Friday, January 27, 2012

Happy Joy

I read a blog post in the quiet of the morning, as the girls watch a little movie and I had intended to quickly wash the dishes and go join them. I still will go and join them, but perhaps the dishes won't be washed when I do. But I stopped to think, and sometimes thinking is best done when the mood strikes these days, and the dishes left until later. Because the thoughts pass through my busy mommy mind like water through a sieve and are gone if I don't pause to capture them in their flight.

I read about joy, and about living joyful in this crazy, awful, frightening world we find ourselves in today. The world that frightens me so much that I am afraid to read the news. The world that frightens me so much that I am afraid to read about Corrie ten Boom anymore because sometimes I think that it's all about to come to that again, only on our own soil this time. Perhaps I am wrong. But I hear tales and I see things and I worry.

I worry when I try to watch children's shows with my babies and they are so foolish and full of rebellion and anti-Christian sentiment that I have to turn them off quickly and wonder what happened to the simple little things I used to watch as a little girl. So we watch old shows. From simpler days that weren't really that long ago.

I worry when I see the Constitution being re-written or discarded before our eyes. I worry when I go through check-out lines and look at all of the young people – not much younger than I – who are at the registers or walking through the store, and I see the hopelessness and anger in their eyes...and I think that they will be running the country sooner than I'd like to think.

I worry when I see the scores of the anti-rich acting like they think they're actually poor and swarming the streets demanding their just deserts – namely fancy cars and huge homes and gated communities like the 1% get to have – while all around the world millions live in squalor that would make a trailer look like a palace.

I worry when it seems that the tales of abductions and rapes and murders and abuses just pour in faster and faster every year, and I look at my two little girls and feel terrified for their futures in this wild and crazy world, and hope that they will have a brother or two or three to look out for them when their Daddy and I can't be there anymore.

I worry about a future that looks like it could be very dark indeed. It could be farther off than it appears, and perhaps it will not come in my lifetime. But I see dark clouds ahead and they are coming straight for us. I know that if I don't have to sail into them, my children will. My children who sit now so sweet and innocent and thrill to the melodies of Mary Poppins and squeal with joy at the sight of a squirrel on the back deck...they do not see the clouds that I see. To them the world is a place of wonder and excitement.

And I so often forget this and see it as full of fearful things and frightening unknowns and dark terrors looming around each bend in the road ahead.

But I do not want this to be the life they see me lead. I do not want them to see me live full of fear and anxiety, even if everything around me seems to demand it.

I want them to see me leaning on the Everlasting Arms. I want them to see me fearlessly laughing at the future, like the woman of Proverbs 31. I want them to see me welcome it with open arms, knowing that whatever comes is whatever God allowed, and that no matter what happens, HE is with me, and HE is with my children. I want them to cling to Him, and if they have learnt to cling to Him with all their hearts and souls and minds, then I need not fear the future for them. Their bodies may suffer, but their souls will be safe.

And isn't that what really matters?

I crave comfort. I like leisure. I want my children to have freedom from fear and freedom from want and freedom from all the things that I fear await in the stormy seas that may be ahead.

But those things are not promised us in Scripture. What is promised us is the faithfulness of our God. That He will never leave us or forsake us. That His everlasting arms will always be there. That He is our strength, and He is our joy. That in Him, we are commanded to rejoice, turning our worries over to Him. We are to rest and trust in Him, and obey Him, and there we will find true joy.

Joy that goes above all the fear and tumult of the world around us. Joy in the midst of the maelstrom that swirls around us and joy as we watch our culture swirling around the drain and wondering if we will be dragged down into darkness, too.

Joy is above all of the fears of this age. Joy is bigger than suffering. Joy is not happiness. Joy is not a foolish denial of reality.

I think to myself...what is joy? I have always known that it was apart from happiness. That it was something other. Something serene and pure and entirely different from the happiness that Americans are sworn to pursue. The happiness that fills our lives with cheerful noise and racket and that drowns out the noise of fear around us by distracting us with baubles and parties and fun and laughter and pleasant things. It's lovely, but it could all be snatched away, and then what would be left if we didn't have joy?

And then the thought comes to me, quiet and slow.

Perhaps joy is the Great Quiet that swallows up the noise of the self-destructing world around us so that we can hear the still, small voice of God. The still, small voice that whispers, “It is I.”

“It is I. Be not afraid.”

“I have overcome the world.”

His quiet voice drowns the roar of the world that seeks to deafen us.

His quiet voice silences the gale.

And in joy, as we listen to the quiet all around, we will be happy.


Happy. Come what may.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Little Helpers

I have written two blog posts in the past week.  This might be a new record for me.  I am reminded, however, of why I am having trouble blogging these days.  Because I can't write a short blog post.  They always come out to be 6 pages long or something, taking an entire naptime to write.  It's not working so well for me.  I don't usually want to use an entire naptime to write, because there are other more pressing things to attend to.  Like eating something.  Or just sitting and staring out the window and listening to the quiet for a few minutes.  Or not.  It's more like the best time of day to do some dishes and laundry and maybe even get dinner on so that I won't have to be cooking during Grumpy Time.  Grumpy Time usually hits around dinner-prep time, and it has taken me 2 years to realize that maybe this means I should choose a different time of day for dinner-prep.

Oh, and excuse me for a moment.  My 2nd born has a long string of something hanging out of her mouth and she is standing on her head and playing with it.  One of those moments.  They happen.

Well, that went well.  I got back and she had cleaned it up by crawling through it.  Thanks, girl.  You're such a big helper!  I write this even as she takes all three nicely folded blankets on the couch and hurls them to the floor.  Okay, so maybe we need to keep working on the big helper thing.  It will come.

And now she stands here, trying to get the blankets back onto the sofa.  And it's not going very well.  She is small.  The blankets are big.  And she is huffing and puffing and tugging and it's not working for her.  The more she huffs and puffs and panics, the worse it goes, in fact.  She pulls harder.  Tugs harder.  But it doesn't help.  She gives up and leaves them in the floor and walks away to find other pursuits more worthy of her time and effort.

All she had to do when she was struggling so was look up at me and say "Mama?"  And I could easily have helped her.  In fact, I don't usually wait to be asked.  I just help.  But she's usually so busy looking down at whatever she's struggling with - whether it's putting a puzzle together or pulling giant blankets from the floor - that she doesn't even realize she's been helped.  She thinks she's done it herself.

I rarely get thanked.  But I help her again next time anyway.  Because I'm her mommy, and that's what mommies do.

Of course, I'm not always that happy about doing it.  Sometimes children can need help at very inconvenient times.  Usually when I've excused myself to use the facilities for two minutes.  That's when life always falls apart, it seems.

Why am I so quick to forget that my Father is always there to help me?  That He is always gracious and loving?  When I'm struggling with loads that seem too heavy - even if they aren't really as heavy as I make them out to be - He is always gentle and kind to me and ready to help.  He doesn't find it inconvenient or annoying.  It doesn't matter how many times I need help, He is always there with those mighty, everlasting arms.  I struggle and struggle and sometimes I think I have succeeded at licking a problem myself.  When I should be recognizing all of "my" strength as God's strength - as God's mercy and grace - and thanking Him for His aid.  For giving all credit where all credit is due.  I thank Him for His gracious patience toward me.

May I remember this the next time that I run to help a child in need at an inopportune moment.  Before I laugh too much at her complete assurance that she just conquered the problem herself, oblivious to my involvement in the conquering process - may I remember to pause and thank God for enabling me to respond well to the perceived inconvenience of the moment, or pause to repent if I did not`.

She's at it again.  Trying to get those blankets up on the couch.  I'll go help her this time.  And if she doesn't remember to thank me...I'll just smile and say, "You're so much like your mama.  We both have a lot to learn."

Thanking God for His patient instruction in righteousness,

Me