Once a week or so Matt will follow me out to the back garden while I'm hanging that day's wash to dry. "You don't have to do this, you know," he says. And I do know. We have a dryer, which is surprisingly efficient in comparison to the loooong whirs of washing cycles.
Read moreA Yes Woman
If you had asked me to do anything in our first few years of ministry, I would’ve answered in the affirmative. I wanted to be used, anywhere and in any way, and I was anxious to send news home of all these needs that had been answered through me.
I didn’t feel called to bulletin making, but I was good at it. A lifetime in traditional church combined with entry-level training in graphic design came to good use on the field. It wasn’t my gifting, but I did it… because I could.
I didn’t feel called to teaching a children’s Sunday school class, but I was a young mom and it was my turn in the rotation at our new young church. It wasn’t my gifting, but I did it… because I felt like I had to.
I didn’t feel called to website administration, but if I didn’t do it, who would? It wasn’t my gifting, but…
I'm sharing at Velvet Ashes today about skills, giftings and saying no to some good things.
Good Intentions & Thank Yous
We were going through old boxes, that necessary yet emotionally-exhausting rite of passage before moving overseas. Before our first term in Ireland we carefully labeled and stowed away mementos and heirlooms, birthday cards and documents. These were all the things we wanted to keep, but didn’t really feel like lugging across the ocean.
So just a few weeks shy of returning for our second term, it was time to cull, save or throw out what remained of our first 10 years of marriage, the things held together with faded tape and cardboard. Our bed was a disaster zone of papers and trinkets and, much to my dismay, a half dozen never sent thank you cards… from our wedding.
Oh the shame of finding these outdated remains of my good intentions. With clarity I remembered a distant relative’s queries to my grandmother when a thank you card for hand towels never appeared in her mailbox. Oh, I sent it, I told Granny. No, Karen. You didn’t send it. You didn’t even put a stamp on it.
I'm writing today at Velvet Ashes about saying (or forgetting, or putting off, or actually just being really terrible at) thank you.
Flaneuring in Dublin with Djibouti Jones
Walking these roads, I sometimes feel like a sell-out. We are safely removed from urban life, quiet and protected on this Friday morning. I had hoped we’d be braver, move our brood into the hood, where children still play football in the middle of busy roads, but here we are.
Read moreI am becoming (on motherhood)
There was no switch, no lightbulb. A waning shift in posture, imperceptible to the naked eye.
We grow into it, don’t we? The nine months we wait, our hands cradling, rubbing the genie bottle of our womb. We make a wish a thousand times over. For fingers and toes, for health and happiness. For safety and sleep-filled nights. And for grace.
Oh God, we pray, give me grace. Grace and strength and the wisdom to not mess this up.
***
“When I get home, let’s get on the baby-making train,” I tell him from a payphone in Temple Bar. I am in Ireland and in love and I am silly to think I am ready. We’ve been married three years now and our friends are having children. Irish babies smile at me with round, ruddy cheeks. “Okay, okay,” he laughs at me, “Let’s go for it.” I do not know it yet, but I am already a passenger on the baby train. I am five weeks gone and it will take a half-dozen pregnancy tests before I believe it.
***
You remember Fiona, don't you? She shared her words with us awhile back as she prepared to welcome her daughter Kaya into the world (who is so gorgeous, by the way). As she acclimates to motherhood, she invited me to share a bit of my own coming into it. This was a surprisingly painful exercise, and I struggled at that table in Starbucks, writing about those first days, finding myself suddenly in tears at the memory of it. I'd love it if you would join me over at her blog to read the rest.
