holy week thoughts

There is such a multitude of thoughts that swirl this time of year as we take special occasion to consider what Jesus did for us on the cross and through His resurrection. Thoughts of awe, thoughts of sorrow, thoughts of repentance, thoughts of victory, thoughts of eternity, thoughts of gratitude. This year, the Holy Spirit is using this opportunity to remind me afresh of the freedom we have in Christ from bitterness, hurt, and offense.

Many, many years ago-- before I had children, before my husband was ordained into pastoral ministry, before I gave birth to a little girl with severe heart disease, before prematurely burying friends and brothers and sisters in Christ, before the highs and lows of the past decade and a half-- I heard a message that comes to mind often throughout the years and this week in particular:

You can't offend a dead man.

I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.

I will never forget the words, spoken so passionately by a man who had laid down his life and given up the very identity he was born with to build the Church in an area of the world where he wasn't welcomed, was betrayed by the very people he was serving, was deported for sharing Jesus, and had chosen to return to nonetheless. The same words that were spoken by the Apostle Paul, a man who knew what it was be beaten, abused, misunderstood, and misrepresented yet understood something infinitely greater-- not one thing can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus-- and repeated hundreds and hundreds of years later by another man who understood the same great thing: you may take my money, my time, my possessions, my freedom, my body, but you cannot take my joy, my identity in Christ, my eternal destination.

I admit, I get offended sometimes. I let the old me reign supreme and the result is that I am disappointed, let down, hurt. By my children. By my husband. By my family. By those in the Church and those outside of the Church. And, yes, at times when I am particularly misguided and selfish and myopic, I feel offended or disappointed by the very good God who gave Himself for me.

And each time I am tempted to embrace that hurt; to withdraw, lick my wounds, and throw myself the biggest and grandest pity party available, I hear those words that have not left my soul since the day I first heard them:

You can't offend a dead man.

Oh! the call is a deep one. Lay down your life. Give up your rights. Let go of your pride.

But in that call, and in that daily act and moment-by-moment choice to respond, is life and life more abundant.

What freedom is found when I live in the reality that this isn't my life anyway! I died with Christ. The life I now live I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me. He is my prize, He is my surety, He is my hope, He is my destiny-- and He does not disappoint.

So when the hurts come, when the offenses knock at my door, when the pity party is calling-- and sometimes because of things that are very real-- I get to let every single person off the hook. Whether malicious or accidental, words or actions, choices or forgetfulness, they can't offend me. Me is no longer. Christ is.

I lay down my life and, with it, my right to be offended. And in exchange I get love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Peace with God. Peace with man.

The Gospel, what Christ did for me, never ever ever gets old. It is water that truly quenches my thirst.

the Oliver update

Oliver is almost 4 months old now. He is generally a peach of a baby, I must say. Attached to me? Most definitely. Happy when with me? Yes.

I couldn't ask for more.

Since he was about 5 days old, he's gone anywhere from 7-10 hours straight at night (with 10 being more common!)-- though in the past week we've shared more wee hours together than in his entire life up until now, thanks to a springtime cold that has been making the rounds around here. Even with the congestion, he will sleep a solid 6 hours or so before waking with some coughing that simply calls for Mama.

That said, during the day he's been a fickle little guy when it comes to sleep. For weeks he slept for hours of each day happily. In the Moby wrap only, thankyouverymuch. Then he decided he was over naps anywhere and I was lucky if I got 40 minutes in a row. However, in the past 2 weeks or so he's settled into a more consistent pattern of a shorter morning nap followed by a slightly longer afternoon nap, and these he takes in his bed, thankyouverymuch. Good thing, too, because he is getting chunky and carrying him around (even in a comfortable wrap or my trusty Ergo) is downright tiring!

He still does love to be held in a carrier of some sort when awake. As the weather turns and we've gotten to take walks, he will snuggle right in, occasionally looking up at me and smiling the warmest smile I've ever seen.

I'm not even kidding.

But the baby is enormous. I mean, I've had chubby babies, but he takes the cake! I am not exaggerating when I say that he is wearing clothes Elliot wore just a year ago. He is not just round, but also long! After the exhausting, wearisome first 3 months of Elliot's life as we struggled to get into any good patterns of any kind-- including growing-- this has been a welcome change. He has not only thrived as much as any of my other babies, he has far surpassed. God didn't have to do that, but I think He did just for me.

Just to bless my heart and remind me that it's really not about me. Not really.

Oliver enjoys his baths. He enjoys anyone who will talk to him, rewarding them with big smiles that reach all the way to his eyes. He enjoys when Claire entertains him, a task she is given at least once a day when I need to shower or make dinner or switch the laundry or some other such thing.

He does not, however, enjoy his car seat. If we get in the vehicle and he's not ready to sleep, we get about 10-15 minutes of him looking around happily before he decides he'd just much rather have me holding him. And let me tell you: once the crying commences, it persists long and loud. With all the other kids, we've made a long-ish trip by the time they were 4 months or so and, generally, it was fine. I have felt rather thankful that we've not had any trips planned because Oliver is far from a great traveler-- so far, anyway.

Growing, seeing more and more, recognizing voices and experiencing new things (the sun!), absorbing his surroundings, settling into patterns and just as fast settling into new ones. I can't believe how quickly these months are flying by.

But mostly I can't believe how lucky I am to be this sweet boy's mama.

spring

Spring in the little yellow house means lunch outdoors, our backyard looking like waterfront property, splurging on fresh flowers, prophetic presbytery meetings, house projects, runny noses (always!), windows flung open, and the washer humming as it cleans snow pants and snow coats. It means sunlight pouring into the sitting room each morning and flooding the kitchen each afternoon. It means bedrooms being cluttered with boxes of clothing as we begin to rummage around for lightweight jackets but aren't quite ready to commit to putting winter things away for good; the mudroom now housing yellow boots all in a row-- six pairs this year. It means long walks and playing outside for hours and tucking children into bed while it is yet light out. It means getting antsy for the school year to be done and feeling relieved that a handful of subjects are already finished.

When I was younger, I didn't much care for spring.

Spring is, after all, muddy and brown and messy.

But the longer I am alive, the more I fall in love with spring, mess and all.

Flowers I bought for our table, just because.

I need to do that again. 

Baby's first morning spent in the sun.

My little walking companions.
(Oliver is in the Ergo)

Our backyard currently.

The bathroom my husband stayed up past midnight mudding and taping.

First outdoor lunch of the season!

Caesar Salad Dressing

When Oliver was just about 1 month old, a kind lady and her daughter showed up at my door with an unexpected dinner meal. How she knew that I was just flying in the door from a doctor's appointment and uncertain of what I was going to feed Daniel before he had to head out for an evening meeting is beyond me, but with one knock there she was: a hearty pan of lasagna, the fixings for a fresh salad, yummy homemade coconut filled chocolates in hand.

One taste of that homemade dressing and I was practically begging her for the recipe.

I've made it countless times since and it is consistently my family's favorite. Even in these winter months when fresh veggies are scarce and the ones we can come by are mushy and flavorless at best, this dressing can turn simple greens into a delicious bowl of summer.

And so I share it with you.

Meg's Caesar Salad Dressing
1 clove garlic, minced well
1/4 tsp salt (I usually use sea salt for this recipe)
1/2 tsp freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup lemon juice (fresh or bottled both work!)
2 T mayonnaise
2 tsp dijon mustard
11/2 tsp anchovy paste (optional)
8 tsp olive oil
1/4 cup grated Asiago or Parmesan cheese

Throw all the ingredients in a 1/2 pint canning jar (or something similar), lid tightly, and shake vigorously.

Enjoy!

Days Turn Into Years

On Monday, we celebrated two whole years with our very own Elliot Hale.

This little man who has done his own thing from the day he was born until now. The life God told me details about before he was even born. The child who is daily leaving baby behind and putting on boy.

He makes us laugh with his antics.

He makes his daddy beam to see his gifting and talent.

He has been used by God like a refining fire in my life.

He is treasured by us all.

His whole life-- every moment of every day-- is marked by intense passion, opinions, ideas, and willpower.

I love him to bits.

I really, really, really do.

So what joy to celebrate him.

And, yes, to laugh as he burst into tears the minute we all began singing to him. For being such a saucy little guy, he sure doesn't like to be the center of attention!

12 weeks

It's been 12 weeks since we met our own special Oliver.

And how beautiful each day with him has been.

My gentle giant is happy and huge. He's already wearing 6-9 month clothes, filling them out in both width and length. He still sleeps at least 8 hours straight every night.

He doesn't want to be anywhere but near me during the day but, quite frankly, I'm pretty much more than okay with that.

Wouldn't you be?

the Son is calling

 
It is still cold outside and deep, deep snow still covers the ground.

I shake my head as I light the first candle on Wednesday evening, as I hang the first Scripture just before we sit down to share our simple dinner together. I grumble inwardly, There are some places in the world where the season approaching Easter is warm and all things Easter-y. Not here. Hardly ever here.

And then, my heart catches in my throat as I realize how fitting it is, how appropriate it is that while we remain in this season of dormancy and death, we begin to look ahead. We look ahead to Jesus, to the only true Bringer of Life.

When we were yet dead in our trespasses and sin, He died for us.

Because He is good.

Because He saw something in us worth redeeming. Beneath that sin-scarred exterior, right through to the sin-marred interior of our hearts, He saw something worth giving His life for. Something worth buying back.

Beneath that snow, beneath that layer of ice and the barren exterior, there lies life. Life waiting to be called forth by the sun.

And so I light our candle and I hang our Scriptures, one by one by one. There is snow on the ground and there are snowflakes in my window, but there is life waiting to be called forth.

Called forth by the Son.