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I was recently asked to describe my writing to someone who’s never read anything I’d put into sentences. As many writers might do, I struggled to form a response. Others chimed in with helpful reminders about my work and additional qualifiers to spruce up my pieced-together summary of my writing. . I reflected on what I said and what I could have said or wished I had said, and a few of those thoughts were so important to me that I found words for them. . I have a hope for my words as I let them out into the world. Like children I’ve reared and disciplined and sacrificially loved, I send them out to love and serve and care for others—to see them and maybe even see right through them and choose ministry instead of pride or distance. I want my words to envelop and hold, making room for others to be known, comforted, helped, and healed. . I want them to be beautiful, because beauty captivates and beauty makes you linger. And lingering creates a haven for insight, for unknown motives and desires to make themselves known in the most relieving way. Giving words for repentance, for pain, for clarity, hope, and for worship. . Silence and presence often prove better than eloquence when face to face, but words on a screen or a page that have been painfully and fearfully and purposefully crafted can penetrate deep in the safety of a solitary soul. . Words flood our day and age, and mine will not last unless they are lost in the cause of Christ’s glory. O Lord, may every word I write be soaked by the Spirit and wrung out upon the heart, bringing refreshment, restoration, relief, life. . #wordsworthnoting
There was this moment at the beach (not this one) when none of us had our phones. I watched the girls longingly, lamenting my lack of ability to photograph a memory in progress. I began to study the details, hoping to carry it in my mind forever. Their little fingers grasping at seashells, showing them off to each other. The ocean faithful in its coming in and going out. The way their frames look almost identical ten yards away. . I thought about why I wanted to capture it, what moved me about it and motivated that desire. Why did I so want to bottle it up and freeze it and make it stay just that way? . Taking a picture satiates that ache in our souls to immortalize things. There’s a recognition within us that things are passing away and will never be the same as they are right now. The feelings that well up in us as we gaze on a moment we don’t want to forget will fade, and a picture (words, too) gives us access to those things otherwise lost. . As I sat there, laboring not to forget, to make this little vapor last forever, the longing grew for that which a picture points to—eternity. Without a phone in front of my face, I saw beyond those two little cousins and the magnificent ocean behind them into the realm where joy will never fade, where nothing will ever be lost, where glory cannot be missed or misplaced, and all of it will end in worship. . Worship. The scene gave way to worship. And God, in His mysterious way, eternalized that moment in an instant. . (**I will still unashamedly be taking photos and looking back at them to access that longing, but I pray I have more experiences like this—where longing gives way to worship and the ascribing of glory to the Creator of an image worth capturing and savoring and remembering.)
Yes, Sabbath is harder with littles. It’s not this dreamy day full of naps and endless books and doing what I think will bring me rest. It’s still a day where I’m required to serve and give my life away for the needs of my children. . But I’m finding their presence on Sabbath actually helps me to rest in a way I’d otherwise be wrestling with—from production. They are a gift to my propensity to find my worth in what I do—a limit to my ability to do more. Their chatter keeps my mind occupied from even wishing that I was doing more. . When I lay down my work (even of the home) and move into rest, I look at them with a lens of enjoyment. Sabbath was designed to feel like this cessation of time, where a foretaste of eternity is experienced and savored in sweetness. Where God dwells with man, that we may enjoy Him and rejoice in what He has done. . My littles are not infringing upon this experience, but aiding it, these little persons to marvel over God’s wise, generous, creating love. I’m rejoicing in their littleness, what they are like, and how they express themselves. . And by keeping Sabbath with them, God gives a balm to that ache a mom feels that time is passing too quickly.
I recall a particularly long day of motherhood, where nothing I said or did excited any small person. None of my ideas were found worthy of chasing, so we were left to sit in the fullness of our emotions. The day consisted of tears upon tears, and then you came home. . Your lightness of heart captured ours. Our eyes fixed on you, and we forgot our battle altogether. You invited us into your joy, and we were swept into it without question. . You made the most of the weather and the daylight left, and you readied the grill. Our little girl followed you, watched you, mesmerized by your every move. She ran to her little play kitchen, acquired the tools that looked the most like yours, and set up right outside, right there, next to you. . You inspired her. . You inspire me. I’ve spent seven years married to you, ten years knowing you, and I rejoice that I have the privilege of living this life with you until the Lord calls us home. . #anniversary #sevenyears #wordsworthnoting
It was such a unique grace to me, that time in the dark with him. I never would have chosen it, and I couldn’t see it until I was deep into it, but that season of intense, behind the scenes faithfulness was tailored just for me. . In a way I’d never been pressed to know before, I learned to pray. I found the end of myself quicker than I wanted, but it’s where I met with God in raw vulnerability and experienced sanctification like the sanding of my inner core. The Scriptures had to find their way deeper into me, and they did, sometimes with sweetness and sometimes with pain. . Taking these memories to heart as I wade into a new season with this boy. My limits are new and different, and my comfort zone is being done away with. I’m tempted to let my vulnerability lead to insecurity rather than the throne room of God for mercy and grace. . I’m remembering that even when I’m not spending hours being able to do nothing but pray, the Lord intends I meet Him here. That even this season—though I can’t see it now—is a unique grace to me because it presses me into Him.