories, too, from the Christ’s first smile, to his first tottering steps, to the prophecies Simeon and Anna had pronounced over him.—Mary “marveled” at those words (Luke 2:33).
We moms treasure every bit of it, and the parts that seem the least treasure-worthy at the time, well, perhaps someday those will turn out to be the most precious.
Mary had a treasuring heart, and like mother, like Son. Years later, Jesus spoke of a treasuring heart this way: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21)
Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Mary’s heart treasured her son, the Christ of God. She treasured, not just her memories of motherhood, but also the God who had chosen her. Mary’s heart overflowed with treasure.
Lord, let me treasure You, as Mary did. Let my hope not be here, in the temporary, in security, or even in people. Let me hope in You, and build my treasure on You. And the things I store up now that seem the least treasure-worthy, well, perhaps someday they will prove most precious. Give me a heart like Mary’s, Lord, because You are my greatest treasure! Amen.
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 1: A Willing Spirit
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 2: A Believing Mind
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 3: A Worshiping Soul
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
-Casting Crowns, “The Voice of Truth”
My favorite part of Belle the basset hound isn’t her droll expressions or lazy temperament. It certainly isn’t her smells and slobber. It’s her imaginary thoughts—the things we pretend Belle would say—the made-up dialogue between Belle and our family.
For instance, when I say, “Belle, get in your bed,” one of the kids responds in what we imagine to be Belle’s voice—a cross between Eeyore the donkey and Doug in Up—“I don’t actually want to right now so I will just stay right here.”
“Belle, do you want a treat?” is answered with something like, “Yes, please, I would like one of those very much, and how about if you just give me the whole jar but please leave it open because I don’t have thumbs.”
I confess, I sometimes carry on entire conversations with Belle, even when no one else is home. I don’t mean I talk to her. I talk with her. Just today, Belle mentioned that she hadn’t had breakfast yet, and I told her that I’d been very busy and to stop complaining, and she said she was sorry and asked me to forgive her.
Occasionally, Nathan points out that Belle isn’t, in fact, talking. “She probably doesn’t even think that, Mom,” or, “What if her voice is completely different than that?” And yet, despite his call back to reality, the imaginary dialogue continues. In fact, the longer I play Belle’s voice in my head, the more real it becomes. I’ve given this dog an entire personality and thought life—even motives and ambitions!—that can’t possibly be true.
Pretend conversations are harmless enough when it comes to basset hounds, I suppose, but sadly, I have an over-active imagination in more important areas, too. I replay the voices of doubt and fear and shame repeatedly in my head until I believe them. I make up other people’s thoughts—their motives and ambitions—that probably aren’t even true. I mistrust and obsess, based on scenarios that come from my very own head. And as with Belle, the longer I listen to my own imagination, the more real it becomes.
Time for a call back to reality! Time to make my thoughts obey Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5), and to think about whatever is true. (Philippians 4:8) Oh, Lord, enough with pretend thoughts and vain imaginations. Let Yours be the only voice I hear. “I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth.” Amen.
Previous Lessons from a Basset Hound:
- Lesson 1: Obedience
- Lesson 2: Perseverance
- Lesson 3: Love
- Lesson 4: Hope
- Lesson 5: Smelling Like Poo
- Lesson 6: Tweet!
- Lesson 7: Reward
- Lesson 8: Wisdom
- Lesson 9: New
- Lesson 10: Friendship
- Lesson 11: Being Stung
- Lesson 12: Acceptance
- Lesson 13: Rest
- Lesson 14: Joy
- Lesson 15: Compassion
- Lesson 16: Sabbath
- Lesson 17: Eye Contact
The summer I was pregnant with Nathan, Andy and I took a group of grade schoolers to church camp. Hot sun, hard bunk beds, and a vanload of hyper children made for not-so happy times for the uber-pregnant. I met a woman there, though—another pastor’s wife—who gave me this advice about delivering my firstborn:
“When I had my babies…when I was in labor and having all those contractions…I just praised God.”
Excuse me? I thought. Isn’t it supposed to be painful? I must’ve looked at her like she was crazy, because she continued, “No, I’m serious. I just sang and thanked God the whole time, and it really helped. You should try it.”
I decided that this woman was, in fact, a nut. I’d heard of women screaming in labor, but never singing. Still, I determined to try her worship idea, or at least a variation of it. I grabbed my spiral notebook and copied down all the verses on God’s “help” and “strength” that I could find.—If a verse said anything about God being with me and giving His power, I wrote it in the book. My doctor was a believer, so he wouldn’t mind. I wrote page after page of truth, and then, I did what pregnant women do best. I waited.
I waited, but not as long as I’d planned. I waited until August 1, when Nathan David decided to come six and a half weeks early. Andy and I went to the hospital, thinking I was having terrible back spasms (which turned out to be back labor…oh, was I brilliant). For some reason, even though I didn’t realize I was actually in labor, the only thing I brought with me to the hospital was that spiral notebook. From the moment we arrived, everything went like a blur. The nurse announced I was already dilated to eight centimeters…a placental abruption was discovered…the surgery team waited right outside my door…and through all the chaos and rush and fear, Andy stood beside my bed, held my hand, and quietly read those spiral-scriptures to me, over and over and over.
Turns out, not only was my doctor a strong Christian, but the nurse on-call that day was, too. She was also a pastor’s wife, and she said she “loved” hearing scripture throughout. At the end of the scariest day of my life, I had a tiny, flesh-and-blood testimony to God’s miraculous power. We all knew that God had—pardon the pun—been our mighty “deliverer.”
Amazing.
“My soul glorifies the Lord,” began Mary’s song in Luke’s gospel, “and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” No one had to advise Mary to have a worshiping soul about her own delivery; she praised sincerely, humbly, adoringly. Mary worshiped God for his greatness and holiness. She praised his mercy and might. But most beautiful to me is this: after Mary’s waiting was over…after she received her tiny, flesh-and-blood miracle…she held in her arms the very embodiment of all that she worshiped! The things for which she praised God were the very things that her baby came to be. He was Emmanuel. God with us. God in the flesh. Like Father, like Son.
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) We have seen his glory…and Mary held his glory!
Mary delivered the mighty deliverer! She worshiped God with her soul, and then she held God in her arms.
Amazing.
I will not be sad to see 2011 go, because frankly, for me, it has been a year of war. Not the wars overseas, and not war in my home, but an all out war in my head. In virtually every aspect of my life—ministry, marriage, motherhood, and even in some areas that don’t begin with M—God’s truth has been fighting Amy’s doubt, on the battlefield of my mind. Some weeks, I’ve called it spiritual attack. Other days, I’ve honestly wondered if I needed a little room with padded walls.
My struggle ultimately comes down to one word: unbelief. Do I believe God is bigger than my fear? Greater than every unknown? The doubts and uncertainties scream loudly, but all the while, He whispers, “Stop doubting and believe.” (John 20:27)
In Luke 1, Mary visited Elizabeth—and an excited, pre-born John the Baptist. Elizabeth praised Mary with this:
“Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished.” (Luke 1:45)
Blessed—happy, fortunate, well off—is the woman who has believed—had faith in, committed herself to, put her trust in—God. Mary believed God. She believed that the crazy things Gabriel foretold would come true. And because she believed, she was blessed.
Like mother, like Son. Years later, after His resurrection, Jesus echoed his Aunt Elizabeth’s words when he spoke to his doubtful friend, Thomas. “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29)
Oh, to believe like Mary! To have a mind washed with His word and built firmly on His truth. To, as a friend encouraged me recently, “finally give in” in faith, and believe even when I can’t see.
A prayer from an unbeliever: “Lord, I believe! Help me in my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24) You’ve given me “divine power to demolish every stronghold,” so help me to “take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.” (2 Corinthians 10:3-5) Give me a believing mind. Make me like Mary, and like her Son, because “blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!” (Luke 1:45) Amen.
- Download more Truth for a Believing Mind here.
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 1: A Willing Spirit
Eleven Christmas seasons ago, I was pregnant with Anne Elizabeth. Born on December 14, little Anne even got to be Baby Jesus in our church’s Christmas performance. Jesus, it turned out, was very hungry that night, and cried “his” little lungs out through the entire show.
Something about being pregnant in December made me feel extra motherly, and Luke’s gospel telling of Christ’s birth jumped off the pages of Scripture to me that year. I was especially taken with Mary herself, as though she and I were somehow connected by our round bellies and swollen ankles. I saw four attributes in Mary to emulate in my own life, and the first is this: Mary had a willing spirit.
As a young, engaged virgin, Mary’s angelic encounter must have been overwhelming at best. Terrifying, too, and even absurd. “Mary, I know you’re a virgin and all, but you’re about to be pregnant. And also, your baby will be God.” Crazy! But “nothing is impossible with God,” Gabriel concluded, and Mary replied, “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” (Luke 1:26-38)
May it be to me as you have said. It doesn’t get much more willing than that. I can’t think of the last time I uttered anything close to Mary’s response, at least not without months of arguing and wrestling and trying to figure things out first. Mary did none of that. Just simply, “May it be to me as you have said. I’ll do whatever you say, Lord, and I’ll take whatever you give. I’m your servant.”
And, like mother, like Son. More than three decades later, Jesus himself would speak very similar words to his Father, on an agonizing night in a garden. “Everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” (Mark 14:36)
Nothing is impossible…everything is possible.
May it be to me…not my will but yours.
Oh, what God can do with a willing spirit! With Mary’s willingness, God brought the Messiah into the world. With Christ’s willingness, He brought salvation on the cross. I wonder…if I had the willingness of Mary and Jesus Christ, what impossible feat would God accomplish through me?
Maybe He’d restore a relationship.
“Amy, I want you to forgive her. Let her off the hook.”
“Okay, Lord, I will. I’ll do whatever You ask.”
Maybe God would quiet an anxiety.
“Quit telling me this is impossible, child. Trust Me.”
“I believe You, Father! May it be to me as You have said.”
Maybe, if I were willing, God would use my life to bear much fruit for His glory.
“Just remain in me, and let my words remain in you. I’ll do more than you can more than you can even imagine.” (John 15:7-8; Ephesians 3:20-21)
“Oh, use me. I’m your servant.”
Lord God, You accomplish the crazy. Nothing is impossible with You! Grant me a more willing spirit, Father. Make me more like Mary and more like the Christ. What can you do—through me—with a willing spirit? Whatever it is, God, may it be to me as you have said. I’m your servant. Amen.
Every time my grade-school friend complained, “It’s not fair!”, her father responded with a little song:
Come on down to the Snot Fair
There are prizes for everyone!
Back then, we rolled our eyes at how silly dads can be, but lately, I’ve found my selfish self attending a Snot Fair of my own. I whine a very entitled, “It’s not fair!” to anyone who will listen—mostly to God himself.
“I am over-worked and under-appreciated. It’s not fair.”
“We’re obedient and unrewarded, while other people are praised for their sin. It’s not fair!”
“I try to please You. Others don’t. I confess my sin while others bask in it. I bite my tongue when other people say every hurtful, irresponsible thing they want. Are You listening, God? Do You see? It’s. Not. FAIR!”
In Psalm 73, King David went to the Snot Fair. “I envied the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked….Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure; in vain have I washed my hands in innocence.” (Psalm 73:3, 13) But David soon left the Snot Fair for the Sanctuary (v. 17), and delighted instead in God’s presence.
Jonah went to the Snot Fair, too, and stayed so long that he camped out in the “shade” there. So angry that he wanted to die, Jonah must’ve rolled his eyes as his Father sang a little song to him. “Have you any right to be angry?” (Jonah 4:4)
But my favorite Snot Fair in Scripture is Matthew 20—the parable of the workers in the vineyard. The hired men who worked all day were angry that those who only worked an hour received payment equal to theirs. “It’s not fair!” they whined.
The landowner responded—sang?—to them (and me), “Friend, I am not being unfair to you….Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?” (Matthew 20:13-15)
Lord, I’m selfish and ungrateful. Forgive me. To wallow in entitlement is to overlook Your goodness. To fight for fair is to miss Your grace. I am envious because You are generous, and I have no right to be angry. Sing Your compassion song over me again. Be the “strength of my heart and my portion forever,” because “earth has nothing I desire besides you.” (Psalm 73:25-26) I love You, Lord. Amen.
Love this from A.W. Tozer:
It’s the first Palm Sunday, and here comes Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. The crowds begin to shout “Hosanna! Hosanna!” The old donkey pricks up his ears. Some in the crowd throw their coats in the road; others spread out palm branches.
“Well!” says the donkey, switching a fly off a mange patch. “I had no idea they really appreciated me like this! Listen to those hosannas, would you. I must really be something!”
God, remind me that it’s not about me. I’m a donkey, and my job is to simply, humbly, faithfully carry the Christ. Amen.
