There are 39 million survivors of child sexual abuse in America today. I am one of them.

To say that in my heart I want to build towers and fortresses around my children wouldn’t be far off. But I know that no human contraption of fear or caution can bolster them in a world where evil exists. Where they will grow out of my watch, out of my home, out of my reach. That I will not always be able to see. That in the few moments I am in the next room something can change the direction of a life.

And I don’t say this to scare you even though the thought has terrified me. I say this because there are things you can do.

We are not growing up in the same era I did. I don’t remember having talks about anything related to strangers or touching or anything of the sort until I was back in the states going to Elementary school. Of course, why would they talk to me about those things?

I was only 5. Much too young to have to face that kind of situation. I didn’t go to daycare. I wasn’t around strangers. We had a tight  community. I wasn’t left alone or unattended for long, if ever. But it happened.

I look at my four-year old and I would not be able to imagine a world where this kind of conversation would be necessary had I not been that same age. Forget everything you think about the stranger or the weird guy in the neighborhood that doesn’t talk to anyone. It probably isn’t him.

Although we live in a much more savvy world of information and Amber alerts and awareness, many parents still believe it could never happen to their family. Statistics would say otherwise.

You can’t control everyone that will enter your child’s life, but you can help your kids navigate a terrible situation more effectively should they ever be in one.

What you should know: Don’t just assume you will know if your child is being abused.

The statistics state that 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys will be sexually molested before the age of 18. The vast majority of these children never report the abuse in childhood but carry that *weight into adulthood.

• 70-80% of sexual abuse survivors report excessive drug and alcohol use.
• One study showed that among male survivors, 50% have suicidal thoughts and more than 20% attempt suicide.
• Young girls who are sexually abused are more likely to develop eating disorders as adolescents.
• More than 60% of teen first pregnancies are preceded by experiences of molestation, rape or attempted rape. The average age of the offenders is 27 years old.
• Approximately 40% of sex offenders report sexual abuse as children.
• Both males and females who have been sexually abused are more likely to engage in prostitution.
• Approximately 70% of sexual offenders of children have between 1 and 9 victims; 20-25% have 10 to 40 victims.
• Serial child molesters may have as many as 400 victims in their lifetimes.

While that all seems very bleak, we have a God of redemption who makes beautiful the broken things in our lives and weeps mercy into our wounds. No one is past the point where God can heal.

But as parents, we don’t just want to know what to do when it seems too late.

We want to wage a battle for their innocence and one of the main ways to do that is to educate them. Many parents don’t want to talk about such ugly things as abuse. We think there is an age appropriate time to talk about these things. Maybe when they start school, or maybe when they hit puberty.

Don’t wait. Educating yourself and your children can save them from a situation of abuse.

Tomorrow I’ll share some specific action steps towards educating yourself and your children.

The post Empowering Parents to Prevent Abuse Pt 2 appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

Disclaimer: This is a four part series on the blog covering  issues involved in childhood sexual abuse and especially focuses on areas of prevention in your home. Please know this is a sensitive subject for many but I’ve felt moved to write this series over the next 4 days. This is not meant to inspire fear or panic in parents but to help inform them of steps they can take with and for their children to better protect them from this ever being part of their story.

We sat in a circle. there were 17 of us.  Nine of us had the same story.

Different ages, different situations, but still the same.

Behind closed doors in darkness and broad screaming daylight it happened. Strangers and friends, family and siblings, a neighbor boy, an elderly man around the corner who used to pay boys to wash his windows and water the lawn behind his home and then when the door closed and the boys pockets were crinkly with new dollar bills he’d touch them. The man was elderly and frail, in need of help around the house and wasn’t he a nice boy for helping out.

His shoulders curled in on himself, limbs long and lanky, ankles crossed on the floor. He told his story, staring at the swirling pattern of carpet, tears seeming out-of-place on his chiseled cheekbones and chin. Head down he told how he couldn’t look at his neighbor, who would tell him what a good job he did in the garden or how his windows gleamed and how his mother would smile down at him, proud. How his cheeks burned red-hot shame when he felt himself get aroused because he knew this was so wrong. Did this mean he was gay? What would people say?

And we could all see it. Why he was silent. After all he was a boy. He was supposed to own his manhood and sexuality and at 11 years of age, he could have certainly said no, fought back, told someone.  The man was elderly and frail, in need of help around the house and wasn’t he a nice boy for helping out.  And there was no place for his voice then, awkwardly transitioning between squawks and base as he grew bent into manhood.

But we didn’t tell either. The other eight of us never said a word. And we were all girls.

Because you see, shame is shame. Silence is silence, and none are exempt from the voice of accusation. You are dirty.

When we think of sexual abuse, we think of men abusing women or in many cases girls. We think of perverts and strangers. And it’s true, the vast majority of sexual predators are male. It transcends location, class, ethnicity, age, and upbringing but the vast common ground  for sexual abuse in our country is that they are male and they are known and trusted.

And I look at my children, who are beautiful in every way. And my soul turns inside out when I think if statistics hold true one of them may experience this. When I am in a group of my daughter’s friends, I think for every three, one may feel this kind of pain. One may go through this. One may already have and I would never know.

Because shame is a great barrier to truth. It erects walls and fortresses to keep light out and to keep fear in.

Fear that it was your fault.

Fear that you didn’t tell right away.

Fear of threats or fear that because there were no threats, you should’ve fought harder, resisted more.

Fear that you asked for it or deserved it.

Fear that your parents won’t believe you, that they will never look at you the same, that it’s their word against yours and everyone loves and trusts your abuser.

Fear that you’ll have to answer questions about the most embarrassing things, shameful dirty things.

Fear that if you talk about it, it will be real, it will have happened, it will be true.

 And I think of how my parents could have protected me more. What could they have done? What can I do?

Have you experienced childhood sexual abuse? If so, have these things haunted you? Kept you from seeking healing? Blocked you from believing in God’s love or goodness? I want to pray with you today that you would know the fullness of God’s grace and mercy and the redemptive power of His everlasting love. I pray you would be free, just as I pray these things for myself.

Tomorrow I will be sharing about the reasons why I believe this is an important conversation to have. Then we’ll be talking about specific action steps you can do with your child. Lastly, we’ll be talking about the bigger global impact of child sexual abuse and why we, as parents should care. 

The post Empowering Parents to Prevent Abuse pt. 1 appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

Favorite Posts from Around the Web

• A Theology of Hair Curlers (Call to Creativity) by Tanya Marlow

• Introverts explained- Why we love you but need to get away from you  by Brenna Gee

• For the Weary by Tonya Salomons

• #Tell His Story: How to Get the Most of of Your Summer Vacation by Jennifer Dukes Lee

• On Coming Home from Africa by Claire De Boer

Favorite Instagram of the Week

Kaia wrapped Nehemiah in Christmas paper . He also came with a card. Best present ever.

That we would all remember The Word of God is Big.

The post It Speaks to Me appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

 We’re parked in my minivan staring out at the river. I am one of the truly talented people who can sprain their ankle at a BBQ walking bare footed on flat grass, only to topple, legs flailing in midair. I recovered by rolling to my side and ending up on my stomach, grass sprouting from my head like a Seuss character, when my four-year old thought it would be great fun to try to ride mommy.

Surviving that humiliation, I’ve been cooped up and trying to stay off it.

So  I could barely walk when we made plans. I knew she needed to talk and so we chose to remain cloistered in the cooling evening air, our windows rolled up as we watched joggers run by on the park trail.

It’s been a rough week. She looks tired. But who am I kidding? So do I. 

And this is what friends do. We sit in the minivan, because I am unable to really go anywhere. She crunches ice from her plastic gas station cup, the outsides sweating droplets onto her hands.

There’s a mountain of conflict, of tempers and opinions and boundaries being crossed and she has been assaulted by the sharp tongue of her mother in law. Tensions that rise in the weave and tangle of family life. Because how do you clutch your iPhone and listen to the temper clanging on the other end and really listen? When the accusations lie firmly in none of her business, and I’m the mom territory. But she listens anyway. Even though her own voice is snuffed or spoken over or unheard.

I sit back into her problems. These conflicts. And I think of my reaction to a problem that is not even my own. My blood runs hot and angry. I think of my reaction to communication with someone who has barricaded their ears with years of their own rage and hurts and savagery, that no sound can penetrate.

I think I would not keep trying. I think those words and so many before this would have made me turn on my heel and whisk my children away without a backward glance. I would wield the truth severing our family tree where our branch jutted out. And we would fall rootless to the ground.

Sometimes we learn grace in the most extraordinary of ways. I have some of the most grace-filled people in my life. The kind that really close gaps and take leaps to close wounds. I would imagine I need these people dropped into my life like emergency ration parachutes for a starving prisoner of war. Hand wrapped packages from God for this battle-scarred girl.

Because grace hasn’t come easily when it’s easier to cut and run. Grace isn’t as fun as all the fancy fonts and floral saying Pinterest prints would have you believe.

It’s messy. It’s hurtful. It’s standing at the door saying I’m still here even if the knob doesn’t turn. It’s pressing your ear into the soul of your enemy and listening for a pulse even as they scratch at your back. Tuning yourself to see their hurts, hear their story, and make room before they ever say, I’m sorry. Even if they never say, I’m sorry.

So you know the deal, right? 

Go to Lisa Jo’s. Write for 5 minutes on the prompt for this week: Rest

Don’t overthink, don’t stress, don’t edit. Just write free and tell your story.

Link up.

Comment on the post ahead of yours

Spread the awesome. 

Repeat again next week. 

The post Five Minute Friday: Listen appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

It has to do with one of my God sized Dreams coming true. Want to know what those dreams are? Read my post below. I’ll be sharing more soon! Spoiler alert (it’s the first one)

This post has been excruciatingly hard to write.

Because  I like to tell the truth. The most common compliment on my writing is that it is authentic, raw, vulnerable, real, and brave. Honestly, you bolster my spirit with your love and graciousness as I share my messy, broken, beautiful with you. You have spoken life into places in my mess that I believe were the very loving words of God to me.

But at the same time it is a blessing it is also a battle. Because my heart is prone to wander. Because we were never meant for the praise afforded God and although we bear his image, we are often clumsy and inadequate with praise. There is never enough room in my heart for my vanity and a holy adoration of God. 

I am prone to seek my own glory. I am prone to seek praise. I am prone to forget that any talent I have is not of my own doing. Not born solely on effort or skill but a gracious gift given to me not for my own purposes but to point to the Giver. I am prone to think I am all that. And then because of all I have invested in my own abilities, I can bastardize the ministry that He has blessed me with. I share this now not for a simple pat on the back for telling the truth but because this is a constant struggle with  chasing God sized dreams.

And so when I read Holly’s challenge to name our God sized dreams, I felt this false humility raising its head. Can I really name what I believe God has made me for? Could I say aloud what I think God purposed my life toward? That the stories woven through the years of my life would point to this dream. That the thundering heartbeat stirring when I ponder the calling, were from Him and I am claiming them.

And it scared me. A lot.

What if I name them and people think I’m being presumptuous? What if they think I have none of these self-perceived talents and I’m just fooling myself? What if none of this ever comes to pass and I have this troublesome post out there for all the world to see? A testament to my failure.

Yes, my failure.

How much more evident is it that I believe in myself, that I believe success depends on me and what I can accomplish, that I grapple with the sin and idolatry that run straight through my heart?

The truth is, I fear that I can be raw and real and authentic when revealing the wicked ugly that often resides in my heart competing with God’s place because I don’t feel self-righteous. I probe the depths of my own depravity, have in fact wrestled with the cost of my sin and come to the cross as wretchedly poor as the prodigal having to return time and again when my pockets are empty and I’ve rolled in the filth of my own way. 

But I am self-reliant in the spirit of service. 

“Oh Lord, if only you’d move out-of-the-way and open the door for me, look what I would do for you! I would serve you with all the finesse of one truly gifted. Oh and thanks for that too, God. You’ll get your money’s worth. I got this, God. “

And hasn’t this been the lesson of my whole life? Haven’t I been a spectacular failure despite the giftings God has blessed me with? Haven’t I been through this fire before? Haven’t I dreamed big and felt that it was God, only to watch it be a lesson learned in humility and dependence.

Haven’t I learned when I’m weak, He is strong. Only in my brokenness does He shine through. Only in my surrender am I malleable.

So when I realized I was struggling with this post, I realized it’s not insecurity about the dreams in my heart, it’s pride. I don’t want to say it aloud because I am afraid I won’t come through. I won’t be able to pull it off.

I am forgetting that God will go before me.

I am forgetting that the result of my dreams is not the point, my obedience is.

I am forgetting that what He works in me is more important than what He works through me, and that I have no control over the end result. That I may do great things, and no one may see them, and that’s okay.

So in obedience, pushing aside the pride that so easily ensnares, I am naming my God sized dreams.

I want to set my feet in Africa, even though right now the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to follow my heart there and be taught, sit with stories and look deep into their eyes, I want to advocate for the things that bring my tears, choke me up, and set my spirit ablaze. I want to be a voice, even if it’s nothing more than a whisper of friendship and empathy. I want to be taught to love well.

I want to put my life into words. I want to share what God has done in my life as an anthem of hope and grace, not because I am so great but because He is.

I want to stand before women and speak life into them. I want to tell them that they’re brave and strong. That with God, we can change the world one heart at a time. He changed mine.

I want to name my dreams and go confidently towards them, not with false humility or pride but with the assurance of a God who guides my steps if only I will walk with Him.

Do you have God sized dreams you’d like to share? Join in over at Holly’s at say it out loud. 

The post In Which I Dream Out Loud: An Update appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

I would shower that morning and the hot water would run down my face, mingled with tears. My puffy eyes would stare back at me from the small swiped clearing I made through thick steam on the mirror. My hair wet and ragged, I felt I was drowning.

The doctor would explain everything again while Josh held my hand, churning it in his as if wearing smooth a prayer bead.

There would be a rush of people in and out, a swish of hospital scrubs and stethoscopes and the ragged rip of the blood pressure cuff tearing apart to be strapped over my arm as the pressure increased and the thud of my heart pumped in my ears.

I would be asked over and over as the shifts changed and my bed was wheeled into the operating room, what my name and birthday was, what I was being treated for as they checked my chart and lifted my limp arm to match it to my plastic armband. I would tell them a D & C. I would tell them 16 weeks. I would tell them Alia, and 22 years old. And then I would add miscarriage just in case. So they would know that the baby they were about to take from me, was already gone.

I would wake groggy, my throat sore and raspy, my IV tubing falling across my face as I wiped at my eyes. And later, when I was discharged, I would pull on my stretchy pants, belly still swollen empty, and shuffle out of the hospital.

 I wouldn’t ask questions like why?

I didn’t want to know the sex of the baby that I had carried. I didn’t want a name to go with that pregnancy. I didn’t want to remember loss or feel it. I didn’t want to try again. I wanted to forget.

I wanted a new morning. One where I would wake and feel whole and purposed. I had learned to fear the uncertain, and nothing requires more faith than the offering of your children. Every blue line to cross that white stick a chance for something to go wrong. For my heart to break again.

I think of  Sarah’s barren womb and I wonder if the story would be the same if God had tasked her with laying her Isaac down on a cold stony altar and stepping back into the uncertain path of obedience and faith. How a mother’s heart beats like no other. What faith would it take for a mother to look in her boys eyes and raise her knife to him? How would a mother not withhold her baby?

Yesterday, we attended a benefit to raise money for a child in the battle for his life. Leukemia. My childhood nemesis. The catalyst that moved us out of Nepal and into a path of faith that would eat up years, bring us to our knees, and build a fragile faith out of the ruins.

The money raised would help the boy’s family travel back and forth to Portland for hospital appointments and treatment. Although 11, he was small and frail. Milky white skin peeked out from behind a surgical mask.He wore red pajama bottoms and a baseball hat covered his shorn head. His mother had a baby in her arms. He didn’t stay long. Exhaustion a common companion.

 It never really ends. The uncertain steps of this ephemeral life.

I think of the confidence we put in education and security and finance.  I think of the blueprints for better structures to protect us from the wind and rain and the taking of lives from the ravages of nature. I think of the medicine and technology that insulates us and makes us feel our chances are better at survival.

And I think God has given us tools of innovation and industry. But I also think of how fragile our lives are. How our very flesh and bone can betray us, weaken us to the entry of our life, still fragile as a baby, needy and dependent. I think of a world groaning in sin, waiting for eternity.

I think how the human spirit can be crushed and still rise brilliant, shining through, the gossamer soul like flame.

I think of today and tomorrow when I will work and toil, where bodies fail and children die. Where storms come fierce, and clawing through rubble is the very scourging of a mother’s soul.

I think of days when I’ve mourned the loss of dreams and hopes,both for myself and for those friends whose heartache has sent me reeling back to that stark pain. I think of mothers who’ve  repacked brand new baby blankets into neatly labeled boxes, waiting. I think of rooms where cribs remain empty and a mother weeps what will never be here on earth.

 I think of heaven and a morning when I’ll wake to majesty.

A world new, with all of my children. But until that day, I walk the hard steps of a tender faith and try not to trip when I see the heartache around me.

This post was motivated in part by the benefit yesterday, part by grieving the news of a friend’s miscarriage, and part by living in this world with my eyes wide to the suffering around me. Please join me in praying for those who are hurting right now. Thank You. 

I’m also linking up with some dear friends Ashley and Nacole for my very first #concretewords and the word prompt: morning. And with the beautiful writers at Imperfect Prose. Join us?

The post A Mother’s Faith appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

I turn from my mirror, mascara wand suspended mid-air. I am looking  in the mirror at her, a reflection so beautiful and precious to me, my heart falls fathoms deep when I see those eyes well, wet with pain. 

Her face is flushed red with summer heat, and her braid has come loose leaving sweat kissed wisps of hair around her face.

 “Why boo? Do you feel bad about yourself?” I whisper

“Sometimes, like today. I was last and I had to stop. And this,” she points to her belly pushing forward under her running club shirt.

And I can’t speak. I pull her into my arms and run my fingers through her hair and smell the sunshine on her skin. 

I think of the park and the kids, all limbs and gangly strides looping around the track and I see her slow to a jog, and then walk. I see the pack run on, a swarm of elbows, knees, and Nike’s. And she falls behind further.

She meets my eyes for a second across the track and I give her a thumbs up as younger kids fly by her. She begins to trot again and each step hurts me because her head is down.

 ”I do sweetie, I do sometimes feel bad about myself.” I concede.

 She draws back and our eyes meet.

“I wish I could tell you I don’t, but the truth is that sometimes I listen to those lies that tell me I’m not good enough. Do you know what I have to do then?” I ask her.

“What?” She presses her head into my side and finds the spot where she fits right beneath my arm, right next to my heart. And I wish I could shelter her here forever. I wish I could clasp her head on my breast and let her hear how my heart beats for her. 

“I remember how God made me and I remember that He thinks I’m the most fabulous Alia he’s ever made and he knows what he’s talking about. So who should I listen to, me or him?”

A smile spreads across her face and I see her two front teeth and I think of the braces that will  be on them and how she’ll look older and she’ll grow more and every day in this world she’ll face this. Am I enough? Am I worthy?

It’s a burden carried on the shoulders of this broken world, we all fall and grasp at redemption. 

 “I think of how God made you, Kaia. Kind and brave, faithful and creative. I love your mind and how you work so hard no matter what. I love your art and the way you always share, always. I love that you always care if someone is sad and you want to make them feel better. I love that you bring mommy coffee in the morning and put kisses in it.”

 ”Do you want to hear a funny story?” I ask.

She looks up, brown eyes clear and sparkling, lashes wet and nods her head.

“Let me tell you about the time mommy ran cross-country in high school. God gave me big legs with lots of muscles to go really fast for about 50 yards but he didn’t give me good lungs. When I would run the cross-country trails, I wanted to throw up in my mouth every single time.”

“Ewww, that’s gross mommy,” she giggles.*

“And one time I just wanted to stop because I was so far behind I thought I’d never catch up but I heard something behind me and I thought it might be a rattlesnake. I ran so fast I caught up to my friends and I was trying to tell them what I heard but I was too out of breath. I fell back a lot.”

“You did?” she asks.

 ”Yup, but you know what? I sure could run fast, because that’s how God made me.“

“I can run fast, my legs are big too!” she says looking at her legs, brown with summer.

“Yes baby, just like mommy.”

*This post took 8 minutes because I stink at typing quotations and because I wanted to finish it.

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a Five Eight Minute Friday but I’m so glad to be joining this week.

You know the drill.

Five Minutes. No over thinking. No major editing. No trying to get it perfect. Just let your writing be enough. Then link up with the fabulous group of writers doing the same over at Lisa Jo Bakers and be sure to check out others and give ‘em some encouragement. 

The post Five Minute Friday: Fall appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

I’ve laid out plastic and my four and eight year old have the watercolors and a collection of rocks to recreate into swirling florals and all manner of messiness.

My daughter has a paint by numbers that is sectioned into tiny slivers awaiting their chosen colors, the end result being a Panda.  I’ve unleashed their brushes and their tiny fingers lead them in pirouettes across the stones and canvas.

I open my laptop next to them and stare at the cursor flashing on the blank page.

And then my son has finished his first rock, a black swirl of paint on a smooth round stone. He tells me it’s a wabbit.

My daughter is leaning close to the canvas, hand steady trying to get the paint into the designated spots. I see the Panda’s face beginning to form. She bites her lip and tilts her head to the side inspecting her work.

“Mommy, I can’t get the yellow to mix right. I think I made it look weird.” She is becoming her own worst critic.

 To read the rest of this post, join me on the Allume blog…

Quick side note: To all my lovely readers and friends, I’ve missed you guys!

I’m back to blogging after a much-needed break and I’m bursting with stories to share.  I’m so glad to be back and I have some amazing news to share with you. Big things have been happening in my life and I can’t wait to share some of the things God has been doing lately, both the beautiful and the humbling.

As you’ll see, I’m a new contributor for the Allume blog and I’m posting there for the first time today. I’d love it if you’d stop by and say hello! And don’t forget to subscribe here  to make sure you don’t miss any of the new stuff coming your way in the next couple of months! You won’t want to miss it. To do that just 

The post On Ordinary Art appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

I read the book on love languages before I got married. Fairly easy concepts to grasp, there are 5 basic languages that people ‘speak’ to show and receive love. They include: acts of service, gifts, words of affirmation, quality time, and physical touch. Some people have more than one but most have a primary language that really speaks to them.

Everyone in my family receives love through quality time. I do not.

I love solitude with hermit-like devotion.

I feel love through acts of service. If you love me, then you’ll serve me. I know I sound a tad high maintenance and that might be right.

If you love me, you’ll carry the burden with me. You’ll lighten my load by serving me.

If you love me, then you’ll clean your room when I ask and especially when I don’t. Or you’ll take the kids on Saturday so I can write for a few hours, read that book I’ve had stacked on my side table for months, and take a long bath. You’ll shampoo the carpet when the brown mystery stains begin to resemble continents spreading across the floor. You’ll bring me a meal when we all come down with the flu.

I know that it may seem contrary to a love language that to feel loved, I want to be alone or at the very least surrounded by minions who clean and cook and take care of themselves. But alas, it’s true. Because the rest of the time, if I’m truly being loving, I’m trying to spend time with each of my kids and my husband. I’m trying to pour into them so they will feel every bit as loved as I do when they all leave.

I know as a mother I am not supposed to say that I enjoy when my kids are gone. When my husband shuttles them out and away on a fishing expedition or to the park.

I am not supposed to sigh with deep relief that the house’s walls don’t rattle with the heavy footsteps of youth and energy and need.

I know that I am supposed to breathe it in and love it. Because children are a blessing. And youth flies by so fast and my son towers above me now and it was just yesterday when he could fit in my lap and I get it. I do, I know my life without them would be unimaginable.

And yet, there remains the inescapable stretch of motherhood. 

And again, I wish it were different, that I were different.

I wish I got my fill with time together and the doing of life. Yet this is the cost of loving well. The sacrifice of building up those loves. Because to truly love someone, you have to speak in the way their heart hears. And I have never been fluent in this.

How do you show and receive love when the languages are so at odds with each other?  When one longs to be close and the other longs for space?

I have felt my time seeping into telling the story of the pumpkin headed man for the millionth time, or the tug on the bottom of my shirt and those molten brown eyes looking up begging for more time, more energy, more of me. My kids want to sit with me, sides touching. Always touching.

And I have resented it. I have wished someone else could fill in for a bit. I have wished they didn’t need or want me so much. I have wondered if homeschooling is the wrong choice for such an introverted person.

Before I had children, I had visions of picnics in the park on sunny days, the leave’s shadows dancing speckled sun rays on our skin. With ripe watermelon, cut thick and dripping. But I didn’t envision the piles of napkins and sticky fingers and the constant warnings to stay away from the bike paths and the fuss and whine of overtired children on a hot day.

I had visions of couch cushions pulled from the sofa and piled with blankets and pillows, a cavern where we would gather and soar with our imaginations. I hadn’t imagined the crumbs, and wad of tissue, coins, and all the lost pens in the house that had accumulated under the cushions. I hadn’t imagined the need to haul the vacuüm out or put the cushion back and pretend I hadn’t noticed.  I hadn’t imagined the lecture about not eating in the living room, and my gosh, ick, throw away their dirty tissues!

And then the momentum of an afternoon is swallowed up in lessons and chores and responsibilities. I  hadn’t imagined that being the mom who always hung fresh art work on the fridge, listened attentively to every long and rambling tale her children concocted, and always had time to play Lego, would be so very exhausting.

I hadn’t imagined how tired I would be when 15 minutes in the car included 49 questions about everything from what boogers are made of, to what we’re having for dinner, to when we’re going camping this summer, I would just want to turn up the volume on the radio and drown out the curiosity that I had formerly encouraged.

I hadn’t imagined I would feel so guilty when I didn’t love it all. When I didn’t lift the banner of motherhood and exclaim that it is all I ever wanted.

I didn’t imagine I would have to come to terms with both the selfishness in my heart and the intrinsic design of how God made me with all of my requisite needs for solitude and silence.

That motherhood would be juggling and balancing and more often than not, dropping the ball and tripping up.

I  thought it would all come naturally if I loved my children.

I have realized that there is nothing natural or easy about love. It always costs and sacrifice is always present. <—Click to Tweet this.

When we speak, especially in halting pauses trying to decipher meaning and intent of a language foreign, we take turns. We pause and listen and we don’t always get it right. But in these language lessons we’re all foreign tongues. And to speak this language that our hearts hear and know and believe, it takes a skilled tongue and a lot of practice. And a lot of sacrifice.

The post On Loving Well: Language Lessons appeared first on Narrow Paths to Higher Places.

I didn’t want to stand in long lines and drift down aisles shopping for things. I wanted to create something with my hours and labor and love poured into the dresses that would twirl in the summer sun, or the hats and costumes for fanciful play and tea parties and gatherings of dolls and daydreams.

I wanted to make beautiful the jagged edges of cloth, cut boldly with razor-sharp scissors slicing through, fluid lines hemmed and forming something whole.

I am not an experienced seamstress. One class in the evenings where women gathered with patterns and machines and boxes of scissors and tape and pins and more questions than we had answers to was all I had ever done.

We filed into the empty art room at the high school as the temperature dropped low outside and the dark outside gulped up the sky. We were warm, cloistered with dreams of homemade Christmas presents and the ability to make something with our hands. Where the instructors examples of things we’d be able to sew seemed impossible and confusing.

I had to ask which way the machine was supposed to face, with the buttons facing me or away from me? So yeah, you can imagine.

But first we cut and pinned and measured out dreams.

And the first cut is the hardest. Because what you have is a bolt of unspoiled fabric. Once cut it can’t be uncut. So you make sure you have measured right. You make sure your finger traces the line of size to the yardage. You make sure your scissors cut sharp and even.

But until you cut, you’re just dreaming of the possibilities.

I have yards of fabric, some have a life ahead as curtains, or pillows, or dresses if and when I get around to it.  But for now they have potential. They line up obediently waiting for their chance to be. They sit on my shelf useless, formless.

Just like dreams, the investment comes once you’ve cut, once you’ve committed and plunged in with shears, you will learn the way the pieces fit and the shape it will take as you slice.

When you’re learning, your seam ripper is your best friend. The sharp tool can sink into the seams and pull apart thread and weave. It can undo wayward lines, rip through cloth joined that should be split. It gives you a do-over. And I needed a lot of do overs.

I sewed the bottom of my daughters skirt together not once, but three times. Yes, folks, three times I sewed the bottom together completely so there was only a pouch and no possibility for legs to go through, and then I’d ripped it out and started over. And over. And over.

And it always feels like a step back. Like the work going in is just being ripped apart and that seam sewed straight and strong turns out to be all wrong. It must come out. And that feels like loss.

But I didn’t give up. And eventually, she was able to wear it, legs and all.

I am teaching my daughter to sew. After her attempts at outfits made from cut cloth scraps and old wash cloths held together precariously with knots, safety pins, and glue I realized she was made to create.

She has a small starter machine. She knits her brows together and squints her eyes as she threads the needle. She feeds the cloth through being careful not to chew up her fingers. She has made a pillow and a skirt and is working on an apron for her doll. She is dreaming up gifts for her new baby cousin due in September. She would like to create a love gift. Something beautiful.

And we all want to, don’t we?

We all have the need to create.

Some do it through words, others through cloth, some through paints, or spreadsheets, or neatly organized labels. Some do it through their hands, thick with flour and kneading dough, the hum of the oven an offering.

But we all partake in creation. We all approach craft with a seam ripper. The first dough doesn’t rise or burns. The words are all wrong and jumbled. The typos flow across the page and the backspace eats them up. The paint gobs on thick and the canvas wilts.

We all need to rip at seams and keep at it. And so I tell her, when she’s sewed the ruffled edge on the wrong side, and the seam wobbles and turns and frays at the corner, that she gets a do-over.

I introduce her to failure and perseverance, the teacher of souls. <—Click to tweet this.

I pull out my seam ripper and teach her to tear away the mistakes to make the beautiful things.

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