Trades of Hope

Being a mom to two small girls changes things. It’s changed things for me.

These girls are wise little sponges of imitation, and they are soaking me up. With these tiny shadows tailing me I can’t help but think long and hard about the kind of woman I am- about what kind of little women I am leaving in my wake.

I remember what it was like to watch my mom. Before it was all said and done, I would admire her, envy her, dissect her, reject her, become her… She was a case study in what it meant to be a woman, and I did not. miss. one. thing.

My girls are no different. They are watching. They are learning. What are they seeing?

I know what I want them to see.

I want them to see a woman who is not afraid to lay down her whole life, her dreams, her daylight (even her body) to nourish the lives of those she’s been given to love; a woman who is not afraid to love Jesus whether or not world that calls her stupid for it; a woman who is not afraid to play and to dance and to enjoy all of the things that she has; a woman who is not afraid to chase down her passions and make space for her gifts; a woman who is not afraid to ask questions and to keep learning and to do all of the hard things that she is afraid to do.

But how do you go about crafting tiny girls into the beautiful/remarkable/empowered women they were created to be when women and girls all around the world are still trafficked, sold, abused, and belittled?

The trouble is, I started listening. I started listening to the things being said about the moms who are selling their girls to brothels because they can’t afford to feed them; about the women and girls fleeing Syria who are being brutally raped as a way of waging war; about the moms who are giving their babies away to orphanages because at least that way they know that they will eat…

You can only listen for so long before the listening turns to aching, which turns to praying, which turns to asking- “Why not us, Lord? Why are we safe and fed and healthy and rich?”

And then the burden of what do I do with all of this?

What do I want my girls to SEE me doing with all of this? It is our responsibility to show them what it looks like to love the world in all it’s broken, icky, painful, places. It’s one thing to sit in church and TELL them that Jesus loved the “least of these” – but to show my baby girls what that love looks like, to get your pretty little middle class children face to face with the world’s poor, that is something completely different. (And I’m not talking about the cleaned-up-for-Sunday-morning kind of poor- Jesus loved the dirty, stinking, desperate, unlovely, vulnerable ones. And He loved them fiercely.)

THESE are the people whose lives I’m meant to invest in. When my girls think back on what their mom was like, on what kind of impact she made on the world, I want them to see a woman that CHOSE to embrace the people that were not easy to embrace.

The Lord is so kind to plant these desires in our hearts, and then to give us the answer to the question He urged us to ask in the first place, right? So in this aching, tired place, this place of searching for a way to make a real and lasting impact in the lives of the 1,000s of women and children that so desperately need hope, and to leave a legacy for my girls, the Lord put “Trades of Hope” right where I could see it, and I jumped in with both feet.

“Trades of Hope” is now my passion, my ministry, my joy, and (incredibly) my job! The idea behind this missional business is really very simple: if you give a woman the tools and the opportunity to provide for her family by earning a living wage she will be UNSTOPPABLE. She will feed and clothe her children. She will send them to school. She will invest in her community and even become a leader in it. She will empower generations of girls to follow after her. And she will BREAK the cycle of poverty. That’s how it works. As a Compassionate Entrepreneur with Trades of Hope I have the incredible privilege to partner with these women, selling their handcrafted items at fair trade prices and creating a market for their products, which empowers them to provide for their families in a way that is dignified, sustainable, and income-generating. The artisans we partner with live in extreme poverty, some have come out of sex work, some live in the slums, others have been acid attacked, or rejected by their communities- but they are brave, they are beautiful, they are talented, and this work is filling their lives with HOPE.

I am seriously honored to be a part of this amazing company, and I have been itching to share it with all of you for quite some time. Also, the jewelry is STUNNING. You can see the pieces up close, and learn more about how you can join the movement at my website or you can always email me at cejolynntoh@gmail.com.

Feel free to comment below with any questions! I have learned so much in recent months about the women we partner with and am so eager to share their stories and to spread the Trades of Hope love with anyone who will listen.

“I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone stone across the waters to create many ripples.” – Mother Theresa-

The Hannah More Project

These months that I’ve been silent have been anything but quiet.

In fact, all things “social justice” have been colliding in my world in a totally thrilling and unexpected way that’s left me reeling with anticipation for what’s to come.

To give you a bit of perspective, at the same time I was crafting up this post, I sort of stumbled into this small business venture that, as it turns out, is blowing my mind with it’s timing and precision- crafted for me by a Maker who’s got a big bold plan and loves His creation with a wise, intricate, completeness that makes me tremble… And this is exactly when “The Hannah More Project” was being ignited into action just half a state away, by a dear friend.

Barb Seidle is an everyday eccentric, casually hilarious, passionate, driven, a little bit genius, a complete hot mess, and absolutely driven by her love for the Father. It is this heart- one that aches alongside it’s Creator’s- that drove her first to read every single book ever written about the worst kinds of social injustice (because she’s an investigative knowledge junkie), and second to move toward action- any and all kinds- with those like-minded friends surrounding her.

And THEN, slowly, the Lord birthed this beautiful idea in my sweet friend- the idea that there was a way to bring life and hope and knowledge to the people who were looking for it, and in doing so to make REAL and significant change through storytelling.

And so my friends, I am thrilled to introduce you to “The Hannah More Project,” and to invite you along for the ride, as Barb and those of us partnering with her, breathe life into this incredible thing that the Lord has planted in our midst!

Head on over to “The Hannah More Project” to learn more about what our goals are, and why we’re all so stinking excited by clicking here. And while you’re there you can check out my recent post on Freedom.

Unfolding the Map

I’ve got this picture in my mind lately.

I’m standing in this big space, Holy Spirit surrounding me, but otherwise just little old me, and I’m trying to keep this large stack of mismatched slippery bits (hopes, dreams, passions, ideas) in my two small hands, but pieces keep sliding through my fingers, and I’ve got to do the whole hand juggling dance every couple of seconds to keep from losing something precious. There’s just too much to hold.

This is me trying to run my own life.

Not super efficient or effective, and honestly it’s getting a little tedious.

Both Matt and I are the kind of people that are exceptionally good planners. We’re both firstborns, so I think it kind of comes with the territory. We also have a knack for making responsible decisions. As a result, the life we’ve crafted for ourselves is a fairly cozy and quiet one- little drama, lots of love and safety, lots of grace for one another, a livable paycheck, a good neighborhood for our girls to live in- cozy, quiet, happy, etc… as much as it depends on us.

But God is turning this reality on it’s head lately, as I mentioned here, and it’s got me kind of shaken.

All of this shaking up, has gotten us talking a lot of honest marital talk. You know how there are things  about each other, and about your relationship that both you and your spouse know to be true, but that you never really put into words because saying it out loud would be too scary AND would mean you’d have to do something about it…

Basically the conversation I’m referring to went something like:

Big question: “So how do we really know when God is doing something, saying something, moving us in a certain direction? How do we know it’s His voice we’re hearing? What are we basing all of these life decisions on??”

Big answer: “If we think God is saying yes to something it’s usually because the thing in front of us looks like the most responsible answer to one of the problems at hand.”

So that’s no good. CLEARLY, We’ve got a responsibility complex of sorts.

Also, COULD WE BE MORE SQUARE?! No, in fact, we could not. We are (and always have been) those good student, good christian types- straight as an arrow, first and last boyfriend/girlfriend to each other, born immune to that kind of peer pressure all parents dread by some combination of kind mercy and genetic predisposition. Of course we’ve done MORE than our share of uncomfortable things, we’ve sinned (alot), repented (alot), but we don’t do dangerous things. We don’t do radical. We don’t do unexpected.

But maybe I should be speaking in the past tense.

Because suddenly here I am, hands open, standing in the middle of something I did not see coming.

Back to that picture I mentioned: instead of clinging close to all of these disjointed wobbly bits of future that have had me hoppin around, now I’m only holding a piece of paper- a map- and all I have to do it open it up.

Everything I wanted and needed and longed for and felt called to? Jesus just handed me a tailor made plan that puts it all perfectly in place.

The weirdest part? It happened so naturally that I hardly noticed the Lord shuffling me gently and steadily toward this new place. I hardly noticed the changes He’s been making in my heart that are bringing me closer to boldness, to dangerous and radical living, to Jesus.

I (or we, as I mentioned) have just been doing what made sense, what seemed good, prayerfully(ish), but honestly we could have prayed alot MORE. Knowing this, I’ve long suspected that I/we needed to pray a lot more for God to steer this ship where He wanted, that I needed to get out of my one way, chuck my dreams overboard, and just let Him revamp the whole entire thing. A process, that I figured would be painful and full of gut-wrenching sacrifice before the joy kicked in.

So here’s the revelation- My Abba is working WITH me. He is Big enough and Good enough to take that on.

He works with my quirks. He works with my misgivings, with my fears, my predispositions, my imperfections, my failures, and even with my outright rebellion… and somehow, miraculously, Holy Spirit gets me where I need to be.

And He does all of this because one day, I was a little twelve year old girl who fell so completely in love with the God who came for me that I asked Him to be my King, and I meant it.

He stamped me, sealed me, paid it in full, and now is a living breathing Treasure rooted deep down inside my bones, and no matter what I do or don’t do- I simply can’t shake Him.

One day I asked Him to run my life, and so He does it.

Whether I’m gracious and patient with my kids and husband, or grumpy and less than lovely. Whether I take the round about path to a Life of love and service or get right down on my knees each morning.

I am an object of grace and a vessel of the Most High. Like it or not. Ready or not. And He will use me. All of me- for His glory and for my good.

So where’s this map taking me? I’ll get around to that…

Pint-sized Enemies

It’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m pounding down bites of cold steak from off my dinner plate when the word that comes out of my mouth to describe my current state is “seething.” Oh, is that what I am? Obviously there’s a problem here.

Out of the overflow right? Well, what I’m overflowing with right now is hot injured anger.

“I’m just so sick of being treated like crap,” I say. “I am so COMPLETELY done. I am done-er than done. I am over it, all of it. Find my replacement.”

Matt’s listening. God bless him. So I keep purging. And then the hot tears come; the disappointed heartbroken truth rises like steam from my boiling lips. Honesty’s first impression is almost always an unlovely one.

“It’s just that I let her get to me. I know that I shouldn’t let her get to me. But how can you give someone everything- all your energy, all your attention, all your love, and still just get handed disrespect and the crappiest sort of CRAP. I don’t even like her right now. I don’t want to wake up to her tomorrow because I don’t even LIKE being around her, and I can’t remember how to get back to where we were. Am I making any sense?!”

He’s nodding, but his face is quiet. I’m begging for noise and amens and loud agreement. “Complete sense,” he gives me.

These are things you aren’t supposed to say out loud about your two year old daughter. Things you absolutely aren’t supposed to publish. Shhhhhh!!! you rotten bad feelings about my offspring, just sshhhhh. Keep it down before someone sees you!

Who is the best at keeping all the thoughts, feelings, musings, ramblings, etc… stuffed deep down inside? Not this lady, and definitely not when I’m with my guy. This scene is in some ways typical. When Matt and I are in the room alone I tend toward explosive weepiness and much hand gesturing, letting the “I can’ts” fly around willy nilly. Remarkably though, one solitary “Mommy?” can cut through my funk and put a cork on it all in the strangest sort of way. Matt calls this my game face.

Did I mention that it’s the day after Mother’s Day? Awesome.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you…” (Matt 5:43-48)

Who’d have imagined that the Tiny Humans I bore in my own body would be the truest enemies I’ve yet to encounter? Who knew my firstborn could strike me down so completely? -that her disobedience, disrespect, ingratitude, and selfishness could lay me out.

Cursed? Hated? Spitefully used? Persecuted? Yes, yes, and yes again.

Motherhood is brutal. Tonight I am bruised and floundering, struggling to find the Spirit so He can bandage me up.

I know the right answer. I know that the answer is love. I know that the way to fix this, the way to be the grown-up, the light to my Little Lost One is to choose to get closer instead of running. But everything in my being is screaming DANGER!! I can feel it in my muscles, my bones, my face. This pain is so deep it’s showing up in my posture. She’s only going to hurt you. She’s dangerous to love, violent and selfish and not to be trusted with your heart.

And then the truth:

Aren’t we all?

But Love…

He chooses to come close- impossibly close. He offers to step inside our dry violent selfish bones, to pour cool Life water and tender whispers of nearness all over every bit of it. Jesus came to this stinking murderous planet, coming close and then even closer to His beloved- though loving us was sure to kill Him.

“Arise Little Girl.” (Mark 5:41)

Love is here. He has come for you when you were nothing, but a pile of death. Now live, Little One, and don’t be afraid.

“For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:6-8)

Fat, Happy, Safe. But Rich?

It’s bedtime at our house. I’m fumbling through tomorrow’s tasks, grasping to name all the ways I’m rich, all the ways I’m blessed, because if my hands are full of teething baby and my mind’s been biting down on the messes at my feet, I might as well pile on the heart-work and start picking up.

And then the Words-

It’s easy to love Me when you’re safe. What if you weren’t safe?

Words that eek through into my consciousness like this only come from one Place. Not audibly, not booming, but a loud imprint, an intrusive nudging someplace deep in my chest- a thought I would rather not think. And that’s the number one reason I know they’re not my own.

They also come with a ringing dread. It’s the true-ness of it that causes the quaking. How very very true. A stuttering awe overtakes what had been a racing mind, and I am silenced with a Word.

I’m always surprised at how the depth of His knowledge cuts right through. He knows me. And that is so good, sometimes freaky, but boy is it ever true.

Had it not been for the Words, I’d have chalked up the nightmares that night to my belly being unusually full of Chik-fil-A (a celebratorious picnic gourging we’d welcomed with greasy fingers and sticky giggles. Our guts on the other hand were less than enthusiastic about the waffle fries).

Instead, when my broken sleep is barreled down by the stuff of nightmares, the super real kind that doesn’t turn off just because you’d like it to stop now- I’m listening.  I’m awake nursing… I’m somewhere else and I want to get out… I tap Matt on the shoulder and mutter “nightmares”… drift back to this place I don’t want to be… something horrific happens… I’m awake listening to baby grunts wondering when it’ll stop, if it’s safe to sleep yet.

In the morning I hear myself trying to explain what was terrible about it, and it’s as easy as, “We were the persecuted Church.” Because now I feel like that’s all I have to say. Obviously He should feel the meaning in those words. I mean he was there right? It was so real. That hunted feeling, the hiding, the fear, the confrontation, the choice, more fear, the clinging to life, desperate for safety, terrified I won’t have what it takes to say “yes I’m one of His.” At some point I remember giving up trying to get out of it and started praying for them, for the really truly persecuted half a world away who don’t have the option of throwing their eyes open when it gets dicey.

Maybe that’s what this is for, I remember thinking. He wants me to pray. 

But in the morning it’s still night in my mind.

And there are other leftovers too- a heightened sense of kinship with the suffering Church like I’ve never felt before (okay I felt it one other time, also in a dream). I’m aching for my brothers and sisters, the hungry and the haunted. Things I know nothing about as a white middle class American girl. I’ve got it all. There’s almost a shame in it the morning after, this residual sickness in the pit of my stomach over the fatness and the happiness and the comfort of my life.

Why am I so comfortable?  Why haven’t I lived the horror that this world has to offer?

I’m feeling the weight of mercy, and it’s too heavy to hold. The one word saturating my thoughts is “rich.” Rich, rich, rich in every single way. What am I supposed to do with the truth of mercy this thick? How does one swallow the density that is her own privilege?

At the same time the whole thing is so delicate. Like I’ve been entrusted with something altogether too precious for someone like me. It’s as if someone just handed me the keys to some irreplaceable classic car in pristine condition, and I’m too terrified to start the engine, too overwhelmed with it’s cost to even enjoy it.

What do I do when my mind and my heart are confronted with something I have no idea what to do with? (When I actually want answers) I bust out the Scripture and mumble requests for clarity. I had been working through the book of Revelation. These are the words on the page that morning:

“For I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth. For you say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, so that you may be rich, and white garments so that you may clothe yourself and the shame of your nakedness may not be seen, and salve to anoint your eyes, so that you may see.” (Rev. 3:17-18).

The Reply to my asking is just direct enough to be aimed at me, but vague enough that I’m left a little fuzzy on the particulars of what to do with all that is in there. I still am if I’m honest.

But what I do know is that we’re missing something- and it’s something BIG.

Just the other day Matt was saying how he feels like his life is one big race, except there’s no finish line.

We have everything and we have nothing. We never arrive; there’s always the striving for something else we “need” (right now it’s a house/more space). All our work is aimed at giving our babies everything- the house, the yard, the space, the dream, the comfy quiet safe nights together playing scrabble and laughing hard over dessert.

Now I’m not saying that those sweet moments, those gifts we’re gifted, aren’t treasures- they absolutely are. But when this life is over, when it’s dusk at the end of my one long day, will any of it have really mattered? I know that the love will stick in the end. All the love we tucked around each other while we lived will last. But how wide will our love reach? Will we hoard it for ourselves and shut it up tight in some cozy home in the woods somewhere?

What are we missing? And where would Jesus be spending his Love if his feet still shuffled down our streets, in this town, this state, this country, across our globe?

There IS something else. A gap in my stride. A place I’ve yet to walk.

Lord, plant me where you need me, my mind and heart and body. Put my thoughts, my affections, my self right where Jesus wants them to be. And don’t let me be comfortable anywhere else in the world.

Yes, and Amen.

On things like sleep and showers

Almost seven years ago when my boyfriend and best bud of six years was getting ready to take the eternal plunge, pledging never to leave or forsake me (such a brave boy), my mother handed down to him just one piece of advice:

“If Jo’s suddenly being grumpy, irrational, and unusually weepy? She’s probably tired, but she has no idea. You need to find a way to tell her gently (and carefully), Honey, have you gotten enough sleep lately? Do you think you’re maybe just tired? And then put her to bed. Talk about important things AFTER she rests.”

How is it that mothers are so universally wise about such things?!

Now if just any old pair of people had had this conversation about any old person it may have come across as condescending. But being that these two love me even though they know oh-so-many more of my flaws than I’m comfortable with, and that this conversation took place while I was in the room at a volume I was intended to hear, AND that this is me they were talking about, no offense was taken. As you may have guessed this wasn’t exactly news.

It’s been one of my mother’s life long goals to get me to recognize when I’ve reached the end of myself and to give in to The Sleep.

The thing of it is I just NEED it.

And not just any kind of sleep will do. Sleep and I, we have a very specific arrangement- same bed, same pillows, same fan, same level of darkness, same teddy bear (yes he made it into the marriage bed) etc etc. I’m a 9 pm to 9 am girl if you want the best version. So yeah, that one time when I wept like an overtired toddler on the shores of the Delaware after a youth group overnight canoe trip for no reasonable reason??

Take away my sleep and I can no longer cope with life.

Having finally cracked the code on the exponential happiness and functionality a good night’s sleep added to my life, in college, sleep actually became my new favorite thing to do. My darling roommate would go out after dark with friends on any given weeknight. Me? Homework done, cup of tea, nothing else to do and it’s 9pm? Glory!! It is bedtime!

And then came the babies.

So on days like today when I say I’m tired, I mean I am extremely, chronically, haven’t slept in years, in the hole, TIRED. Yes I know- not exactly surprising coming from the mother of an almost three year old and a five month old. But what I’ve just gone to great lengths to explain to you is that this is very VERY bad. The very hand of God must be steering this ship on a moment to moment basis. Because how else have all four of us survived these extreme sleep deprivation soaked days? Angels I tell you. Very tired, very kind angels keeping this boat afloat.

Not surprisingly, round two of motherhood has included some very real cracking. I’m talking the wide open, nice-to-meet-you-I’m-absolutely-off-my-rocker-right-now kind. The husband used to be surprised, now I can see it in his face as the hysteria is thickening, it’s this kind of Oh no I’m losing her. Yup, there she goes…

Which is why when I got out of bed at 3 am the other morning, tried to settle the baby, then gave up, and got in the shower it took him several minutes to collect himself and confront the crazy.

Except just this one time I was operating as clear as a kettle.

I was mid-mothering, so stinking tired, trying to hold it together when suddenly it was like you know what? I haven’t showered in a really REALLY long time. And I’m a person, and a person needs to shower now and then.

Because here’s the thing. I am really super good at going it alone. In fact, I can go it alone so far and for so long that I don’t even realize I’ve got no go left in me. Add on top of this the whole but-Jesus-wants-us-to-be-smiley-sacrificial-mothers-of-perfection thing, and I will carry all four of us on my back down a hill with a giant plastic smile on my face for an unreasonable length of time. All the while my poor husband is gently trying to flag me down (from above mind you, atop the load I’m now hauling). But I’m all “No no. I’ve got this silly, you just stand back and watch me be a super wonderful housecleaning, child-rearing, food cooking, boss of the world machine.”

Problems? Yes, I’ve got a few.

Not the least of which is my tendency to hear the smallest sigh, a slight pause before Matt jumps to my aid as some sort of lapse of love or loyalty. At which point, my mother takes over my body, and I start being all “Fine. I’ll just do it myself.” Bad, bad, bad.

And then the sweet kind Lord breaks through my headstrong heart at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, giving me permission to exist. He calls attention to all the things I’m shouldering that are just not mine to handle (um hello, the emotional/physical/spiritual well-being of your husband and two small children?!).

Just stop. Go take a shower, love.

Being a mother is beautiful. The work is lasting. Some days I’m so thankful to be here with them in our tiny kitchen dancing like a fool, eating strawberries and dipping veggies in hummus that I spill out laughter and joy all over.

But the name of the game is balance.

If I lose myself, who’s going to dance with my babies, who’s going to tickle them til they cry. The more hungry, angry, lonely, or tired I get (or some sick combination of all four) the less of me there is to give. I hardly know what balance looks like right now so this is not going to sound insightful or full of wisdom. I am completely in the middle of learning this lesson.

What I do know is that JoLynn needs to write to exist. JoLynn needs to bake to exist. She needs to kiss her husband, to sing all day, and yeah she needs to shower when she’s dirty, change her shirt when it smells like puke, and sleep whenever she can. She also needs to stop it with the God-complex, and allow the beautiful man by her side to be the daddy and husband he was made to me.

So I found myself standing in the shower at 3 a.m. just because I wanted to, and that Divine permission to “be” became a precious whisper right to the heart of all my weariness. And there was just one glorious truth washing me inside and out- that even in this place, this jammed packed season of sacrifice, there is REST to be had.

There is rest to be had even here- if I want it.

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.       (Matt 11:29-30)

A Nurse in the Night

It happened after the third wake up of the night for the Littlest one. Same old routine: nurse, nurse, nurse. Attempt number one to put her down. A botched dismount followed by unhappy flailing, quiet whimpering, and then full on flustered begging for my arms when she feels the cot beneath her. Nurse, nurse, nurse. Attempt number two. Careful now mama. Smooth transition of slumbering Nugget. Hand on back for five minutes.

I more or less hurl myself back under the covers because apparently it’s one of those nights where sleeping without pants means being super snuggy beneath the blankets and frozen as soon as you’re out from beneath them.

It feels like a blink before the next nursing, and then it’s Daddy’s shift. He must have been up pretty late tonight because even in his delirium he manages a chuckle when I tell him she’s ready to play.

This is when my Biggest Girl finds me, rolling the width of our bed in search of the warm body she senses is gone. But when she lands on me, the heat of her small hand finding mine in the dark makes me jump awake.

She’s way too warm. Our thermometer confirms it. There’s something about the radiating hotness of a fever that always sets you fierce to mothering.

One moment I’m wearily working, internally begging the child to sleep, self-focused, sleep-desperate and the next I’m a wide awake woman with a sick child who needs tending to. All at once militarized and softened to my baby’s whimpering. It’s remarkable really. Where does that strength come from?

There’s this timelessness to it. Your arms feel ancient and wise when they’re holding your sick baby.

This body of mine suddenly creaking and achey, feeling the wear and tear of what my mom calls “repeat offenders,” the one that couldn’t stand one more minute of consciousness, now it’s carrying my forty pound Darling down the stairs to the bathroom where the running shower steams to soothe an unruly coughing fit.

I don’t care if she pukes in my hair because I just want to be near her.

I call Daddy to get her the apple juice she’s sputtering for between coughs because the way she’s saying Mama is begging me not to leave her.

Standing watching the water run she leans her full weight back against my chest now and then saying Mommy like she’s declaring it, that I’m really there.

It’s the sickness that pulls us close. My little Bigness so full of sass most days that it’s hard to tell if we really like one another.

But then the sick falls, and I am weak with affection for this very small person. Her offenses vanish. Her rebellion? inconsequential. Her bad attitude this morning about her second bowl of cheerios because she waited to long to eat the first so it got “TOO MUSHY!!!” ? None of it matters.

She is sick and she is mine, and that’s all there is.

And I hear Love reminding me that He calls Himself our Abba Daddy, and in the dark of night, in the thick our sickness, He tells us not to be afraid.

I’ve been learning since I’ve been given these two Littles to care for that any of the love I find welling up in me- it was all Love Himself’s first. He designed it, intentioned it’s spilling over onto each other the way that it does, the when and how that it does…

And there’s Jesus speaking life into things we can’t see, reminding us of who Love is, astounding us with the kind of heart The Maker has for those He’s made.

He answers those openly criticizing the super gross state of His beloved ones:

“And when Jesus heard it, He said to them, Those who are strong and well have no need of a physician, but those who are weak and sick; I came not to call the righteous ones to repentance, but sinners (the erring ones and all those not free from sin). – Mark 2:17 AMP

I guarantee you that Jesus would have held my snot covered hand while I puked in his hair. He would have held me close while I cried boogey ridden tears all over him, the God Man.

And let’s not forget about the way he touches the contagious outcast leper with his bare hands, how he helps the lame man to his feet and empowers him to walk, how he opens the blind man’s eyes by mixing mud with his own spit (a little gross, yes. But effective, and oh so intimate), how he tenderly speaks life over death in a small girl…

The Lord unabashedly clings to those who are anything but lovely- to the small sick rebels everywhere. Not once we’re cleaned up and presentable, ready to be put to good Christian use, but when we’re stinky and gross and sick.

His love is fierce, complete, and without apology- even in the middle of the night.

Talking Crazy

There are lots of things I wish I hadn’t said to my husband.

This guy, he’s heard it all. All the ugliest overflow from my unkempt heart, because you see, the “me” he fell in love with was that broken and battered teenage version still grappling with all the wrong in the world, in her parents, in herself…it was not even a little bit pretty.

I was an expert manipulator, my mother tongue a sharp biting fire that could cut a person in half, and walk away feeling justified, even relieved, for having been honest. That’s how we do it in my family. We inherit a passionate position on our opinion, the boldness to speak it like it’s gospel, and the venom to lay it all out there regardless of the devastating blows dealt the listener. We’re a “scream it out as fast as you can and over top of one another if you have to” sort of family.

My sweet husband’s family of origin? They specialize in what I call the “baseball and weather” kind of conversation. A very together, very polite, very private bunch. Needless to say, I was a bit of a shock to the system. And because of his upbringing (and his genuinely good and kind nature) my guy is an AMAZING listener, which I’m sure made all the funk I flung at him in the early years even harder to stomach- because he caught it, every word.

Every now and then he or I will notice the tempered mellowed honey behind my words and remark on how it’s one of the clearest evidences that the Holy Spirit is refining me.

So when recently I felt this burning rising hunk of ugly honesty lurking just below my surface, it was all I could do to choke it down. But this mess had been hanging out there a long time and was getting desperate to be heard. The thing was, I wasn’t sure how she’d act if I aired her out and let her run a-muck in my marriage so I stuffed her down, hushed her up, and tried to move forward. Part of me was too afraid to fall back into injuring this boy who I love with the thoughts and the fears and the feelings building up inside. And then there’s that whole holding it together thing I’m way to proud to let go of. Silly girl, always trying to look strong, to seem capable- lingering leftovers from the “men are stupid; you’re better off with a bunch of cats if you’re lonely” talks my tired working mama would dish out over that tacky green table in the kitchen of our trailer.

I was moving forward alright, But this mess of fears and lies and ick, before I even knew it, it was wedging itself between us, growing larger and wider until I felt too far away.  Playing it back now it’s so obvious where it was headed: first the bitterness, then the critical judging of his motives and thoughts toward me, next the hypersensitive responses to every little thing that he did or said, and suddenly I’m planning my life without him and daydreaming of a way out.

And then all at once it was like Someone said loudly, “HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DEALING WITH. HOW CAN HE BE WITH YOU IN IT IF HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW?!”

Good point, Voice. You have me there.

And so I reached this sort of wall, the I-can’t-take-it-anymore kind, followed by an inevitable (and terrifying) emotional pukage of all the funk in my system I’d been holding in. Something you need to know about me to get the full affect here: my absolute least favorite feeling in the entire world is right before you’re about to throw up, but there’s no way you can stop it so you’re just waiting for your body to do something you don’t want it to do. It makes me cry to this day. (Clearly I have a bit of a control problem to sort out. And yes, me being an adult is really only a technicality.)

Oh, the honesty. It was like a horrific flood.

But this time, the truth was healing me. It was healing us. It was so very different.

These words weren’t flowing from a place of pride and retribution, they weren’t bitter or biting- they weren’t totally perfect either. But what they were was REAL. I was being really messy, really scared, really vulnerable, and really honest about all of it. I was asking for help, asking to be seen. And I’m standing in my kitchen clutching the edge of the sink begging this Man I’d loved and wounded with my words as a boy to find me beneath my words. I’m trusting him to sort out the scared girl he loves from all the muck, to choose to keep me close.

And here’s the beautiful part. When the purging had subsided, and I had thrown all the terrible awful weak shaking messy pieces of myself at my Love? He was still standing. In the kitchen. By my side. Resolute and clinging to our covenant in all the places that I couldn’t.

Did I scare him with the “no really, you have no idea how badly I want to run away right now and never come back” confessions? Absolutely. Was it messy and brutal to bare all that ugly? Oh yeah. But you know what? When it was over, I was free. I mean really free.

Because that’s what Covenant Love does. It busts open wide with messy honesty, tears down the walls of image and self-protection and pride. Two people wading in their messes, raw with imperfection- naked, but miraculously unashamed.

I’m struck by just how other-wordly the whole idea is. That we could cling to each other, ugliness and all, lean in and let lose, let all the nastiness rise to the surface, never having to let fear have a say in the matter.

What a reflection of the Holy One and how He loves his wandering Bride through the thickness and the thinness of her reciprocal love.

When I am selfish and absent, raging and fearful- He loves me. When I am devoted and kind, filled to overflowing with sacred joy and peace- He loves me.

He loves me because I am His, and because I am His, He knows me. The God of the universe has decided to come to this stinky broken planet, to “be with” me, and wonder of all wonders? He’s declared me (mess that I am) His beloved one. Even crazier? This sparkling new identity it’s fixed and immovable, positioned as permanently as that moment in history when Love’s arms reached all the way across a vicious tree, all the way into death itself so that I could know Him and be known by Him.

“And in that day, declares the LORD, you will call me ‘My Husband,’ and no longer ‘My Master…’ And I will betroth you to me forever. I will betroth you to me in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love and in mercy. I will betroth you to me in faithfulness. And you shall know the Lord.” (Hosea 2:16,19-20)

The Big and the Little

And then I spilled the chopped onion all over the floor.

I couldn’t find my good knife beneath the peanut butter cookie batter encrusted utensils piling on top of the pea soup makings and general carnage that had completely overrun and overwhelmed my limited kitchenette kitchen-not counter space. Poor squished cutting board could have charged me with harassment for being forced to work under such frightful conditions- thus, the spillage at hand.

Cue the tumbling onions, followed by Tiny Girl and I both letting out the same bummed sounding “awwwwwwwww….” as if we’d rehearsed it.

It wasn’t like it was a last straw kind of moment (oh those are good fun), more of the topping off of a rising “oh gosh I’m barely pulling this off today…” feeling I’d been struggling to chase off for a few hours. And then our matching response, and my Tiny Girl, seeing the weariness, actually SEEING me, knocks my socks off:

“Oh! it’s otay mommy. Daddy will be pretty upset (apparently I say things like that? haha), but don’t worry bout it mommy. I know you’re sad, but we kyeen it wight up. No big deal.”

I watch, jaw to the floor, as this Tiny person struggles to dislodge my big broom and dustpan from behind the paper grocery bag stash wedged between the refrigerator and the wall (yes, I’m an expert at organization).

She gets it lose though, this strong beautiful Girl, and asks me to hold the dustpan for her while she sweeps it right up and into the “twashcan.”

I’m so undone by the bigness of her compassion and floored by her budding personhood that it takes me a minute to applaud her. It’s the weirdest thing- this whole parenting gig, one minute you’re like Oh my word. She’s never heard I word I’ve ever said to her. None of this is catching on. Why am I even trying?! Why torture myself with all the good parenting attempts when clearly she just wants to scream loudly all day and throw things at her baby sister?! And then BAM, I’m looking at her sweet toddler face and catching flashes of a person I’ve yet to know, a growing forming blooming woman in the making.

And holy crap she might actually turn out okay?! That’s the real kicker. Tiny Girl is a handful and a half on her best days and sometimes being her mama feels like a  big giant TERRIFYING experiment- like I just keep pouring on all the love and grace that the Good Lord sends my way, grit my teeth when I want to yell, turn the other cheek when I’m sassed, keep on keeping on with tireless time-ins, and pray like her life (and mine) depends on it. But the fruit? It feels so slow-coming, like the good stuff is only shakily taking root.  And then this.

Thank you Lord for a glimpse into this precious little Girl child you’ve given me to tend and to bless and just to spend these days with. Thank you for this reminder that her small days are always, every minute, ending. She’ll be big in a blink and all this pouring out and pouring in, all this lifting her up is not a waste.

There’s a person being made in my midst today, and if she becomes one who tends to choose compassion over perfection, the person over the problem, others over herself, then being a faithful mommy to this small soul has made all the difference in the world.

Death and House hunting

This whole buying our first house process is conjuring up thoughts of death.

“Death, JoLynn? Really? Aren’t we being a teeny bit intense with our verbage this morning?”

No, I’m not kidding. and yes, I’m also chronically tired and (if I’m honest) chronically hormonal. Nevertheless, thoughts of death ABOUND at the moment.

For starters, my incredibly handsome and hardworking husband whom I adore is going to be the purchaser of said hypothetical dwelling place because I’m not working at the moment (or rather no one’s paying me for my work in economically friendly currency; it’s mostly just drooly kisses and the occasional, but priceless, “you beautiful like a princess mommy”). Therefore, I cannot buy myself or my babies a home to live in without this beautiful man which, logically, takes me directly to thoughts of BUT WHAT HAPPENS IF HE DIES?!

That’s right folks. I jump right on that crazy train. And drive it off a cliff.

Whilst I’m in my car the other day constructing the “Hey can you get some life insurance please babe? Because I just realized I need you alive for monetary security, not just your sweet face” conversation, a terribly wonky noise in my front left tire has me imagining the tire sheering off mid-drive at 50mph, followed by a horrific crash and then, yes of course, death. This has everything to do with the fact that I’m completely and totally alone in my car (which is so uncommon nowadays it actually makes me physically nauseous, as if my body’s taken to some sick symbiosis where it ceases to function properly without a child tugging hard on either a wrist or a boob).

It’s at this point I start envisioning my family of four having to operate as a threesome. What would they do without me? The baby would be sad for sure- that girl loves her milkies. The toddler would get smacked in the face with the reality of death at an awful age (is there a good age?). And my Love? Life would suddenly be such an unnatural place for him.

I know this is all so morbid and terrible. But stay with me.

Losing Matt or him losing me would feel about as comfortable and survivable as I imagine losing a limb must feel. Eerie and wrong and just plain unreal- the phantom feelings of what-had-been reminding you of a truth that shouldn’t be. You’d have to reconstruct everything you know about your life from scratch- completely start over. The thing is, being the Mrs. to this boy’s Mr. has made me someone else. There’s a oneness in it that’s mysterious and complete, a relationship that so defines me it feels understated to call it having an “other half.”

What a strange unnatural thing this whole death business is, especially the inevitability of it, and the weight of the truth that my husband and I can and will at one point lose each other forever in this life.

And today is Thursday, the day before the Friday called “Good.” And what in all of everything could be stranger than the existence of Jesus’s death date? The end of the Beginning Himself. An end He designed for Himself. I can’t wrap my mind or my heart around it this week. The weight of it is just too huge.

Jesus, you flung yourself into our realm, running headlong toward death from the time your tiny fists first curled round your mother’s finger. You knew death waited in our humanity for you- death and pain, rejection and humiliation. A thick death. A complete death. And what did you do? You stepped right in. Quietly, in the middle of the night, as a nobody sort of child born in a nobody sort of place.

For what? What was so pressing that the Godhead would choose to sever it’s intimacy, to forsake the Son? What on Earth could have moved Him?

For who? a bunch of nobodies. What moved Him? the love of the Servant King. The kind of Love that pulls on skin like a suit because He longs to wash His friend’s feet, show them His face, laugh at their table, conquer the unconquerable darkness on their behalf. Mind you- these loved ones? they spit in His face, pretend not to know Him, mock His rescue plan, run the other way and try to save themselves.

We moved Him. Or rather He chose to allow Himself to be moved by us, His beloved ones. Is “unworthy” even close to the right word?

I’m certain there’s so much more about this God that I don’t know and can’t begin to understand. But what I do know has me longing for Him, thankful that when everything I know is ending I’ll be at home in Love’s house, where I’ll never have to say goodbye.