Yesterday the heart, Today the mind!

I ran 8.5 miles today. I vowed from the day I moved into our little farmhouse by the ethanol plant that I would conquer my highway and run the little over 4 miles and back to a childhood memory house of Charlie and Carol Piekarski. It only took three years (and two babies) later for me to finally put my shoes on and start the trek, but I did it! I actually did it!

As I was running back from their house, every member on my face was curved in a smile. I was absolutely elated. Proud. I felt like I could have run forever, well, at least to my house. But then it occurred to me, man, Manda, how in the world do you expect to run a 26.2 mile race if your longest run is only 8.5 miles?

With that one thought, my whole delight deflated.

My gait started to slow, my breathing began to get heavier and more difficult and I realized, man alive, there’s no way I’m ready for a stupid marathon!

It was in that moment that I heard so clearly within a bulging question, “Manda, I have your heart, but what about your mind?”

I have never thought of that before. I’m pretty sure God has ALL OF ME, but maybe not. Probably not.

See, I have been on a heart kick lately: my new motto being about the transformation of the heart. I would say it is quite a bit more than a kick, more like a soapbox…

I am tired of the restraints I put myself and God into. I am tired of the outward holiness I and other Christians hold onto while we’re rotting inside of wretchedness and judgmental pride. I am sick of being bound by have tos and that I have lost what it means to be transformed from the inside out and just doing anything good out of the honest love for Jesus Christ. I am so tired of how some of those I love are judged by how many times they are in church a week. And I am even more disgusted by how many times we can beat those that desperately need hope with more Law and more things their failing at and more shoulds and have tos. Sigh. See, my soapbox. Sorry…but like I said, those are some things God has been working in me lately…well, until today.

Until today when not only did God question my heart, but my mind. The voice within continued, “I can do far more within you than your body can accomplish! Give me your mind.”

I am ashamed. While it is a continuous effort and surrender of my heart to Christ, it becomes easier and easier as He woos me and creates in me the peace and joy and unending contentment from being with Him. But somehow, in the messiness of life, I have divorced my heart from my mind. While I am asking for an undivided heart and one that follows what makes His heart beat, I have forgotten what it means to give Him (next to the heart) perhaps the most powerful and dangerous part of myself.

For most of my life, I have convinced myself that I was unlovable, too fat, genderless and the only way to feel alright again was to stuff myself with food. I allowed people to define me by their words and their glances and their interactions with me, which as you can imagine in this senile world, were not always positive. I allowed the very definition of Manda to be determined by confused, broken individuals just like me. And I only ate to continue their prophecies over me.

What.
A.
Mistake.

I wish I could say that this thinking is far gone from me, but I would be lying. I have grown up a bit from these thoughts, but instead of trying to measure up, I find myself trying to attain what I lost from the past. Longing to know what it feels like to be in “the best shape of my life” and to wear a fancy prom dress (I always wanted to go to some type of formal occasion) or even wear a wedding dress I felt knockout gorgeous in (don’t ask about my wedding dress experience).

And even stupid dreams like that, they are still dreams. I still have a feeling of wanting what was kept from me…and yet, what was truly kept?

I have allowed my morbid obesity to follow me. Whether I wear the label anymore or not, I have lived in its shadow and let it stop me from doing things I’ve always wanted to do.

So when do I step out and stop hiding? When do I rip off the chains and say so longto the painful labels and memories? When do I start to spread the transformation of my heart to clarify the confusion in my mind?

Today.

This year.

2014.

See, I have tried multiple times now to muster up some type of writing for this blog. Thoughts came. Sometimes I would start the first few sentences and then stop, only to be forgotten and abandoned. And since I started to finally coin myself as a writer, after writing for over two decades and even going to college for it, I felt like this was my new beginning.

But maybe that’s just it…maybe I’m still in the beginning.

I asked the Lord in January that He would do something different in this year. When I said different, I really didn’t know how that would look, but I was willing to roll with it. And the Lord definitely heard my prayer, in more ways than I could possibly comprehend or compile in a little writing on this little blog…so I haven’t written a word. In fears of belittling or stealing the mysterious beauty of what God was doing, I have felt like my hands were to be still and my words be hushed…

Until the right moment.

So here I am, in the awkward place for a writer. I have no happy ending or special pinpointed message for my reader to take away from my ramblings. I have thoughts spewed all over the screen. I have no direction and no special finish to make you feel satisfied. But to be honest, that’s exactly where I am in the process, too.

Is it okay to be somewhere in the beginning and still write about it? I assume I’m in the beginning. I mean, even now, I have no clue where God is taking me with my heart and my brain and my silly dreams of marathons and prom dresses and maybe even assisting Christine Caine in her ministry to stop human trafficking. I just know something needs to be fixed. Something within me is starting to surface and it’s about time I wake up to smell more than roses, but those prickly thistles that have lined my journey…I mean they give off some beautiful purple blossoms, too.

It’s time to let God do some rewiring in my mind…and maybe connect my heart and brain again.

As far as the running, well, I’ll just keep training. I need more protein and more strength training to get rid of that rubbing belly when I run, says the YMCA trainer. But I guess that may take years, so I’ll just keep going and see what else God says during my runs.

You Never Know

I only woke up every hour last night. In fact, I’m not even sure I really fell asleep but I was teetering between reality and dreamland.

I think that’s how it is with a loss. Immediately after it happens, you at first think it’s all a dream. You keep thinking that it’s all a nasty trick and the very one you lost will somehow miraculously appear.

Last night, a little five-year-old man was crushed to his death by a skid loader. For the privacy of the family, I’ll say no more than that, but in that one second everything changed.

I only know the family through other family, but as soon as I heard, I wept. That little curious boy could have been my Tosten. The very qualities that made this boy step into that place would have been the exact reasons my son would have done the same.

How do you sleep at night after that happens? How do you walk by his room? Wash his dirty clothes that he just wore the day before? How do you walk by the place you saw his lifeless, broken body? How do you drive or even touch the machine that crushed your little boy ever again? How do you even move on?

As I laid in bed last night, I was trying to grapple with these questions. I found myself sobbing in bed, then drifting to sleep to wake up and wonder if it was my Tosten that had died. I had to align my emotions and thoughts each time my dreams caused me to panic, but then as soon as I realized my Tosten was snuggled with his fleece blanket downstairs in his bed, I remembered that only an hour away another mama was having to try to survive the very thing I was at peace about. For that mama, this was not a horrific nightmare. This was her reality.

People always blanket a loss with “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.” I don’t want to seem faithless, but make me puke! Hey, I’ve used that verse, too, but it doesn’t bring that person back. Yes, the Lord gives and takes, praise His name, but we are left here on earth to somehow make sense of God’s logic.

Obviously, this little man is in a much grander place than what he had here on earth, but there has to be room to grieve in a time like this. You can blanket death with all the scripture you want, but there needs to be a moment to recognize the genuine void in your own life now that he is gone.

I’ve had my Tosten for over two years. I was madly in love with him as soon as I found out he was in my womb and that love has only grown as he has grown. To think the Lord could pluck him from my arms at any time breaks me. I trust God, I do, but I don’t know how to move on if that ever were to happen.

I guess I never will unless it occurs. I guess it would be a breath at a time. A moment at a time. An hour. A day. I guess I’d have to pick up his favorite pair of car rainboots and smile, probably with a whole bunch of tears, at the adventures he had in those boots and the puddles he splashed in with them on. I’d pull out his pictures and laugh as I remembered the hours chasing him all over our eight acres just to get one half decent smile on a photograph. I’d remember the dirt under his jagged fingernails and the two cowlicks on the back of his head that gave him a natural mowhawk. I’d try to remember all the days I had with him and the rough days would vanish.

And maybe that’s what I need to rest in today. I’ve had a lot of rough days the past weeks, yet I have my baby boy. Tosten has been testing his limits and his heights and what he can sneak away with without his mom or dad noticing or caring. Yet he snuggles in my arms and I get to still enjoy his snot globs on my pants. Some days I’ve wanted to yank my hair out at his toddler insanity, but I still want him. He may be the Lord’s, but somehow he’s part of me. He’s mine. He’s my baby boy. Even when he’s 16 and hormonal. Even when he’s going off to college or getting married. Even when he holds his first child.

Tosten Lee will be my little boy and my love will only grow as he does.

I never knew I could love someone so much, yet here I am, head over heels for a little short, thick man. He roars on an hourly basis and he loves to keep things in their place like his daddy.

So I’ll savor him for as long as I have him, because you never know. You never, ever, ever know.

And even if that hellish moment comes and Tosten is taken from me before I’m ready, I will nestle my brokenness in Christ’s strength. All these questions and fears and little deaths as a result if he leaves this earth before I do, Jesus will hold me upright and love me in my chaos.

A Writer

Someone told me today I was a writer.

I mean, I like to write and I do write so doesn’t that automatically classify me as a writer? Yeah, I don’t know either.

I went to college to be a writer, you know. I took a class about the very question I asked above and I still don’t know the answer…a certain thousand dollars later. I took all the grueling literature classes at Northwestern, writing classes that squeezed out every ounce of creativity, and a horrific class called Advanced Grammar. If you read any of my work close enough, you’ll notice I didn’t do so hot in that class…and on most days, I’m okay with that.

But yes, I am a writer.

I also went to school for psychology. When my English and Psych professors noticed I was double majoring in writing and psychology, they were naturally very curious about my plans with my duo. Well, I had none. I still have no plans. All I knew was that I loved writing and I loved attempting to understand people.

I don’t think I am the only college grad that seems to be grappling with the realization that maybe what they went to school for probably won’t land them a dream job like they once dreamt. Not only that, but perhaps they are realizing that the degree they chose won’t really lead them too far unless they go back to school or get some major experience or mentorship or internship.

This bothered me for some time. In fact, it still bothers me from time to time when I see practical friends (and financially wise friends) with nursing or accounting degrees that land some big, beautiful job with a huge paycheck. But in the past few years, my view has changed.

I have come to the point in my life that I have realized that my value as an individual has nothing to do with my career or how much money I am taking in. I don’t need to be running ragged, trying to keep up with the ever increasing materialistic world of wants that have somehow turned into needs. I don’t have to have a special label to be deemed important and I don’t need to have a crowd pleasing role in society to be valuable.

And well, to be honest, if you could see any scores from my math or accounting or any type of business class, it would be pretty clear that I was not meant for any of those careers.

What is beautiful is that I can be me. I can be a stay-at-home mom with two little munchkins. I can be a wife to a Coke Delivery Man, who went to school for carpentry. Ha. I can be a sister, a daughter, a best friend, a neighbor. I can be a home researcher of society, an undercover psychologist, and an amateur literary critic. I can be a runner, a singer, and man oh man, I can be writer.

I don’t write great. I hardly spend much time rereading my work or proofing it. I write it and post it…to my English professors (and probably colleagues) dismay and shock. I am blunt. I am simple. I am sometimes judgmental.

And yet somehow, in the quiet seconds of my day, I still feel the Lord urging me into a wider place; a place I cannot quite realize, but it is massive and wide open. This place is unknown and a place that might just birth something I obviously have not yet conceived.

Sometimes I hear His whispering in the deep canyons within, “Remember this, Manda. Hold onto this. Save it in that pile of experiences until you have mulled it over enough to understand my truth behind it.”

I have accepted that my calling in this world is nothing that can be reimbursed or somehow captured in a title or degree. I am not about to get rich off of anything I envision or think up. I have accepted that I am me, and this Manda that I write about likes to spill out her thoughts and feelings and ideas, whether people understand them or not and whether they like them or not. Because something deep within tells me that if I keep writing my nonsense, someday, something miraculous will birth, something I cannot fathom until it happens.

So here’s to the sweet compliment I received today. It actually did make me feel good, but it was a bit degrading at the same time. But you know, I needed to get my fingers typing again and you inspired me to do so. And you are right: I am a writer. So, here I go…

Our Debt

We paid off our credit cards and medical bills today. This was an impossible feat in my husband’s eyes. I just prayed. I didn’t dare stare the beast of finances in the face in fear I too would become a skeptic.

When anticipating 2014, I wanted something different than the empty goals and promises I made each year. I wanted to dare to surrender everything to God and to ask big things…to stop putting Him in a box and to lay it all out. One insane thing I asked was that God would “heal our finances” and to “slather our finances in healing salve.”

Yeah, it was kind of a silly prayer, but it was honest and yearned for. I didn’t know what healing our finances would look like, but I knew it was a process that was over our heads and a process that was best left to the healer of all things.

I looked for jobs. Full-time. Part-time. Night-time. Really, I was desperate. Some possibilities I pursued, and those doors closed (some even slammed in my face). Having my two kiddos complicated things slightly as far as daycare, too. Then the Lord conjured up a conversation between two women at my church, one of which knew I was looking for a job, and this produced my phone number to give, a phone call, a meeting, and a job twenty-four hours later. I was now employed full-time in my home, watching a little girl only two weeks younger than Olivea.

This was my answer! I KNEW it had to be! I started to write out plans of how to use this little extra income to our advantage! I wanted to pay off debt. I wanted to take a few camping trips this summer. I wanted enough money to cover the weddings I was participating in this year. This was God’s answer, so I thought.

But as winter rolled on, it was pretty clear that the only thing my income was to buy was a little food and lots of heat.

I kept praying. My hubby kept worrying (don’t get me wrong, Tyler is a great man! I’m the optimist and he’s the pessimist. I’m the dreamer and he’s the realist. Somehow this marriage works magnificently.).

There was one instance we were completely out of money. It just happened to be the time the propane prices were through the roof and we were the lucky ones that needed it just then to stay warm. An oversight by the insurance company and miraculously, a check came our way. Other little things, “coincidences” happened, and my faith immediately was strengthened and only grew. Mister Realist’s faith, well, it started to surface.

Was this God answering my silly prayer? He was answering it so beautifully and ironically with no help from me.

The devil always tries to break newly-stretched faith as soon as he sees it. It wasn’t long after our little victories that somehow we got an overdraft in our checking account. Apparently, only three dollars off and literally minutes missed of noticing. That was an extra thirty dollars we definitely could have used towards diapers or food or heat. Tyler and I had a mini World War III. Yes, over thirty dollars. It didn’t take much, did it? But to us, man, thirty bucks was like gold!

I kept praying my goofy prayer. The Lord was providing, so it must’ve not been too weird. I kept believing. God had already provided in ways we couldn’t have even predicted, why would he lack now? We might only have a dollar in our checking account, but we definitely had more than we could possibly ever need.

Early April, we went to get our taxes done. This has never been an enjoyable experience for us. Not that we ever did anything illegal or had any horrific experience, but we always got less money than we were hoping or we had to pay in. This year, well, this year was totally different.

This year, we had MORE THAN ENOUGH of a return to pay all our credit card debt and hospital bills and even have some left over.

We were dumbfounded. Yes, people sat down with us to explain how we received what we did, but to us, we didn’t care. This wasn’t a gift from the government or a tax break or a portion from the wealthy, this was a blessing from our God. I mean, after all, isn’t it all His anyway?

I was never looking for a handout or a sudden surge of money. I mean, I’ve lived enough life now to realize handouts can be amazing at times, but hard work and the waiting can be even better. I didn’t think He would give us money, but then I really didn’t know what He would do. All I knew was that I longed for Him to heal us financially. But somehow, in one thirty minute period of paperwork and numbers, the Lord paid it all.

Is that the answer to my prayer? Yes, but there’s so much more…I’m only guessing.

And as I was lying in bed, mulling over the craziness of our God and His storehouses in heaven, I couldn’t but wonder how much more debt He has paid for me.

He gave His very life. He paid my gigantic bill of sin…with His own suffering and His own blood. There was no way I could have paid it myself, racking up my bill minute by minute and sometimes moment by moment. But this wild God, He paid it all.

Can I just praise Him? Can I just shout His magnificence all over this huge cyber world and let all of mankind know that this God is astonishing? He knows your need, whether financial or physical or spiritual or even emotional…He knows your brokenness and your longing and your chaos and your craving and He hears you. He sees you. He knows you. He adores you. He loves to provide in the most impossible ways and He loves to come through when you think it’s too late and hopeless. And what is more miraculous is that even if you are crying out to Him and your circumstances may not be visibly changing around you, something is happening. Whether it is your circumstances or it is you, Jesus holds you in the midst of it all.

See, His greatest gift is not that He can give and provide at a whim, but His greatest gift is Himself. Your world could shatter in complete chaos, but the acceptance and tenderness and love from my affectionate God is more precious than any object or thing His hand could give.

So the Lord paid it all! He paid off my credit cards and hospital bills! He renewed my hope and faith and made this dreaming Manda a little more normal. The Lord eased our load and released me from my sin! But more importantly, my God heard my cry and in the dark and confusing moments, He held me. He continues to hold me.

This is my God. He’s so much bigger than my words can convey. He is more able than we can conceive and He is more intimate than we give Him credit for.

In Ephesians 3, “Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”

Amen, oh Lord, Amen!

American Dream

Sometimes I feel a need to pinch myself. This morning, Tosten was running in his size-too-small red athletic pants with a saggy left leg from his diaper, his tan sweatshirt with a homemade knit hat, and of course his red car rainboots…and I just had to stop. I had to absorb it all as if this second was to never return…which it wouldn’t.

My baby boy was no longer a baby. He had an agenda outside, moving his rocks from one place to another, raking the lawn like daddy, smoothing the gravel with his hoe. He had things to do, ramblings with kitties to keep up with, and an occasional wave at his gazing mother. His gleeful chatter while doing his “chores” seemed unnaturally beautiful today.

Olivea was wrapped in a heart snowsuit sprawled on the sidewalk. Her gaze shifted from her fingers to me and an immediate grin filled her face. It wouldn’t matter what I was doing or what she was doing, if she caught a glimpse of me smiling at her, her face automatically breaks into joy. What kind of love is that?

Moments earlier, I was holding her. Of course, her round face wrapped in a grin. My mind drifted to her as a teenager, wondering if she’d like the outdoors as much as I do.

Five years ago, I would have never imagined this life. I had big dreams, you know. It involved more schooling, more money, and definitely a career. I wanted the American Dream in all its facets and all the glory that includes.

That didn’t happen.

I have almost eight acres of land that has my name on it, though. That’s pretty cool. It happens to have a barn on it for barn kitties, a shed to store all my dumpster finds, and a garage to keep my hubby happy. It was a foreclosure property when we bought it, so it definitely has its issues, but it’s home.

I have a lot of ash trees. I have two lilac bushes. I have some lily of the valleys hidden in my woods. I have a car. A lawn mower. A bed. A couch. A bike. A stroller. Four kitties: Buttercup (who’s pregnant), Tami, Henry, and Scaredy.

And better than anything I have mentioned…actually better than all these things mixed together is that I have a family! A family! Actual people that love me and that I love. Shouldn’t that be the American Dream?

You can pinch me now!

How can an ordinary girl like me have so much? There’s no room for anything more! Tyler adores me and blesses me everyday with how hard he provides. Tosten makes me laugh multiple times a day with his new discoveries. Olivea’s smile is gigantic enough to melt any problem into a puddle of nothingness. And in it all and through it all, God is transforming a wounded, misled skeptic into a dreamy-eyed believer.

As I write this, both kids are nestled in their beds for a nap after our morning excursion into the wild outdoors. I’m covered in my fleece blanket, the hum of Jars of Clay in the background, and a hot cup of mocha in my hand.

This all seems too comfortable. Too blessed. Too generous.

I am living proof that God can make anything beautiful. Impossibilities made possible and blessing where punishment should have been. I am redeemed. I am loved.

I have my American Dream and it has everything to do with Jesus!

Be On Guard

Evil is always there when you speak of it. I’m not sure who told me this or if it is something I invented in my own mind, but it is true. If you dare talk about the secrets of evil, of the devil and his demons, you can bet they’re there. They want to hear and observe all that happens when they are being discussed, whether in seriousness or of joke.

I think I like to be ignorant. I know there is a war for my soul. I know there are forces that I cannot even imagine that are watching my reaction to situations and wanting to destroy anything that may just wake me up spiritually. I know they want to see me gulp loud in fear at thoughts concerning them. I know they plant ideas in my head to make me fear and feel defeated and hopeless. They can’t read my mind, only God can, but they can definitely plant ideas in it.

I was talking to my friend yesterday and she was telling me a story about a situation that happened at her mom’s concerning spiritual warfare, concerning darkened figures, shadows that were trying to attack. I have no doubt that her story was true, after all, I have had my fair share of darkened figures in my dreams that have attacked. But as she spoke of this experience, I felt the chills. I call it chills because I have no other word for it. Chills as an utter awareness that there is something raging outside of my recognition or sight. There are talons of evil trying to enslave me, distract me, destory and kill me. It’s like tingles over the surface of my skin. In that moment, though I didn’t tell her, the phrase above came to mind, “Evil is always there when you speak of it.”

And I knew this. Two stay-at-home mamas that loved their kids love crazy, lovers and pursuers of Jesus, women mad in love with their husbands, and flawed in all ways but saved by the blood of Jesus, of course evil would be quite curious to see what these two women were discussing concerning them.

Once I got home, I thought nothing of our conversation before. But it wasn’t long before it all surfaced. Bank account issues surfaced and left us more broke. Huge fallout with my husband that included me throwing a bowl at him (I’ve never done this, but have observed it in a movie). Health issues and behavioral issues with my children. Then me feeling depressed and just wanting to binge on food, only to melt marshmallows and mix honey nut cheerios to gorge on. No, it really wasn’t that good. I am pretty sure I would have puked if I hadn’t decided to go to bed early. Then, as I woke up from Olivea’s cry at 1 am, I felt the chills again.

I felt paralyzed. I knew why I felt that way, but fear was so all-encompassing that I was too fearful to even mumble a word to it. I shook Tyler and asked him if he could come downstairs “to make sure everything was alright.” He answered with a zombied, “what?” I repeated and then blurted out, “something’s not right.”

Well, if that isn’t an invitation for evil, I don’t know what is.

He was sweet and came down. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled at the idea, but he loves me…he does too much for me because of how much he loves me. He curled up in a blanket and sat next to me as I fed Olivea. Then a thought was planted in my head that said “you think he’s going to protect you?” I looked and his eyes were closed, practically sound asleep.

I shook it off and tried not to think about it.

When Olivea was done, he was quick to race upstairs. He was cold. I was racing up the stairs behind him, like some monster was chasing me. We snuggled in bed and I grabbed his hand and thanked him.

Then a very odd squeal of distress came from Olivea downstairs. A sound I had never heard, ever…and I know her sounds! In my mind I said this is ridiculous! This is enough! I got up, again, chills and tingles trickling up and down with severity and I went to the center of the house and said in my loud voice, “This. Is. Enough. Leave my house, in Jesus name! You have no authority here and I rebuke you. Leave my daughter and my son and my husband and me alone. You have no authority here.” At that moment, nothing physically happened, but there was a dramatic release and stillness.

I fell back to sleep. Soundly. I woke again to Tyler shovelling the sidewalk outside at 5:30 am. A thought was planted again saying, “now you’re alone. Who’s going to protect you now?”

Thoughts like these continued and I continued to spit out verses and rebukes in Jesus’s name.

Then as I went to the basement to jog, evil felt concentrated. I continued to sing praises to Jesus, praying, thanking God for His goodness. I turned on Joyce Meyer to jog to and she opened with scripture and the power we have in Christ.

Power? Huh? With a single word of Scripture, the tingles swelled and were gone.

More happened that I did not include here, and while I am sure some people think I am being overly dramatic, I wanted to report this to remind you evil dwells in the most secret places.

The devil is sneaky. He prowls around looking for someone to devour and to destroy. To discourage and break apart. He looks to distract and inflict confusion and defeat. Sometimes he even comes in a very innocent form. An unassuming form.

To the Child of God, you can bet one of the devil’s followers are nearby almost always. Of course we’re a threat to him. A threat to reveal all his ugliness and the truth that he is trying to drag as many people down with him in his defeat. If you aren’t a Child of God, he already has you. You are his slave and he is accomplishing all he wants through you without much effort. It’s sad.

That being said, however, if any person reading this ever wants to talk about having a relationship with Jesus Christ, I’m always willing (and excited) to talk about the hope that is within me. Jesus scooped me up from my darkest pit and broke my shackles of sin and darkness and set me free. He can do the exact same for you. He loves you.

Ephesians 6:10-13, “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.” Read more in Ephesians 6 about the full armor of God. Nothing can overtake a Child of God who calls on Jesus. Nothing.

Praise Him!

Joy is Deeper

You don’t know this, but this is blog attempt number four today. I have been trying to bandaid the gash of Heyma’s death with writing all day, but nothing has come. No words of consolation to myself or therapy can take away the thoughts piercing my mind.

I decided to finally just sit down in Heyma’s old purple Hawaiian moo moo with a cup of coffee and some chocolate and see if anything came out…and it did.

I wish I had some special sentiment or specific memory that I could tell about Heyma. I have about three thousand and twenty-five to be exact, but none surface long enough to dwell upon to write about. I think that is the thing about grief: so many thoughts ricochet in your mind that to try to pin one down to dwell on seems impossible. They almost start blurring from a rainbow to a brown blob of emotions, which can’t be pinpointed either. So here I am, a mass of confused understandings with no direction of grief or clarity.

I knew this day was coming. She would have been 98 this St. Patrick’s Day. While I never expected it to happen today, tomorrow, or this year or the next (she was supposed to live forever, you know), I knew the day was approaching. I thought I would be a ball full of misery and crying and anger and bitterness, but surprisingly, I find something else.

My first reaction at 11:23 am, when I heard she died at 11, was fast and steady tears, the steamy type that don’t stop coming…so fast and so steady that even your vocal cords chime in. Maybe that’s called a wail? I must have looked hysterical as my two year old tried to give me his toy french fries to cheer me up; he sat there with a handful of them, looking at me with a crumpled face of perplexity. Olivea was hushed. Sarah was hushed. They all just stared. In that moment, in that selfish, Manda moment, I grieved. I didn’t grieve for Heyma, but I grieved for selfish old me. I grieved that Heyma left me.

As the tears dried, the world moved on. It didn’t stop for me or anyone else that recognized that Heyma died. In my mind, her life was so epic that I felt as if FOX News or Facebook needed to report that this perfect woman had expired and a second (or a month) of silence was in order. But of course not. This is not the case with anyone special.

But it wasn’t long until I envisioned Heyma in her twenties, like the photo from her wedding day. She was slender wearing a belted dress, her red thick hair curled back and her grin glossed in a strawberry hue. There Heyma was, floating through my definition of afterlife, laughing her operatic laugh, embracing the many that had gone before her, chattering, singing, giggling, and going on like it was the biggest, best party ever. And you know what, it was. It was (and is…I’m sure it’s still going on, knowing Heyma) the best party Heyma had ever been to, and she didn’t even have to lift a finger.

That’s where I am. I’m not lost in my grief. I’m not crying anymore. Not that I won’t cry again, because I will, but I see Heyma as being more free than any other day in her life. Reunited with those she loved most and waiting for all the rest of us, which really isn’t that long from now. What, like fifty years? Seventy? Man, that’s like nothing compared to the infinite amount of years we’ll spend together in heaven!

And heaven? How on earth can we forget about heaven? Do we understand the concept of heaven? No. I know I don’t. I know God’s there. That in itself is worth every breathing second to get there. I know you can only get there through Jesus and nothing else. Thank you, Lord, we don’t have to skin up our knees to convince you to let us in…otherwise I wouldn’t have a chance! I mean, heaven is so magnificent that God’s presence alone is so bright it lights the sky! There’s no crying or pain. Only peace and bliss and freedom and love and joy and everything you can tie into those sentiments. That’s the place for Heyma! And she didn’t get there by her good deeds, although through my rose-colored glasses, Heyma was perfect in every way. No, Heyma got there because she loved Jesus. She exuded Jesus and could give a Sunday sermon without a word and on any day of the week. She lived redeemed by the blood of Jesus and that’s the only reason she went to heaven.

That’s the kind of woman I want to be: redeemed by Jesus, but live like a saint to onlookers. I’ve already failed that pitifully, but I can start today, right? Maybe tomorrow.

From her first inhale to her very last exhale today, she was a woman of great legacy. Enduring more sorrow and brokenness in her lifetime than the average person, yet taking the broken pieces and sewing them back together to make something beautiful. She was a phoenix that rose from the ashes time after time, the catalyst for love and acceptance and change, the sugar that sprinkled over every sour situation, the words of hope over every impossible feat. She was the epitome of selflessness and I find myself dumbfounded by how I could be in lineage of such a woman. But I am. And I am grateful.

So all these mismatched thoughts and hodge podge of emotions come down to a single thought: she’s free. She’s free from her confusion, from her failings and sins, from the broken parts of her life, and free from the unanswered questions. She is running, skipping, giggling, dancing, singing, embracing, and filling herself with what brought her the most joy from the beginning: those she loved the most. The most precious reunion of her family and friends, and most importantly, her Creator.

So, Heyma, I can’t wait to join you. I have waited for so long to reminisce with you and recall all the times we’ve shared. I can’t wait to reintroduce the love of my life, Tyler, and my babies. I can’t wait for you to show me my little redhead girl, Rohan. I cannot wait to hear those piano keys dance again like when Kathy used to play on earth and to hear your enchanting laughter of amusement at her bouncing to the music. I can’t wait to remember everything and forget everything at the same time! I can’t wait to kiss your forehead and walk hand in hand to see our Savior. There is no greater delight than to know you are with the one whom I love the most, Jesus.

Oh, the sorrow is deep, but the joy is even deeper.

Mister Quiet

It’s too quiet. I don’t mind quiet. After a day of running from kids to meeting to kids to work to meeting to lunch to kids and work and blah and blah, you’d think the quiet is nice. And it is. It is nice.

It’s almost two hours to midnight and I just opened a fresh can of Diet Coke. I just finished an oatmeal chocolate chip muffin and a few (who am I kidding, a few handfuls) of leftover Christmas cookies from Trader Joes. My stomach is bloated and my eyes itch in exhaustion and I’m still watching for lights to roam down the driveway.

No one is coming, you know. Tyler got home at an early hour from delivering Coke all over eastern Otter Tail County and quickly escaped to a men’s retreat. This is great, but it leaves me with an eerie feeling. A feeling that apparently makes me feel anxious and has caused me to stuff my face with foods that don’t even appeal to me at bedtime.

So it’s quiet. A very different, relaxing, anxiety-provoking quiet.

It takes me back to my single days. Friday nights were usually movie nights. I’d stay up late and allow myself to not even bat an eyelash at homework, well, unless my love was visiting for the weekend. I’d eat junk and gorge myself in chocolate and caffeine and sleep deprivation. It was quiet, too. Kind of like this type of quiet.

I feel alone. I feel disabled.

Before they went to bed, I found myself snuggling Olivea more, tickling and smooching Tosten more, and just feeling like a part of me was missing.

I wonder. Does it only take five years to attach to someone? Does it only take a half a decade to weave so much with another that when you’re apart you feel disjointed? You feel incomplete? I’m not talking about new-relationship-gitty-infatuation feelings, I’m talking about an amputation of a leg or my arm or perhaps my right ventricle (is that even a part).

I say that’s a good sign. I say that my prayers in tears and my utterances in frustration and my plain Jane list of requests for a healthier and happier marriage are being heard. I say God has been listening and perhaps this doomed couple that was once deemed as a “bad example of marriage” is transforming into something beautiful.

My “bad” marriage was my fault. It took me only a year of disappointment and anger and frustration to realize the problem in my marriage was me. My selfishness. My pride. My arrogance. My illogical expectations. My stupidity. I was the problem.

In this quiet, it makes sense. Children sleeping, Tyler probably half asleep at Inspiration Point because of his long day, and me urging my eyes to stay open with some caffeine. The quiet reveals the lines of truth that normally would be tangled in the messiness of a busy household. But when all is quiet, I can see those lines straight, tight, and strong. I can see our marriage straight, tight, and strong. I can see our family straight, tight, and strong. And I can see a grinning God delighted that He has made us straight, tight, and strong. I see answered prayers.

Never Underestimate Parenting

Tosten roams the house with a book called I Love You All The Time. I’m not sure if he knows my frustration is ridiculous concerning him today or if he just randomly picked a book.

I have nothing left. As a mama of two and watching another child today for a little extra income, I just need a break. One moment where I can stop and just be. Tyler is working late and even now, Tosten hangs on my leg.

I know some parents do this all the time and even some single parents balance it all and I am amazed at your courage. But whether you have one kid or twelve, parenting is hard.

You can have all the experience with children in the world, but when they are your own it taxes something within that just cannot be explained.

I will admit. I yelled. I didn’t know I had a temper until I had Tosten Lee. I don’t yell often, but something snapped. Something within exploded. It came out in a loud yell of “stop!”

It was ugly. My cheeks turned red and tears trickled and at that moment I turned into something I despised. His eyes welled and he stared at me in utter despair.

I am his world. I am the root of everything in his life at this point. The one that birthed him and has spent almost every day of his life with him. He’s sad and I’m there. He looks for me. When he’s excited, I am right there. I respond to his giggle and his jabberings. How can the one he utterly depends on respond to him in such a way?

After he let me sit in my shame for a few moments, he tried again. He brought me his cop car and looked at me desperately. Maybe he thought if he brought me a different toy I would want to play with him.

I scooped him up and teared up again, apologizing. He thought nothing of it and snuggled in my lap.

What kind of love is that? Obviously not the type I possess.

Parenting is a constant transformation. Some days I lie awake and think of all the ways I had failed that day. Other days, or moments, like tonight, I look into my babies’ eyes and see myself. A version of myself that desperately wants the same love and attention as they do from me.

How can I be unmoved by that type of love? I yearn for that, too. I long for affection and crave for someone to scoop me up and smother me in kisses. And while I’d love to say that is Tyler, it’s not. I’d love that, but even at his finest, he’d fail. That is too much pressure to ever place on another human being.

So the only other option is God. The unbelievable thing is that He’s not afraid of that pressure. He dwells in those expectations and wants to not only smother me (and you) in that love and affection and acceptance, but He wants to drown me in it. And unlike myself with Tosten, He’s not put off by my constant neediness.

So I hold Tosten. I close my eyes and try to imagine the compassion that bubbles in God the Father as I nuzzle my head in his chest, just like Tosten in me.

Lord, help me to be more like You. I just can’t do this parenting thing alone.

Five Buck Sprinkles

I remember the night so clearly. I was staying with my sister Erin in White Bear Township and we decided to rush into Target for some cookie supplies to make Christmas cookies with our sons. We got what we needed and rushed out, trying to beat the rush hour traffic as we dashed to an Edina McDonald’s to see our other sister Kaare. The cart was like a sleigh as I pushed with all my might my Target bags and my two kiddos to the car. We came to a jarring stop when we got there and I threw my bags in and put Tosten in his car seat. I lifted Olivea out of the cart and there it was….

The sprinkles. I had the sprinkles covered by parts of Olivea’s car seat that I hadn’t even noticed they were still in the cart. In that moment, my first thought was, did I pay for those? My second thought was, man I’m late! We need to go!

In that second that I stopped and stared at these red and green sprinkles, not the cheap kind, the kind that have five varieties to choose from in one big jar, the five buck kind, I heard a voice within, Manda, this is your test.

I slipped the sprinkles in my bag and left.

I had failed. I still think about it. I was too lazy to go back in and explain the situation. But then I started to think, well, the buzzer didn’t go off…it would have gone off, right? Maybe it just slipped out of my bag as I raced through the parking lot to my car. Nope. I checked the receipt.

It was an epic fail.

Things like this happen all the time. Some people don’t care. Some people think lucky me. Some people probably think I’m a dishonest, sneaky thief. I felt and continue to feel ashamed.

Just because the right thing is difficult to do doesn’t give me the excuse to not do it. It doesn’t matter how innocent or how minor it may be, it is still not right. It doesn’t matter how rushed or inconvenient it was to return. The Holy Spirit within tried to prompt me, but the flesh was lazy and the flesh was too rushed…too rushed for the Spirit.

Verses and sermons surfaced and the only thoughts that ricocheted through my brain was if God can’t trust me with five bucks, how could He trust me with more?

The Lord tried it again. This time, it was at Fleet Farm. It was a similar scenario with the running because it was cold. I got out to the car, put the cat food in the trunk and Tosten in his seat and there it was, a box of Kleenex. This was only a dollar. Olivea’s car seat hid it again. This time I didn’t hear a voice, but I felt eyes. You know, not necessarily angry eyes, but watchful eyes of a parent wanting to see what his daughter would do.

My first reaction was, shoot! And this time, we immediately returned them. The lady at the counter looked at us like we were crazy or that perhaps there may have been more to the story, but she took them. She took the silly, cheap, one dollar box of tissues with a little hesitation. Ha! I guess I would, too.

I didn’t feel victorious, but I felt right. I felt relieved and again apologized to the Lord for failing Him the first time…of course, He didn’t remember. That sin was already gone. But I remembered it.

How can God trust me with the big things, whether that’s money or some big item or even a life if I can’t be trusted with the little things? I can’t even be trusted with a five dollar jar of sprinkles!

But praise God, I can be trusted with a dollar box of Kleenex. Hopefully I can go up from there.

As far as paying Target for my mistake, I’ve worked something out with them and the Lord. I don’t have those sprinkles anymore. I didn’t want them. They were a monument of failure for me and they were put in the garbage.

I guess this lesson of laziness and rush isn’t just about sprinkles and Kleenex, but it can be applied to life itself. It’s so easy to miss things when we fill our days with so many projects and chores and expectations that soon the voice of the Spirit becomes overcrowded and sometimes ignored or lost. We do things, say things, overlook things we normally wouldn’t. And as each day gets busier and busier, the things that once used to bother us and just didn’t seem right become more acceptable. It’s a slow fade.

What are we missing when we lose His voice? What is He trying to reveal to us when we are just too busy? When we are just too exhausted from our busyness to hear His words?

I dare not think on this. I have filled most of my existence with keeping my hands and my mind and my life gorged full of, well, really nothing. Nothing that truly matters.

My advice for you from my five dollar sprinkles other than to be honest – slow down.

Slow down enough to hear His voice. Just because you haven’t stopped for awhile to hear Him or even see Him doesn’t mean He has stopped whispering to you.