Currently viewing the tag: "Nathan"
“All we can hear is the birds,” my son whispered one morning. He was six at the time, and we had just moved from a condo by the freeway to a townhouse that backed up to hills and open space. That first day in our new home, Nathan couldn’t hear the morning commute right outside his bedroom window, and the silence was almost spooky.
“All we can hear is the birds.”
Lately, though, our quiet house has been anything but. Our hectic pace and crammed calendars have me feeling tired and irritable. I notice it the most in my eyes: I rub them a lot because I’m tired, and I roll them a lot because I’m irritable.
For two weeks now, I’ve carried around a book about Sabbath, but I haven’t opened it yet. The irony of being too busy to read about rest! Tonight, though, we have nothing on our calendar. No church, no life group, no meetings. No ballet class, no “on-call” at the hospital. We’re not even going out to eat! We’re going to sit here, just the five of us, and look at each other right in our red, rolling eyes.
We’re going to listen for the birds.
Lord, You’re our shepherd. Make us lie down in green pastures. Lead us beside quiet waters. Restore our souls. Exchange our tired irritability with Your refreshed joy, until all we can hear is the birds. Amen.
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.
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.
A recent text from Nathan…
When Andy is gone overnight, Nathan kicks into “man of the house” mode. Suddenly, the boy who has to be reminded to use a comb on his head recalls everything Andy usually does. Nathan locks the doors at night, brings the trashcans in from the curb, turns off every light in the house, and makes perfect grilled cheese sandwiches.
Okay, he doesn’t really do that last part. But Andy has already started passing on his grilled cheese skills. It won’t be long before Nathan earns his spatula. Train up a child in the way he should go!
Nathan’s “do what Dad does” mentality brought me to tears one morning a few years ago when Andy was out of town. I was putting on my makeup in the bathroom, and Nathan wandered in.
“Hi, Mom,” he began. He was tugging at the front of his hair—his habit when he’s nervous. “Um…I was just gonna say, is there anything I can do for you today?”
Very sweet, certainly, and thoughtful beyond his years. But the question revealed more. It wasn’t just Nathan being kind…it was Nathan being like his father. Nearly every morning, Andy asks me, “Is there anything I can do for you today?” “How can I help you today?” I’d honestly not given such a kindness much thought, until I heard it echoed by my son.
“Is there anything I can do for you today?”
And it made me wonder. If my kids were to emulate me, what would they do? What do they hear me say day after day? Do they hear me laugh, or complain? Respect my husband, or nag him? Would they spend an hour in the Word, or on facebook? What would it look like to look like me?
Lord, thank You for a husband who serves because He wants to be like You. Thank You for the example he sets for Nathan. God, the little people around me might someday look like me—oh! Please, help me to look like You. Don’t stop refining me until I do. And let my heart’s cry every morning be, “My Father, is there anything I can do for You today?” Amen.
God is seldom early, as the saying goes, but I’ll never forget the day He showed up nearly seven weeks ahead of schedule. Due in the middle of September, Nathan was born on the first day of August. A placental abruption, seizure, ventilator, and three-week stay in NICU were my scary introduction to motherhood.
Not exactly how I’d pictured things. We hadn’t even attended our labor and delivery classes yet. No blue bubblegum cigars, no happy pictures. Instead of proudly handing Nathan from friend to admiring friend, Andy held my hand as we prayed over a tiny NICU bed.
Three weeks later, it was finally time to leave the hospital. The doctor signed a paper, the nurse turned off the machines, and for the first time, Nathan was unplugged. Cordless, Andy said. Just like that, our little family was free to go home. Ready or not, here we come!
I wasn’t ready. Not ready at all.
Andy pulled the car away from the hospital, and I rode in the back seat, next to Nathan. I worried over every bump and bend in the road while he slept soundly. Then, afraid that he was sleeping too soundly, I reached for his tiny wrist. I felt Nathan’s pulse the entire way home.
How could I trust that he was okay? Without the hospital monitors, how could I know if Nathan’s heart rate was regular, or if he was still breathing, or that he wouldn’t have another seizure? So many things could go wrong, and I was unprepared. This was all happening too soon. Really, Lord, I’m not ready!
And yet. In all my fear, the Lord spoke comfort. Through the prophet Isaiah, He promised His presence. “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10) My God was present in every anxious moment, and His presence brought peace.
And to all my inadequacies, Christ spoke power. “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” “That is why, for Christ’s sake,” wrote Paul, “I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:9-10) I wasn’t ready, but the Ancient of Days was. I wasn’t enough, but His grace was sufficient. His power was perfected in my weakness.
A dozen years and two more babies later, I still feel inadequate in parenting. On my own, I’m never prepared enough, never competent enough for all that motherhood requires. But, He brings comfort in the chaos. Strength in my weakness. He is all-sufficient in my insufficiency. Ready or not…the Lord is enough.
One evening as I wrote at Panera, I couldn’t help but watch the young family at a table nearby. The parents’ proud, adoring faces told me that this baby boy was their first child, and that they loved every single thing he did. He wasn’t just the most important person in Panera—to them, he was the only other person on the planet.
Dad answered his son’s every coo with, “Oh, really? Is that right? What else?” Mom spooned something green out of a jar, her mouth moving like her baby’s as she tried to get the food in his face. More than once, the parents grinned at each other across the table, marveling over this precious person their love had created.
I remember looking at Nathan just like that. We found him fascinating. Quite honestly, I don’t remember feeding Molly, but I suppose the fact that she’s still alive proves she must’ve been fed at some point. That’s the plight of the third born.
It struck me, as I stared, that God sees me just like those parents saw their baby. Unconditional love, delight, fascination. To Him, I’m the firstborn. With God, I’m the only child on the planet. And so are you. He marvels over us because He created us in love.
I once heard Beth Moore say that God isn’t rearing us to leave home. We’ll be with Him forever. He is always a loving father, and He never loses His fascination for us. Zephaniah described our perfect parent this way:
The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17)
God, let me know—KNOW—just how loved I am. What security, what purpose, what life is mine, because of Your forever love! Thank You, Father, for calling me Your own. Amen.
“This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now CHOOSE LIFE, so that you and your children may LIVE and that you may LOVE the Lord your God, LISTEN to his voice, and HOLD FAST to him. For the Lord is your life, and he will give you many years in the land he swore to give to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” Deuteronomy 30:19-20
Classical education calls a student Nathan’s age “the argumentative child”.
Frankly, I can’t think of a more appropriate adjective.
Arguments with my soon-to-be middle schooler have led to some not-so-fun moments. Growing pains come with growing up, I suppose, but what if Nathan continues to make unwise choices? What if his disobedience and disrespect today become rebellion and a hard heart tomorrow? What if my kids don’t choose the Lord, once they’re on their own?
In Deuteronomy, Moses delivers a farewell speech to his argumentative children, the Israelites, just before they enter the promised land on their own. Moses reminds them of God’s faithfulness, and then, he lays out a choice. “It’s life or death,” he says, “so choose wisely. Now choose life!”
I’m struck by the four parts of Moses’ call—the four Ls. I’ve started using Deuteronomy 30:19-20 as a parent’s prayer—a four-part plea on behalf of my argumentative children.
Now choose life, says Moses, so that you may…
- LIVE. God, I pray that Nathan, Anne and Molly will live freely and fully in You. Freedom and abundance grow from faith and obedience, so let them obey boldly. Let them truly live! (Deuteronomy 11:31-32)
- LOVE. Grant my kids hearts to love You, God. Let them love You deeply—heart, soul and strength. Give them love for other people, too—for their family, friends, and enemies. Remind them of the grace You’ve given them, so that they’ll extend love and grace to others. (Deuteronomy 6:5; Mark 12:30-31)
- LISTEN. Let Nathan, Anne and Molly listen to Your voice! Call them loudly. Give them a hunger for Your word—keep it “very near”—and let them come to know You through it. It doesn’t matter how many Bible verses I make them memorize if they don’t encounter You, so don’t let them just hear “idle words”. Give them ears to listen. (Deuteronomy 30:14; 32:46-47)
- HOLD FAST. (This one doesn’t start with L, so instead I pray it as “latch on”. Alliteration blesses me.) God, let my kids stick with You! Like Moses on Mount Sinai, transform my kids so much in Your presence that they never want to leave it. Show them how much they need to be with You, so they’ll hold fast. (Exodus 33:14-15)
Let Nathan, Anne and Molly live in Your freedom, love You, listen to Your voice, and latch on to You. Lord, be their life! Thank You for “abounding in love and faithfulness”…to all Your argumentative children. Amen. (Exodus 34:6-7)
Re-posted from February 2008.
My son has a habit that I love (and several I don’t love, but they aren’t at issue here). When Nathan is concentrating or confused, he plays with the hair right in the middle of his forehead. He scratches his hairline, or gives his locks a little tug, as if physically stimulating his head will inspire his brain to greater thought capacity.
Yesterday morning, Nathan came in to my bathroom while I was putting on my make-up. With one fist shoved deep in his pocket, and the other scratching his head, Nathan started, “Mom, ya’ know how God is infinity?”
“Yes.”
“So I was just thinking about how He created the world, and I was wondering, like, WHEN He made it, and then I was like, ‘Wait! He’s been alive forever!’ So do you think He, like, waited awhile before He started creating everything, or–wait! That doesn’t make any sense because He has been here forever! And (scratch) that just sort of makes me feel a little, like, dizzy.”
I told him I knew what he meant–that I can’t get my mind around how big God is, either. And I said something I’d read–that, if we could explain everything about God, then He wouldn’t really be God. We shook our heads, baffled by God’s bigness, and Nathan said that he’s definitely going to ask Him that one when he gets to heaven.
Nathan bounced out of the room and left me to finish my make-up. I tore off a toilet paper square to stop a few tears from messing up my fresh mascara, and breathed a prayer for my son: “Let him always be awed by Your bigness.”
Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon. I attended a class on Christian beliefs. Wouldn’t you think that after all these years of following Jesus, I’d be familiar enough with the topic? I have a Bible college degree, for heaven’s sake. But, no. I left that class feeling just like Nathan: completely baffled by God’s bigness, scratching my head, and a little, like, dizzy.
Imagine how big God must be to have created the universe. The truth is, none of us really know exactly how He pulled that off, even though we debate the details as if we did. From mountains to molecules, from this beautiful earth to the countless other worlds beyond ours…He made it all from nothing. Yeah, I’m definitely going to have to ask Him that one, too.
And consider, as we discussed in my class yesterday, the sheer number of thoughts that God must have. At once. At all times. God knows that I’m breathing right now. And He is also thinking about your breath, and your neighbor’s breath, and the breeze outside, and the rotation of the earth, and an infinite number of thoughts that we don’t even think to think He thinks. Dizzy yet?
But here’s the truly huge part: God’s love. God simply is love. He made an amazing world, let us choose our own way in it, and then made an unbelievably gracious plan to restore what we messed up. That’s love. That’s grace. That’s enough to make you scratch your head and fall on your face in worship.
Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I’m too wrapped up in my selfish little world, having tiny thoughts about my wants and worries. Sometimes I think I know all there is to know about…everything. But I am finite, and God is infinite. He will not be contained, and He cannot be explained. His world, His thoughts, and especially His love are big. Very big. It’s good to scratch my head in baffled adoration. It’s good to feel a little, like, dizzy.
Painting from Jill Nathanson’s Seeing Sinai suite
One afternoon, I left Nathan home alone while I took the girls to ballet class. He’s as trustworthy as an 11-year-old boy can be, I suppose, but I still ran through a mom-list of don’ts before leaving.
“Don’t answer the phone unless it’s Dad or me.”
“Don’t answer the door. Don’t go outside at all.”
“Don’t get anything to eat unless you call me first.”
“Don’t light any matches, or cook anything on the stove, or put any forks in the microwave.”
Nathan rubbed his forehead. “Okay!” he laughed. “I’m starting to feel guilty—like I did somethin’ wrong—and I haven’t even done anything yet!”
I know that feeling—a nagging sense of guilt, even when I’m not guilty. It’s shame. One author I read defined guilt as the feeling you have when you do something wrong, but shame as the feeling you have when you are something wrong. Ouch.
I didn’t mean to shame Nathan.—I just meant to scare him into good behavior in my absence. God doesn’t want to shame his children, either. In fact, He isn’t about shame at all. Conviction of sin? Yes. But instead of punishment, He offers forgiveness and grace to those who believe. No shame.
A verse I read a few months ago continues to return to me: “Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” (Psalm 34:5) Like Moses, whose “face was radiant because he had spoken with the Lord” on Mount Sinai (Exodus 33-34), I will shine from being in God’s presence.
I look in the mirror, and see shaming flaws and insecurities. I look at the past, and remember many choices, actions, and words that make my head drop in shame. But when I look to the Lord—when I see myself and my past as He does—I am radiant. My face will never be covered in shame.
