She Speaks: Ten Months Later May 20, 2012

In July 2011, I attended She Speaks, a fabulous conference for Christian woman sponsored by Proverbs 31 Ministries. I heard inspiring speakers like Lysa Terkeurst and Ann Voskamp; participated in a speaker evaluation group; and attended breakout sessions about publishing, marketing and how-to’s for speakers. I loved every minute. You can read my impressions from the conference here. 
 

The thing that sticks out most from last summer’s She Speaks is that I went to Charlotte with a crazy thought that maybe, just maybe I was being called by the Lord to encourage other women through speaking. After three days spent in encouragement, spiritual growth and practical advice, I no longer felt “crazy”—I felt called and empowered. On the plane homeward, I told God that he would have to make his path for me in this regard perfectly clear. As a working mom (and at the time of the conference newly pregnant with Baby #3), I had little time for promoting myself as a speaker. It seemed at the time ridiculous—why would anyone ask me to speak at an event when I had no experience? 
 

Two days after I returned home from She Speaks, I showed up at a Caribou Coffee early before work to meet with a leader in my church’s women’s ministry. The coffee date had been planned for weeks. After a little chitchat, the leader got down to business. Would I pray about being the speaker at our church’s May 2012 women’s retreat? I started laughing and without another word, I said, “Of course.” God is sometimes not very subtle at all. 
 

I’ve just returned home from the retreat weekend. It was meticulously planned and featured the stunning backdrop of Longs Peak towering over our retreat center. Coffee flowed, snacks were abundant and the easy love of Christian friendship filled each room. I was honored to serve and felt grace at every turn. I was nervous, of course, but everyone was beyond gracious. I think my favorite part of speaking was just feeling connected with the other women who had gathered to grow in their relationship with Jesus. Being a part of that shared goal makes for strong bonds. 
 

I’m basking in that post-retreat glow…and grateful I said, “Of course!” And for the next step? I have a hunch it will be made clear, whatever it is. 
 

Resurrection Peace April 8, 2012

Spring comes slowly to Colorado. The yard is starting to wake up—shoots branch off from trees and the new-last-year lilac bush unfurls new stems. The roses are sending out new leaves on top of dead wood. But the grass is still dry and the air has a cold rawness to it.

Still, I know spring and summer are on the way and my garden will again hum with cone flower, mouse-eared coreopis and jewel-colored dianthus. I yearn to be out in the dirt, sculpting my little patch of earth. Gardening is at once relaxing to me and anxiety-producing. I plan, I work and I fret—but there is a feeling like no other when the flower boxes are full and buds pop everywhere.

For Easter Sunday today, my pastor preached on “Resurrection Peace.” I told him after the service it was one of his best sermons. Afterward, I hoped that he didn’t think I complimented him reflexively, like one would compliment an attractive Easter dress. What I meant to say (but could not in the crush of things) was that his preaching had opened my eyes and mind to a corner of Christianity I had never considered.

He spoke on the 20th chapter of John where Mary sees the resurrected Jesus but at first thinks she’s talking to the gardener. And she is—Pastor Jim made the connection between the first garden where Adam and Eve walked with God in the “cool of the day;” to the Garden of Gesthsemane where Jesus sweated blood; and the garden where Mary is heartbroken and then wild with joy.

I like thinking about the first garden and its perfection. I love gardens–the rich, hanging blooms. The white-green stalks alive with purpose. The heavy-headed blossoms. What it must have been to walk about with God in a place of perfection, with no wanting.

But here we are instead. In a place of real wanting. Where nothing is perfect and bodies break down and decay. We are all dying, all spinning on our frantic tops. Later in the same chapter of John, Jesus appears to his disciples who are huddled together, doors shut tight. “Peace” he says. He repeats this word to his disciples once they, too, see that he is alive. Peace is what the Lord is bringing to the garden of our lives. Peace is contained in us through the Holy Spirit, when we love him.

It dawns on me in the pew that perhaps I am missing the garden. That I am yearning to get back to the garden, to Paradise. All of the toil, the sweat, the seed catlalogs, the digging and weeding is just my soul’s way of pointing toward one more example in which this world is lacking. It’s a dirt signpost, signaling that even in the pleasure of seed and bloom, I am not home. No, I am not home at all.

I need some of that Resurrection Peace. I need urgently to stand in the presence of Jesus and hear the word, “Peace.” And then I need to be in the garden with Jesus, tending the plants and turning over the beds, handing off the bent and twisted, half-dead blooms that have no place in such a paradise of peace.

Tossing the Burnt Things March 17, 2012

 
 

It was a genius idea. Or so I thought.  
 

Photo by Jonathan Fenske

 
 

We had some croutons that did not weather the overnight stay in our refrigerator. Really wanting crunchy croutons, I decided that the best thing to do would be to revive them in the toaster oven. And then I sat down to read the Denver Post. The croutons toasted on.  
 

When I was really digging into a story about proposed tax breaks for a new Target store in Denver, my husband alerted me to the flaming little bits of bread in the toaster oven. I grabbed an oven mitt, removed the burnt croutons and proceeded to fling the smoking nuggets into the backyard.
 
 

The day was sunny, the air warm (and accented with the smell of burned bread). Those black cubes of useless bread flew up into the air. The children squealed and laughed because it’s not every day mom tosses out the bread on its ear.  
 

I laughed, too. Because it’s no big deal. Sometimes things don’t work out right. Or it’s time to start over. A simple kitchen mistake can teach a girl a lot of things.  
 

A week ago, I wrote a blog post draft that I just couldn’t seem to make say what I needed it to say. I get very little time to write, so I was frustrated. I saw down for an hour, two hours and wrestled with the blog post. The baby cried. Someone fell out of bed. I had to abandon the writing. A few days later, I read in my devotional that I should not take myself so seriously.  
 

And then I burned the bread.  
 

Tonight, the stars aligned. Children slept. Even little nursing babies who want milk every two minutes. The house was quiet, so I tiptoed down and opened the wretched blog post, hoping it had magically become perfect. It had not.  
 

So, tonight I toss out burned toast. I throw my arms around the times when life just doesn’t seem to go right. In big and small ways, Jesus is showing me that when I have him, the other stuff just doesn’t matter too much. I can rest easy and free in his hands. If he is for us, who can be against us?  
 

When I get too hung up on the burnt things in my life, I miss the gentle voice of the Savior. I miss depending on him with my problems. Because it is in the dependence that he draws so close. If I am fretting about my problems and how I am going to fix them, I can too easily walk away from his beautiful love that promises to take on my burnt things, if only I will hand them over.  
 

What about you? What burnt things can you toss out this week?  
 

Her One and Only February 27, 2012

 

Today, every square inch of my house has a task assigned to it.

 

If you are fortunate enough to live with small people, you know what I am talking about: spilled apple sauce stuck to a pair of socks I-could-have-sworn were already in the wash.

 

Sprawled out books, covers that were fresh twelve hours ago, now graced with creases.

 

Laundry upon laundry and little bits of paper sticking out from the desk: it’s someone’s birthday that I am forgetting; our sponsored child’s Easter card; a highway toll charge from 2009 that suddenly arrived last week (helpfully three years later).

 

Usually, this cacophony is enough to drive me mad. I want to ignore everything and everyone until I get it straight–every scrap tidied and put in its place. No time for games of Cake Shoppe or Tickle Chase. No time to breathe in and out and say, “Help me, Jesus.”

 

But today, our pace is slower. Slowing. Slowed to a pace perfect for a new child, born into the chaos of life. We want to hold her from it, let her tiny toes absorb the crazy in her own time.

 

So, just an hour ago, my prayer was, “Thank you, God, for a house filled with mess.” Because in the end, what else is there? I am broken, contrite and I do what I don’t want to do. I am learning that without thankfulness, without a heart filled with gratefulness, I have nothing. I am a beggar, spitting at what God has brought.

 

Thank you for children whose voices are shrill, insistent. They will go far in life–they don’t know what “No” means.

 

Thank you for crumbs because it shows that we ate until we could eat no more.

 

Thank you for soft murmurs of comfort in the night when soaked sheets are pulled off beds by parents with bleary eyes. 

 

Today, my devotional led me to this verse: “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.” Psalm 73:17

 

The words leave me breathless: Nothing I desire but you. I want that to be true of my seeking Jesus. But I know it’s not, it’s not.

 

I seek a new SLR camera, cute Hanna Andersson jumpers, what the future holds, brownies, dates with friends at Starbucks. I seek him, certainly. But above all else on Earth? Sadly, I fall short.

 

And so I start again: Thankfulness. A heart turned toward him. Each day, it gets easier. And each day, he holds me close, as close as a nursing mama bringing her child to her heart once more.

 

It’s In the Going October 26, 2011

The mission trip began but it was not at all what was planned or promised. The heat and humidity of a Costa Rican summer stretched around the small group of Colorado folk, dampening clothes. Their spirits were hardy, but still, the proposed church building was not going according to plan.  
 

The materials were slow in coming. A key worker, distrustful of a group of Christians, sat sullenly in his truck. Schedules were thrown out the window. The group regrouped, digging a large hole that was needed. Others prayed in English for the Costa Ricans who asked for prayer. A faithful band of women from the church prepared meals for the Americans.  
 

It was on the edge of this scene that the American man took a small break from digging, from waiting. He walked down toward the river, scanning the trees for spider monkeys, enamored of the vegetation in this new place. His gaze found the flowing water, holding in its grasp the playing two-year-old Max.  
 

Max was a handful. Energetic, excited, a boy among boys. And there he was, splashing happily on a sandbar in the shallow water near the bank. The American man noticed a pre-teen babysitter watching Max.  
 

The man continued scanning the trees, until moments later, he was once more compelled to look at the river. The girl babysitter had wandered upriver, forgetting her charge as she scanned the water for smaller creatures. The man’s eyes searched again and then he saw Max, who had scooted, then tumbled into the deeper, swift-flowing waters. The little boy’s panicked face was going under. Then surfacing. And then going under again.  
 

The man, whom I love, later tells me his body was in motion, feet and legs and arms moving before he could think. He aims for the bend in the river, for he knows there is a high bank where he decides he will lay his body down and grab the little boy as he floats by under the current. The man tells me that he knew deep down if Max went under again, it would be for the last time.  
 

The man is a runner back in the States. His legs are sure and a gift that will be put to sweeter use than the local 5Ks the man loves to run on Saturdays. He dives for the bank, arms and chest splashing down, captures the wet little boy and drags him free of the river.  
 

The rest of the week, the man and the boy have a special bond. When the group of Americans is ready to leave the heat, the insects and the poverty, they pack their bags. A mother whispers a few things to the man. He gets on an airplane but not before a few tears. And a few thanks.  
 

Never would the man seek attention for what occurred, but I write of it today because I have been thinking: what use are we to God? I know it is in the daily saying “yes” but I don’t always do it. I know it is in the daily surrendering, but I don’t always want to. I know that sometimes, it’s in the going.  
 

I pray: God, use me. Show me the plan you have for me. I am good for it, I promise! May I have heart and hands and when He calls, may I just pick up my feet and go.  
 

Jonathan and Max

You Are My Toothy Swan October 18, 2011

Life was hard, so hard today in Kindergarten. 
 

Her best friend, a dear girl who is both smart and beautiful at the tender age of five, lost her tooth in class. 
 

Sweet attention followed, as it should. A special tooth purse was fetched; admiration abounded. Classmates clustered near to see the fresh-plucked tooth. 
 

Except for one girl. A girl wounded to the core over the fetting, over the attention. Life’s spotlight had raked over her and then moved on. Hers was not the story today.  
 

The final blow came during a silly song the beloved teacher played in class. The teacher named each child a special name and when it got to fresh-tooth-girl, the teacher blessed her with the title, “Toothy Swan.” 
 

It was too much. Tears, so many tears, still falling at night as the girl told me the story. 
 

“It was her day to be special.” I told the girl as we lay closely together, swimming in flannel sheets and soft pillows. “You are special to me everyday, but it was her day to be special in class.” 
 

“But Mom,” she sniffed. “I wanted to be a Toothy Swan.” 
 

And so I understood. In the naming, there was a specialness. In the naming, there was belonging and a place most beloved.  
 

The girl is asleep now, but I carry with me how tenderly my child’s heart cracked open, naming her anguish. I have walked that road, too, calling out to the Savior, “Do I matter? Am I special? Do you care what happens to me?” 
 

The answer, dear friends, is yes. We are beloved daughters of the King. Robed in peace and joy , the power of the Holy Spirit coursing through every cell of our bodies. 
 

As you read this, is the world telling you that today is not your day? That today is someone else’s moment to shine? Of course, that is life in this world. Your day might not be today on Earth. But in Heaven is One who cannot keep His eyes off of you. You are princess, daughter and beloved, cherished-beyond-measure swan.  
 

Sometimes, It’s Just That Easy October 9, 2011

Art by a Small Fenske

Adults like to make things complicated, don’t we? Especially around matters of faith and who’s in, who’s out and who’s just not even invited to the party.

I was juggling two energetic kiddos after Sunday School tonight as a bone-chilling cold wind whipped down the street. My man was in bed sick, and I was eager to get home to him. (Our church does Sunday School at night for a variety of reasons, but one of them is the sheer number of kids—we spill over into the beautiful commercial daycare building next door.)

As I was herding little bodies into the car, my jacket zipped tight against the chill, there was suddenly a hue and cry for a potty break. I just wanted to get home, but I know better. So, we unstrapped car seats, pulled on jackets and made a quick pit stop. As with any interruption, I felt the familiar dry taste of frustration rise in my throat. I wanted to go home. I deserved to go home.

But my mind abruptly jumped tracks and went in a new direction: a direction I have been claiming for the past few months. Thankfulness.

Thanksgiving for the strong legs of my children as they crest the hill beside the church, the younger one’s pink tutu sticking out from under her jacket.

Thanksgiving for what I have—what I do not have blissfully set aside as something not worth noting.

Thanksgiving for chilly nights and warm houses to head toward after a full day.
And then the sharp breath. Have I spent my life not seeing this? The flash of light in another’s eyes? The soft, rounded skin on their cheeks? The excitement in just running to the mundane on a cold night, face flushed and arms pumping?
I give God the glory that I can even hazard a whispered prayer when things are headed from bad to worse. But God in his wisdom is still charting my course. He gives, he gives.

I took a deep breath and felt the offering coming up from someplace so deep it had to be from the Author of Life. It’s not from me, oh, no. His goodness endures forever!
Yes, we make things complicated. But He would have us make it so very small. Give thanks. Love. Forgive. Bless.

The Sea Into Jars September 27, 2011

Photo by Jennifer Manske Fenske

The fall here in Colorado refuses to come. Or, perhaps, a better way of saying it is, summer is taking her time leaving us. The days are shorter to be sure, but the warmth of the sun presses down, wrapping the daylight of September in a not-unpleasant embrace. The light slants short this time of year and leaves are to be found, here and there, but all together, a child (and her mother) can still be seen barefoot on the front lawn, sneaking in one more ride on the bicycle before the sun sinks hard to the horizon.

Maybe this late fall is why my mind is captivated by Psalm 33′s line about the awesomeness of God: “He gathers the waters of the sea into jars; he puts the deep into storehouses.” (v. 7).

It makes me think to another time, a time at the beach, when all was play and the sand was beneath our feet. The waters of our beloved Atlantic so vast, but we four were on the ocean side together. Holding down our tiny patch of sand, all of life staked on what was behind us and what was ahead. 

It is impossible to think of holding back the sea, but He has done it.

It is impossible to think of a storehouse vast enough to hold the teeming ocean—every sand, shell and mollusk—but He owns it.

And as I think of this time beside the ocean, when I know full well the cold is coming and summer can’t whirl around us forever—can He hold my heart, too? He who made the earth, the stars, the sea and all creatures…He who can pour the mighty oceans into jars, does he stop to tuck my heart up next to his and whisper my name?

I am small, a wisp, a shadow. I long for immortality, like we all do—hoping there is something I will leave that mentions my love: children, grandchildren, words in a dusty book, a well dug in a place where there was no water. I am learning that only Jesus satisfies and when I strive to order my life to His will, wondrous things begin to happen. The thanksgiving (for the sun! for the sand!) flows; the sacrifices are offered joyfully.

I know the wear and tear of life. I know full well the dreams that have not appeared and the things that have been taken. Caught between life here and life where it never ends, I can fret and say, “Nothing is right.”

Caught between one season and another, my prayer goes up like incense: Capture my heart into your jar. Never let it go.

Beside the ocean, the whole of the sea thundering past and over our feet that day, we laughed. Spinning and aching and loving and swelling. Simple jars of clay loved beyond all measure.

Where the Coyotes Roam September 24, 2011

Photo by Jennifer Manske Fenske

After dinner tonight, we went for a walk in our favorite nature preserve that’s about two miles from our house. I love the wide crushed gravel trail that loops around a large lake with no motorized traffic in sight. I can breathe easy there—my youngest is a classic wild child. She can and will get into scrapes, mishaps and shenanigans. Earlier in the day, the child ran into the street in front of our house. She loved the attention she got when she did it, so she repeated the feat (before being dragged inside as playtime abruptly ended.)

 

As you enter the nature preserve, there are signs about coyote-human interaction and how to avoid it if at all possible. These signs are illustrated with a rather realistic-looking coyote. My elder daughter was alarmed, and since she can read, she had a lot of questions for us. (My husband has actually seen the coyote that lives in this particular preserve a lot when he used to run there at dusk last year. The coyote would run with him, looping alongside in the brush. J. said the coyote seemed curious and not at all menacing. Taking a page from the Obvious Wifely Handbook, I suggested he find another place to run, or run in the daylight.)

 

As we began to walk, elder daughter became frightened beyond just normal kid-fear-type-stuff. She wanted to be held—or at the very least—-hold our hands. We told her over and over that nothing was going to happen, that the four of us would certainly scare off any coyotes; and besides, what would a coyote want with boring ‘ole people?

 

The child was not placated or reassured until I put my arm around J. and told her, “This is your Daddy. He’s here to protect you. What can a coyote do to you with Daddy around?”

 

Those were the words that did it. Soon, she was skipping alongside the boardwalk that edged a vast expanse of cattails, some bursting into feather down. As the sun started sinking low, with the Rocky Mountains muted through a pink and blue sunset, we walked and talked. We were fearless, held up by love and a Father’s sure protection.

 

My life twists this way and that. Opportunities come and go; decisions are made hourly. And sometimes, my applecart gets upset with the twin sisters of pride and judgement. I have to stop and remember that “If God is for us, who can be against?” Held up against the majesty of the Father who cares for us—whose heart will not rest until we are His—what can dangers, disappointments and denials do to us? They are just scruffy coyotes, running in the shadows, never menacing for very long.

 

Whatever your coyote, know there is One to guide you through, One who stops to hold you fast. An embrace of love, timeless and forever yours held out in an open hand.

 

She Speaks July 24, 2011

I am writing to you on the way home from She Speaks, an incredible conference by Proverbs 31 Ministries, now in its eleventh year.

She Speaks is a fabulous (and spiritually mind-blowing) weekend where Christian women can grow and discern their calling in speaking, writing or women’s ministry. Out of this world speakers and leaders this weekend included Lysa TerKeurst and Ann Voskamp.

One of the sweetest surprises included the gift of free books! Most of the P31 authors and their publishers donated their recent titles, and then the authors signed their books. I was in heaven!

One book I was given was Renee Swope’s A Confident Heart. It’s brand new, so I grabbed it to read on the plane. I stopped at the title page where Renee signed it along with writing “Luke 1:45.”

So, here in the food court in the Cincinnati airport, I cracked open my cute travel Bible. The verse comes from Elizabeth, Mary’s relative, when she receives a visit from Mary. Elizabeth who is carrying the future John the Baptist, exclaims when she hears Mary’s voice. The unborn John leaps in Elizabeth’s womb.

“Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished.”

I thank Renee for tucking this verse into a stranger’s book. It sums up what I experienced at She Speaks. Until I was surrounded by 650 women who were also trying to figure out God’s call on their heart, I thought I was alone. Or crazy for thinking that God wanted me to write or speak for Him.

And then I was surrounded by hundreds of women just like me who were also starting with the glimmer of a ministry seed. And through the teaching and godly inspiration of the leaders combined with faith, I now have a confident heart that God can accomplish so much through all of our ministries—no matter how small our beginning.

Thank you, P31, for your leadership and servanthood this weekend! I am forever changed.

Meeting Ann Vos Kamp after her keynote talk Saturday night. She is seriously the nicest person.

My food court table at the airport.

Melissa Taylor, my awesome Speaker Group leader. This woman can encourage!