Jerry & Sarah.com

The only thing predictable about giving birth to a baby is its unpredictability. When Jack was born, things were fairly normal, but being in another country, I really didn’t know what to expect. We definitely are experiencing the unexpected.

The actual birth itself went fairly quickly, for which I am thankful. I never thought of myself as the screaming type, but I’m pretty sure my decibel level alerted the whole hospital I was giving birth. The room was full of nurses and doctors, all of whom seemed to be giving different advice. “Push when you feel like it.” “Don’t push.” “Take deep breaths.” “Hold your breath and push.” But, my favorite was the sympathetic doctor closest to me who kept telling me, “Don’t yell. Just say haaaaa.” At one point, I retorted something about how much pain I was in and that I would yell if I wanted to, and she (being, I think, the only other mother in the room) whispered in my ear, “Oh, I know. I thought I was going to die too,” and then standing back up, she said a little louder, “But just say ‘haaaa….’”

It was at that point my sweet, amazing husband whispered in my other ear, “You just do whatever the heck you want to. He’s almost here.”

And out he came, just two hours after arriving at the hospital.

What I didn’t realize until much later was that most of the medical staff in the room was present for Luke, not for me. I heard a feeble cry after the cord was unwrapped from his neck, but only caught a glimpse of a head of black hair as they took him over to intubate him and whisk him off to the NICU.

I expected to spend the next few days in the hospital holding my newborn baby, but instead was sitting alone in silence 20 minutes after he was born. Not having Luke with us in the hospital gave me quite a bit of silence to read and pray and think, and I spent a lot of time drawing near to God through reading Psalms.

Some things I am remembering in these days:
God is in control.
For I know that the LORD is great,
and that our Lord is above all gods.
Whatever the LORD pleases, he does,
in heaven and on earth,
in the seas and all deeps.
Psalm 135:5-6

In both the good and the bad, God is never backed into a corner or wondering what might happen. I don’t understand how this works in the hard times, but I trust that it is true. It brings me great comfort to know that he is firmly holding everything in place.

God is near to Luke when I can’t be.
A mother has a natural instinct to hold and feed and rock and love her baby. It is really disconnecting and strange to not even have held someone I carried inside for 9 months. I want to be the comforter for him, but right now I can’t do much.

Yet you are he who took me from the womb;
you made me trust you at my mother’s breasts.
On you was I cast from my birth,
and from my mother’s womb you have been my God. 
Be not far from me,
for trouble is near,
and there is no one to help.
Psalm 22: 9-11

I have prayed this for Luke many times and am remembering that ultimately it isn’t me who is his hope anyway. God is near to him and able to help. He is Luke’s giver and sustainer of life.

God delights to help his children.
Sometimes I am afraid to say, “God, heal Luke” instead of saying, “God, I want you to heal Luke, but I trust you even if you don’t.” It’s not that I don’t believe he can. I do absolutely. But I also recoil at a faith that only trusts God’s hand in the good times. As I’ve read through Psalms, however, I am really challenged by the brazen prayers to God for help in the midst of trouble. He delights to come to the aid of those in need. So, I am asking boldly for him to heal and restore Luke’s body. He doesn’t owe us anything, but he does tell us to ask. And, again and again, he shows his power by rescuing those who are his.

His peace really is beyond understanding.
Above all, my heart has felt true peace since Luke was born. I am grateful for the promise of Philippians 4:6 and his faithfulness in fulfilling it in what could be an incredibly anxious time.

Thanks for standing with us in prayer. It has buoyed us more than you know.

I have less than a month until my due date, so I am thinking much about childbirth these days. Behind my computer screen, I can see the advent scene we are building day by day with Jack as we tell the Christmas story. All the smiling animals are surrounding the neatly arranged hay, and Joseph and Mary are standing in the middle smiling serenely. And while these characters were certainly present in the actual event, I can’t help but think how radically different the birth of Jesus probably looked.

Childbirth is messy and painful. No way was Mary wearing her clean blue dress with hair perfectly in place, standing comfortably over sleeping Jesus. It was noisy, unpredictable, bloody, painful. I’d love to see just one church Christmas pageant that does away with the serene scene. I appreciate the song Labor of Love on Peterson’s Christmas album for embracing the reality that “It was not a silent night. There was blood on the ground. You could hear a woman cry on the alleyway that night on the streets of David’s town…”

Isn’t it wonderful that even in his entrance into the world, Jesus was not immune from the effects of sin? While he himself was perfect in every way, his mother labored to bring him in the same way all women do under the painful curse of Genesis 3. His ability to sympathize with us as the great high priest (Hebrews 4:14-16) started in a humble stable. His being born in the likeness of sinful man (Philippians 2:7) began in a drafty barn next to stinky animals.

He didn’t just come, but he came near. Glory! I draw such practical hope from the gospel in this profound truth. He is near, and he is coming again to make all things new.

Jerry called me from the park today:
“Hey, what’s up?”
“We almost had to go to the emergency room.”
“Oh dear, what happened this time?”

While I was worried, I wasn’t panicked, as we have this conversation often (I’m sure many parents do). Our son has no fear, and at 15 months, he has negative zero to know that diving head first off the park bench is a dumb idea.

As I was thanking God that Jerry was there to catch him before he got hurt, I wondered how often we have similar circumstances in our own lives. How many times does our Heavenly Father catch us before we meet disaster? His guard isn’t just physical, as I’m sure many of my social, emotional and professional blunders could have been much worse if his grace didn’t restrain somehow. How bad would the minor hurt become if he wasn’t there to intervene? We’ll never know, but I am thankful that his grip never slips.

On this Saturday morning I find myself sitting in a coffee shop, reading, writing, praying and praising without pressure of time or to do lists. Knowing that my dear husband just mopped the floors (my dreaded chore of the weekend) and is off galavanting with Jack, I am grateful for the space to just unwind and sabbath for a bit. It really is better than any store-bought mother’s day gift.

One of our friends and teachers in the States often says, “When the cup gets bumped, what is inside will come out.” In my head I have the image of his coffee cup held high in the air as I think about how my heart often sloshes out such ugliness when daily life squeezes out impatience and pride. By the end of most days, both my husband and son are splashed with the mess of my revealed sin. Ugh. And so, I cast myself once again on the grace of a savior who already knows my sin and is graceful in revealing it so that I can bring it under the changing power of the spirit who lives within.

I conclude with the words of another that are good thoughts for busy moms: If You Can’t Pray, Sing!

I don’t pray much. Yeah, I often pray as I go from place to place and I almost always pray when we’re in a crisis. I pray over my food a lot, especially when spiritual people are watching. But I don’t pray nearly as often or with the desperation that I want to.

Lately, I’ve found myself asking why. I think a story from the Gospels has answered that question. In Mark 9:14-29, a man with a son who is possessed by a demon approaches Jesus and asks him to cast the demon out. The man quickly tells Jesus that the disciples tried to cast the demon out but failed. As he does every other time he meets a demon, Jesus orders the evil spirit out, and it obeys. At the end of the story, the disciples ask Jesus, “Why couldn’t we cast it out?”

Jesus replies, “This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer”- Mark 9:29. It’s somewhat comforting to me to see that the disciples struggled to pray as well. But Matthew’s version of the same story cut me to the core. In his account, Jesus answered the disciples’ question by saying, “Because of your little faith”- Matthew 17:20. See, they didn’t pray for the same reason I don’t: because they, and I, don’t believe God.

If I believed that only God could change my heart, I would beg him to do it instead of trying to beat it into submission with rules. If I believed that he is my only hope for my marriage, I would beg him to draw Sarah and me together instead of working so hard to fix all the broken places myself. If I believed that he is the only one who can transform those around me, I would ask him to save and change and heal rather than passively sitting round being frustrated that they can’t get their acts together.

At the end of the day, I believe in my ability more than his. I believe that I can do most of what I need done myself. If I didn’t I’d ask him for more. My stubborn self-sufficiency often leads me to a faithlessness that shows up as prayerlessness.

I really want to believe that just like he did in the saving me and bringing me to himself, God is able and willing to do for me what I can’t do for myself. I need daily reminders of my helplessness and his incredible yearning to act on my behalf. I find myself saying with the man in Mark 9, “I believe (a little). Help my unbelief.”

We did it. We got all of our possessions sorted, packed, sold or given away and fit everything in or on our car. By far, the physical task of packing is one the most dreaded parts of moving for me. As I was making yet another trip to goodwill and the post office, I attempted to discern what is so frustrating about it to me.

Andy Stanley spoke at Passion this year about our inability to satisfy our appetites. Every time I make a move (and I move a lot), I am forced to visibly confront the enormity of my appetites. By God’s grace I care less and less about getting rid of things, but I also have a great propensity to accumulate way more than I need. There is great grace in seeing all of the things that I just HAD to have and realizing that my desires are often deceptive.

This is not a rant against owning possessions, as I have an equal pet peeve of people who think that poverty equals good stewardship. But, I am growing more and more vigilant over the value I assign to things that are passing away.

Overwhelmingly in Proverbs, fools are known for their vast volume of words, but a wise man is praised for his ability to listen. In my journey through Proverbs lately, I had almost decided I should stop speaking altogether. Perhaps that would hide my foolish tendencies.

Yesterday I read 18:20: “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruits.”

As I began to think on the fruit of my words, I remembered that no word is a neutral word. They are all life-giving or life-depleting. I still do see the need to speak less and listen more, but when I do speak, I pray that my words would be harvest-bearing seeds in the lives of those around me. May the words I utter be choice tools in the hands of the master to shape hearts and bring encouragement.

I’ve been running more to train for the upcoming Kansas City Marathon Relay. As I’ve explored various routes around my house, I have discovered something: I have no flat options. Hills abound in Hannibal. I have heard people talk about how they love the challenge of running hills, but I am convinced they are delusional liars. I, for one, don’t love hills. I endure them.

I’ve noticed that I always see the full slope of a hill as I approach and run up it. But, those same hills never seem so dramatic when I run back down them on the way home. Why is that? Why is it that a hill that felt so long and steep on the way up feels almost flat on the flip side? In an attempt to put what I know before what I feel, I’m learning to take the up-hills in stride and to take more notice of the down-hills. As I have done so, I’ve pondered my propensity for ignoring the downhill stretches in life.

I’m pretty good at seeing every step of a challenge. But, because life never slows down, I often overlook the renewal that can come by taking advantage of less-challenging moments. Refreshment doesn’t always come in stopping completely. Life requires us to keep moving forward, but I think one of God’s purposes for a regular Sabbath was to train his people to notice patterns of rest and to be thankful for a necessary lightening of the load on a regular basis. I find these lightenings not only in intentional moments of slowing, but I also find them in days when Jack takes good naps, when I get an afternoon walk, when I have a few nights free to spend with Jerry during the week, or even in a long stretch like this where I all my daily conversations take place in my native language.

An awareness of his blessings behind us is incredible fuel for the challenges ahead. May we continue to grow in awareness of his blessings.

I like to exaggerate more than anyone I know. I probably exaggerate more than any person who has ever lived. In fact, every sentence I speak or write is an exaggeration. See, there I go again.

Anyway, since I’ve started roasting my own beans, I get out of bed anxiously anticipating my first cup of coffee. Though some may say this is due to a caffeine addiction, I think there’s more to it than that. Every time I push down that plunger on the French press, tip the pot, and pour myself a cup of joe, I have an anticipation of what’s about to come. Then, after adding a spoonful of brown sugar, I put the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had to my lips. Most mornings, I make some kind of exclamation, varying from “Man, that’s good,” to an indecipherable “Mph.” And every morning, I am GENUINELY convinced that the cup I hold in my still sleeping paw is genuinely best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.

Sarah makes fun of me for things like this. She said that if what I’m saying is true, that if each cup is noticeably better than the day before, then in five years we’ll have the best cup of coffee the world has ever known. I wish she were right.

In reality, though, every cup is probably not better than the cup from the day before. I just expect it to be. The source of the enjoyment, the exclamations is the fact that the anticipation shapes my reaction to that java hitting my lips and tongue.

I wonder if that’s not the approach we should take to the Bible. Over the last few years, God has been bringing me on a journey to see the beauty of the Gospel and the glory of Jesus on each page of Scripture. Whether I’m reading in Judges, Jonah or 1 John my eyes are peeled looking for the Good News of the One who has saved us from our sins. Each narrative, poem, proverb and letter shouts out this plan of God to save a people for Himself. Like a beautiful jewel, its facets are displayed and marveled at from different angles, angles inspired by one God but written by different authors. It’s a lot of perspectives on the same plan, a lot of views of the same story. In his book, What Did You Expect?, Paul David Tripp says, “The central focus of the Bible is not a set of practical-life principles. The central theme of the Bible is a person, Christ.” I am seeing the beauty of that Savior and the glory of that plan of salvation more clearly each day, and my hope is that each time I read the book that proclaims it I’ll exclaim, “That’s the best thing I’ve ever read.”

“Count it all joy…” is Not what I want to be reminded of at 4 am when my son is in one of his “eat every-two hours because I want to be awake when the world is sleeping” phases. I shouldn’t have prayed for God to make me mindful of him in all things. Early this morning, my mental struggle looked something like this:

You are awake again?

I more than slightly envy my sleeping husband (note: he frequently gets up and lets me sleep through the middle of the night. This just happened to be my turn).

Count it all joy.

Ugh.

In What Did You Expect, Tripp says that every passage of scripture that talks about God, humankind, and his grace-filled solution to our sin struggles is a “marriage” passage (not just the ones that mention marriage). The same could be said about having a kid. Unfortunately Jack isn’t old enough to choose to annoy mom by being hungry at inopportune times, so I can’t blame him. As I see my impatience, my weakness, my selfishness, I just see more and more my need for God to refine the seemingly mundane areas of my life.

As frustrating as this is to wrestle with at 4 am, I find that there is some of the “peaceful fruit” of Hebrews 12:11 lingering throughout the day. God’s desire for me to not live in self-pity is one I am thankful for. The alternative is a much more appealing state in which to live (especially for those who have to live around me).