Category Archives: Musings

Holy Week.

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Holy Week is here.

How timely that, just last week, I was wrestling with old, deep issues of selfishness, struggling to find truth in the sticky webs of sin that were clouding my vision. I momentarily felt stifled by my life, by the long sickness that my kids were passing to one another in the longest relay race ever, by the voices in my head that were saying that I had given up so much and that I needed something more and something different.

And I’m not talking like, a new family or a career or something. I’m talking like, Fridays off.

But my pity party was no fun, because I was fully aware the entire time that I was wrong, and that something was very, very off. Thus, my discontentment was of the wrestling rather than the stagnant variety, and the two of us (discontentment and me) sparred all week long in every room of this house until I got to the bottom of my issues…

you know what I found?

A hard and fast lapse in my vision. A forgotten mission. In the trenches of everyday living (and lots of kid diarrhea), I was failing to see with clarity my God-given purpose during my short stay on this earth.

How could I have completely forgotten, in one random week, that I’m supposed to be dying over here?

And that, in my daily death, I find more life than I could ever find in having that free Friday I was throwing an internal hissy-fit over.

God is so good to answer our heartfelt prayers for truth, and you can always know that if you ask for something good and biblical, He will give it to you, posthaste. By the week’s end, I was seeing my mission and purpose everywhere…

in my conscience, prodded by the Spirit…in my deepest convictions…in Desiring God blog posts (I’ll share more on that later)…in random conversations with friends…in our Sunday School lesson…during the singing time…in the sermon…

and the recurring theme was this: die.

This life is not about me and what I want and what I feel and what I expect. And those things would never make me happy anyway…

and as I rocked by Baby Betsie for 45 uninterrupted minutes on Saturday afternoon, I had the sweet relief of using that time to pray and think about God and my growth and my purpose as the wife of my husband and the mama of my little children, rather than feeling that horrid fluttery feeling of impatience and drudgery that had been my trademark earlier in the week.

I could see it with my own eyes and feel it in my own two full and happy arms: when I die to myself and live for someone else in the name of the gospel, I find sweet life. And life abundant…

whether I am on a foreign mission field caring for orphans, writing important books that are changing the world, or…

rocking a 1 1/2 year old girl in the upstairs nursery of my house. She was sad and lonesome while her siblings were away, and she needed me. And, by the grace of God, He reminded that the gospel is found, even here, even in an old, pink, upholstered rocking chair with only me and Betsie in the house.

I worked hard over the weekend and had great plans of a 3- or 4-part series about Gideon’s birthday party this week, but after yesterday’s extremely soul-stirring sermon on Holy Week, I think I’ll postpone that, and encourage all of us to use this entire week to somberly and intentionally meditate on the cross. As my husband said yesterday, we will NEVER take up our own cross daily if we are not dwelling daily on the cross of Christ…

And if we are not dying, we might not be alive to begin with.

I am more excited than I have ever been to examine where and how my life began as I walk through Holy Week alongside my family. Last week’s struggles might have been humbling and difficult and heartbreaking, but their result displays the sovereignty and graciousness of God…

for I am all ears, ready to listen, ready to learn…

and, for this moment at least, ready to die.

Mother Hen Goes to Neverland – Part 1

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Do you ever feel like the stars align and everything works out perfectly just as it should and just when it should and just how it should?..

And not just any stars, but the second one, to the right?…

~

I have deep-seated philosophies on parenting. I’m not sure from whence they came, but they reside somewhere near my instincts so that I don’t even have to think about them, and rarely do I even formulate them, even though they govern much of what I do with my kids…

and what I don’t do with my kids…

and when I do with my kids.

I guess, more than anything, I want my kids to feel life. To cherish it. To remember it. I want their everyday to be calm and simple and beautiful and their special moments to stand out like tangible moments of pure magic.

And it seems to me that, if we are constantly shuttling them about, and partaking in activity after activity, and playing every sport and seeing every movie and eating at every restaurant that, not only will we soon go broke, but, life will become a blur in their little minds.

Their childhood will become a blur…

say it ain’t so!

So this means we stay home a lot. On purpose. We say ‘no’ a lot. On purpose. And we do a lot of waiting, doing our best to exercise self-control when the doting parents inside of us want to indulge in every shiny thing this world has to offer our kids, and to do it now! (I have been fidgeting in excitement for TWO years thinking about Rebekah’s American Girl dolls I have hidden. I’ve almost given them to her so many times, but I’m waiting, by golly, until she is at least five…I think I can! I think I can!).

Anyhow, my son is turning 6 years old this week, and the fact that he has never played a team sport and has only been to the movies twice is something of an anomaly in our culture. While the world rages alongside us, we are doing our best to slowly pace through his childhood, learning to live a quiet life and to enjoy the simplest and most timeless gifts of family and nature and home, with a few really special moments hand-selected now and again to just knock his socks off. And we try to play ball with him in the yard anytime he asks, so he won’t look like a goober when we finally do allow him to join a team.

But since he was a very tiny tot, I have been longing for the day when I could take him to the Tulsa Performing Arts Center to see a live show.

Because, although Gideon is all boy, obsessed with weaponry and hunting and fishing and bad guys and…well, typical boy stuff…he also has the heart of an artist, and finds great delight in music, and dance, and theatre, and costuming and, in his own way, fashion (those of you who know him know what I’m talking about!), and the theatrical just speaks to him. We have lots of random PBS infomercials recorded on our DVR that he watches over and over again, including Celtic Thunder, Max Raabe and the Palaste Orchester, Les Miserables…all of these, coupled with his favorite classic cowboy movies (Roy Rogers is a new favorite) and his watercoloring skills make me think he might grow up to be a bit of a Rennaisance Man. Thus, I’ve known since he was a truly little tyke that he would find a show at the PAC just utterly fascinating and awe-inspiring.

But as much as I longed for that day, my philosophy governed that it had to be the right day.

The right show.

Something that would completely capture his fancy.

And it had to be when he would be old enough to appreciate and remember it.

And then we couldn’t go to another one for a couple of years, at least.

That’s a tall order, isn’t it?

But when I think back over the past couple of years, I find it almost laughable now that I had to restrain myself so painfully when specific shows came along…Beauty and the Beast…The Wizard of Oz…A Christmas Carol…Fiddler on the Roof…Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas concert…each one just begged to be our first show together, and each would have been happily received by my imaginative son and by his imaginative Mama.

But if I had had any idea then that, one week before his 6th birthday, our show would be coming to town…

well, self-control wouldn’t have been so difficult.

Did you know that Peter Pan is one of my all-time favorite stories? I love the book (even though I think I have no idea what it is talking about). I love the Disney movie. I love the 2003 movie. I love the music from both movies. I love the movie “Finding Neverland”. I love the last name Darling. I love the universal need for a mother. I love the idea of a dog for a nursemaid. I love pirates and Indians and mermaids and…I really love a place that keeps our hearts and our minds and our imaginations young and vibrant and safe.

In other words, I love me some Neverland.

And so it still shocks me a little that I gave birth to Peter Pan himself.

When my son was 2 years old, we began watching Disney’s Peter Pan together, and for him, it was love at first sight. He requested to watch it all the time, and if he wasn’t flying or playing pirates, he was dancing around the living room like an Indian brave. He has been wearing a size 4 Peter Pan costume since his 3rd Halloween, and I’ve seen it on him more times than I’ve seen him naked, and that’s saying a lot. He almost lives in it.

And he, via Peter, has had quite a few adventures along the way (click here to read more).

The beauty of storytelling, whether in the form of folklore, or books, or movies, even, is that, among the plethora of genres and then specific tales within each genre, your individual heart just reaches out and grabs a few that almost define you. They speak to you, and resonate with you so deeply that you use them to tell your story…

And, by sharing them with your loved ones, you share a sacred piece of your heart, and as these stories grab their hearts, as well, it binds your more closely together and gives you a shared experience that threads itself surprisingly deeply into your very personal and daily lives.

All of the above might have sounded very nonsensical and dramatic, but…well, I’m nonsensical and dramatic! And what I’m trying to say in this exceedingly lengthy blog post is this: if you want to know the Gore family better, you need to know Peter Pan. And once you acquaint yourself with Peter Pan, you will find that, at the very heart of the story, behind the scenes, right square in the middle of the Darling nursery, is a Mama and her little boy who, though so different in age, are so terribly alike that I sometimes can’t tell us apart.

Our eyes always well up at the same parts in movies and books. (“Are your eyes waterin’ too?” he’ll ask me).

We can communicate our depths by just looking at each other.

We never want anything to change.

We are scared of death and loss and all the curses of the Fall.

We love life, the way it was supposed to be. The Eden way.

And, sometimes we love it so much that we never, ever want to grow up or move from this spot.

Not necessarily in a lazy or unresponsible way…

but in a way that sort of proclaims “I really like it here and I really, really love you so much, just like you are, and I want this moment – and this beauty – to last…forever.“

When Gideon is feeling sentimental and he keeps returning to me for hugs and kisses and says “I just can’t stop hugging you – I just want to hug you all day!” I know exactly what he means. And when I get all teary-eyed the night before his birthday and say “I thought I told you last year to stop growing up!” he knows exactly what I mean. And when both of our “eyes water” during the train departure scene in the first Narnia movie, we know exactly why the other is crying…

Life is a beautiful mess. It can hurt so bad…but the good parts are so heart-wrenchingly sweet. I feel it every day. And I know that Gideon, young though he is, feels it, too.

And so I think if they were taking shuttle trips to Neverland, we would be the first two in line. But…since Neverland isn’t real, and since our true Eden and our Forever Home is beyond a life of temporary separations and suffering, one of the most precious nights of my life was sitting alongside my little soulmate at the Tulsa Performing Arts Center, holding hands and sharing laughter as we watched our story – and our hearts – come to life on the stage in the most magical and beautiful production I have ever had the pleasure of seeing…

I’ll tell you all about it…comin’ up next!

A Letter To My Children (to read in the year 2030)

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Dear children…

Did you know that before you were born all I thought about was myself and my beautiful hair, but after you were born I would have shaved my head if you needed me to?

Did you know that when you asked me questions and I answered them, I usually had no idea what I was talking about?

Did you know that when I made you eat your green beans against your will and seemed mean and strict and unfeeling, I was just desperate for your body to get any amount of nutrients because you hadn’t eaten a vegetable in 8 days?

Did you know that, even though I was your Mama, I was afraid of the dark, too? And tornadoes. And scorpions. And…lots of stuff, really. But I tried to be brave for you.

Did you know that a very large piece of my heart sits on top of your head and walks around with you wherever you go? Even in this grand year of 2030?

Did you know that I liked to watch you when you didn’t know I was looking and study every curve and line of your face, sometimes while you were sleeping, sometimes while you were watching TV, sometimes when you were coloring? The Bible is right. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. I know it full well.

Did you know that I kissed your clothes as I folded them? (when I wasn’t cursing the laundry…)

Did you know I always cried when I put your outgrown clothes in the attic? Every time.

Did you  know I always cried the night before your birthday? Every year.

Did you know that I really didn’t care if you played sports or knew lots of poems or had the longest eyelashes…I just loved you and my favorite thing about you was that you were mine. You didn’t have to do anything to earn my love. It was your birthright, from Day 1.

Did you know that it made me pray and sometimes cry when you didn’t get along because I didn’t want you to waste precious years being selfish when you could be happier being nice?

Did you know that when I was grouchy with you I always felt conflicted on the inside? I couldn’t be happy in my grouchiness against you…it didn’t sit right with me, and so I worked really hard to get over it and enjoy you.

Did you know that I often prayed that you would never become a ventriloquist? But mostly, I prayed that you would follow hard after God, that you would love Him more than I did, and that you would sin less than I did. And that you would never be a ventriloquist. I feel like this cannot be said enough.

Did you know that I rarely let you walk by me without at least trying to reach out and pull you into my lap? I lived for the times you consented and breathed in your scent and covered your hair with kisses as long as you would let me.

Did you know that I don’t know how I’m going to survive having you grow up? Seriously. If you go to college or get married and leave me, I’ll probably be dead by the time you read this.

Did you know that, in caring for you, I have found more fulfillment than I ever thought possible? Diamonds and fame and wealth are nothing with you under my wings. Nothing.

Did you have any idea that, when I said silly things like “I love you to the moon and back and all the way to heaven” that words were actually failing me? Words don’t exist when it comes to my love for you.

Did you know that God has used you to help me grow? I have never needed Him more or prayed to Him more or praised Him more or thanked Him more or confessed my failings more. He knew I needed you in order to know Him better.

Did you ever stop to consider how many times you got poop on my hand? Too many times to count. Just thought you should know.

Did you know that, when I lectured you and made long speeches about your behavior, I was kind of making it up as I went along and sometimes I thought I sounded ridiculous but had to keep going so you would think I was scary? It was all an act. I was just trying to sound like a Mom.

Did you also know that everytime I lectured you, I felt like such a hypocrite, because everything you did on the outside was something I still struggled with on the inside?

Did you know that, even though you were tiny and young, you ministered to me so many times, and that when my heart was sad, your sweet hugs and your childish ways lifted me up?

And did you know that you made me feel like the most beautiful and talented and beloved woman in the world? When I made your eyes light up, I felt like a success. And you made me feel like a success almost every day.

I just wanted to say thank you, for all of it.

I love you forever,

Mama

~

To my beloved readers, if there are any ventriloquists in the house, my apologies. I meant no offense. But I’m glad you’re not my kid. Your puppets scare me.

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a mother's love for her children

The Weekend Confinement of Small Elephant

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We had a bit of a scare on Friday morning.

I’ll spare you the specific details, but all of a sudden, our morning plans of a jaunt to the local library were exchanged for several nervous hours at the walk-in clinic of our doctor’s office.

And as I’ve discovered with most pregnancy situations, the symptoms I was experiencing could be perfectly normal…or dismally grave. As much as I love and employ the book “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”, the thesis of its contents sometimes seems to be that “every pregnancy and every facet of every pregnancy is different…you never know…check with your doctor….you could be fine…or you could be dying.”

But once in an exam room, after finally locating our little peanut on the ultrasound screen, we all (including the doctor, I think) heaved a great sigh of relief to see that little heartbeat flickering just as it should be, and after giving us the best report we could have hoped for, I was sent home to “take it easy” and wait things out over the weekend.

It is now Saturday afternoon, and I am happy to report that, for now, all seems to be well, and that scary situation that took place on Friday morning has happened no more.

Am I “out of the woods”?

Well…no.

And not because I am necessarily still afraid I might be miscarrying, but because I became painfully (and yet happily) aware of a reality yesterday morning that I had failed to understand before: Friday was no different than any other day. Just because I was faced with the slight possibility of losing my baby did not change the fact that, if God wants me to have this baby, I’m going to have this baby. I might have been excruciatingly aware of the delicate balance between life and death, afraid to move or breathe for fear of upsetting it, but nothing had really changed from the hundreds of days before this one.

Such is the unseen truth that surrounds our comings and goings every day of our life. We are never “out of the woods” when it comes to possible sicknesses, losses, death…but then again, we are ever and always held fast in the palm of God’s hand. As the great missionary John Paton put it, “Looking up in unceasing prayer to our dear Lord Jesus, I left all in his hands, and felt immortal till my work was done.” If we really believe what the Bible says, we, too, must adopt the theology that we (and our children) are immortal until our work is done.

This brought me great comfort, and I realized that my fears that day were not based on whether or not God was in control, but on what He was going to ask of me, and although I was still discouraged by my erratically beating heart and my nerve-clenched stomach in the face of the unknown, I was so happy to note the spiritual growth that has taken place in my life since my last traumatic experience…

for it wasn’t too very long ago that I frequently displayed (by my fears and anxieties and my panicked speech) that I didn’t really believe God was in control at’all.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that the day was saturated with obvious grace. On our long drive to the clinic, Mr. Gore and I prayed together. Comically, our routine (per my request) is for me to pray first and then for him to follow and “clean it up”.  But as I prayed, I began to note the seeming coincidences that were lining our day…

1. My Mom had been planning on taking the kids and me to the library at 9:00, so she was at our house early, dressed, and inexplicably armed with a bag of paperwork that she needed to work on. Mr. Gore met her at the sidewalk to explain our situation, and 20 minutes later, we were on our way, hearts at rest knowing our kids would be in good hands regardless of what our day held.

2. Our servant-hearted friend, Kodi, on hearing that I’ve been having nightly bouts of “morning sickness” starting at about 5:00 p.m., kindly offered to take our kids one night this week and make us supper. We had originally scheduled for Tuesday, but when something came up, we switched to Friday. Again, our hearts were at rest as we drove to the doctor, knowing that our kids would have a fun evening at Kodi’s house, and that our supper would be taken care of.

3. And then we could have gone on and on about how God was obviously taking care of us: Mr. Gore was not out of town. Mr. Gore has a flexible job that allows him to take me to the doctor should the need arise. This happened on the morning of a Friday, giving us the freedom to make it to the doctor rather than being anxious all weekend…

I could continue, but the conclusion of our prayer was this: your kindness and grace in caring for us so fully, God, gives us faith that you will continue to care for us. We so badly want to have this baby, but we trust your Word and we can tell that you love us, and so we know you will only do what is best. We’ve been learning in church how grace and peace are often coupled together, because when we contemplate the great grace of God and focus on what He has done and is doing, our hearts will be at peace concerning the future. I am an extremely weak vessel, and so “tremulous” was still the state of my being as we sat in that exam room, but at the heart of me, the truth was ringing that God would be faithful to us, no matter what. I share these things as a memorial for my family and for my own forgetful heart. May we never forget how good He has been.

Well, as I said, things are looking extremely optimistic, and in the meantime, I have been perched ever-so-elegantly in my king-sized bed, sometimes laying on my left side, sometimes laying on my right side, sometimes sitting cross-legged on my bum, but always with several sources of entertainment nearby, along with a variety of tempting foods and beverages. My Mom has been my faithful nurse, laundress, nanny, housekeeper and cook, my friends have blessed me with childcare and yummy foods, my church has encouraged me to tears with tender sentiments and prayers, and I am feeling incredibly blessed, regardless of the fact that Friday was one of the scariest days of my life.

And, as ever, I have found in my little family a sweet source of encouragement and entertainment to get me through the weekend.

My firstborn crept into bed yesterday afternoon before going to Kodi’s house and asked me if I was feeling okay. When I asked him to pray for me, he took both of my hands in his and said, so solemnly, “Dear God, please make it easy for Mama to have her baby. And if you don’t make it easy, we’ll just come back and ask you again to make it easy.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks by the time he finished his sweet and tender prayer, but he has grown so accustomed to seeing this evidence of my sentimental heart that he doesn’t even mention it anymore.

Miss Sunday has, not surprisingly, been less tender in her ministrations, and, donning her nurse pinafore and armed with her trusty doctor’s bag, shoved mini marshmallow “pills” into my mouth and barked at anyone who came near her “patient”. Still yet, if I am ever forced to go out into battle, I want that girl at my side.

And sweet Baby Betsie toddles in every so often and brightens my room with her nonsensical chatter and her frequent hugs and kisses.

I mustn’t paint too idyllic a picture, however, and will confess that when all three are here at the same time, I feel the urge to flee from my “sickbed”.

I would never envy the life of an invalid, but for this weekend at least, there has been a silver lining in my unexpected confinement: being loved, knowing God better, resting my body and my mind…

and I’ll confess, having hot food delivered straight into my hands whenever I want it is pretty near to heaven, especially for a ravenous pregnant woman.

But most of all, I am praising God that, for today, my little baby #4 is still with us, enjoying the sweet blessings of love and home and family.

~

Want to read more on the extraordinary life of John Paton? Click here.

Seeing is My Favorite.

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I love – seriously, love – those moments when I SEE my children and marvel at them for a bit.

You know what I mean, don’t you?

Most of our days are spent doing what families do, and my mind is just on autopilot and I love and hug and kiss my kids without dwelling on or digesting the emotions that I feel for them.

But then some days, I see them. My mind, even for a matter of minutes, belongs to them. I meditate on them, and who they are, and how God made them, and my heart consequently sings with gratitude and praise.

I don’t know if you can plan clarity like that, or if it just a gift of grace that lands unexpectedly in your lap; regardless, I’m a pretty big fan.

It happened to me just yesterday.

Gid and Rebekah were upstairs playing (they’ve been thick as thieves lately), and it was just me and Betsie on the first floor.

She toddled over to where I sat in our large wingback chair and, resting her chin on my knee, peered up at me through her ever-scraggly bangs. Her hair has good intentions right after bathtime and curls so lovelylike all over her head, but then her orneriness eventually comes eeking back out and takes her curls and her neatness right out of her system, leaving a wild ‘do that actually suits her perfectly.

“I love your face.” I said to her, in my mind.

“Boo’?” she asked me.

“Yes, I’ll read you a book!” I answered, glad to feel free for the moment to do that very thing.

I watched her toddle resolutely through the living room and to the office/schoolroom, stopping in front of the iron and wood bookshelf that holds most of our children’s collection of books. She squatted down into her typical aborigine pose and began rifling through the Little Golden Books that are stored in a basket under the lowest rack of the bookshelf.

I enjoyed two things about this moment:

1. She was enjoying the very books that I laid out for her in a spot that was accessible to her; it is just kind of fulfilling to see your children living in their own house, in the way you intended for them to live. “I put those there for you!” I thought to myself, happy, for the moment, to be a homemaker, and

2. I still consider Betsie my eternal baby – something about the way she moves and speaks and acts is so…baby…but I had to admire her pluck and maturity as she flipped through the scads of books to find the ones she wanted. Not just any book would suit her fancy, and this surprised me. Even Baby Betsie’s grow up, I suppose.

You may or may not care, but her book selections were almost all centered around farm life and/or dogs. “How interesting…” I thought, “Baby Betsie is a fan of farms! I had no idea.”

Anyhow, she would find the perfect book, stand quickly back up, pitter-patter back to where I was sitting in my chair, hold her arms up to be brought into my lap, and, once situated, would gesture for the covers next to us. I would cover us both up, and set in to “read” (a.k.a condense…some of those Little Golden Books are loooong. I’m looking at you “Poky Little Puppy”), and I was so delighted by her frequent interjections. I would say the animal’s names and she would make whatever noises she decided they made, and although she did well for most of the animals, “mooing” for the cows and “oinking” for the pigs, she tapered off near the end, giving a “chick chick” for the chicks and a “duck duck” for the ducks.

You know, typical precious/hilarious baby stuff that just cracks us Mamas up while our friends and family humor us with sympathy smiles and laughs.

But I swear, it was hilarious. And utterly precious. Don’t you think so, too? I knew you did.

But the best thing is, while the world whirled on outside of our walls with all of its business and entertainment and who-knows-what, Betsie and I were sitting still in a chair in our living room, and our were hearts bonding and, for that sweet half hour in the uninterrupted quiet of our home, our life was as perfect as it could be…

I saw her.

And I can’t be sure, but…I think she saw me, too.

The Topsy-Turvy Days…

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I felt I would be remiss and dishonest if, after yesterday’s glowing report of the day, I did not sit down for a bit to jot down today’s activities…

I woke up extremely late today (at 10:00 a.m.!) in a stuffy bedroom with a sweaty 3-year old laying on my arm. Gideon was peering over us, and as Rebekah and I began to stir and my two eldest children began to converse, it became immediately obvious to me that there was a different tone in our house than there had been yesterday.

They were jabbing at each other before her feet had even hit the floor.

I quickly changed Betsie, made my coffee and bagel in a hurry, threw some dry cereal in bowls for the kids, and ushered us all onto the front porch in hopes that we could revisit Eden again today.

But it soon became apparent that, if yesterday was Eden, today was the day that Adam and Eve got kicked out of the garden.

The wind was blustery, the kids were restless, and as I tried to slather pineapple cream cheese on my toasted bagel, I had 3 wriggling bodies either on me or in my peripheral…regardless of the fact that we have 5 rocking chairs on our front porch. Today we might as well have had one (the one Mama was sitting in…).

Every conversation ended in an argument, and even Baby Betsie was being a bit of a tyrant. Nothing could please her, especially as she seemed to have picked up an extreme case of clumsiness overnight – every other step she took resulted in a hurt toe or a scratched finger…

in other words, it was absolute chaos.

And I won’t mention the fact that it had been an unprecedented amount of time since I had taken my last shower.

“Welcome back to earth…” I told myself.

But I am learning that moments like these always pass, and so, in between the crying and the whining, I pulled out my Bible to do a little reading (for the SECOND DAY in a row, thank you, Lord!), and instead of keeping the words to myself, I started reading out loud, beginning with 1 Corinthians 1:4, the verse Mr. Gore expounded on this past Sunday.

“Do you know what that means, Gid?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Just that we should thank God for the people in our church and we should be so happy when we see Him doing good things for them.” I answered, sealing the words in my own heart with a prayer for the grace to do that very thing.

Gideon’s reply surprised me: “Oh, I really liked that story. Read another one!”

And so I did, finding the next reference on this week’s Daily Bible Reading Guide (my husband weekly publishes a study guide to help our congregation further meditate on Sunday’s text). Galatians 6:1-4.

The kids were milling about by the time I finished that one, Betsie squawking at Gideon for some of the crackers he was eating, Rebekah dragging one of my “dry clean only” Pottery Barn throws onto the porch, but I carried on nonetheless, explaining what that passage meant to the children in terms I hoped they could understand, comparing the idea of “bearing one another’s burdens” to Christian and Faithful in the “Dangerous Journey” book they’ve been reading with Papa at night.

And in the midst of my random snippets of reading and talking, and all the scolding and whining and…living…in between, the Spirit began to whisper to my heart…

Yes, we may not live in Paradise yet. Most days are exactly like the one we were having today, full of ups and downs, surrounded by dangers, toils and snares, where it becomes so disappointingly clear that those “best days” like we experienced yesterday can never be orchestrated and are simply unexpected and unscripted gifts from a loving Father…

but, thank God, regardless of what kind of a day we’re having, there is a thread of consistency found in our fallen world, and it springs triumphantly forth from the words of the ancient Book I sat reading aloud to my children.

There, we find solace and direction…

we find truths that resonate so deeply in our hearts that it burns to hear them…

we find a bond that is so much deeper than our earthly familial relations…

and best of all, we find hope, for the perfect days, and for the not-so-perfect days.

All of a sudden, it became a joy to me to share this topsy-turvy morning with my topsy-turvy family, because I was reminded…

the God we worship and set our hearts after isn’t topsy-turvy at all.

He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

No matter how different the days look.

No matter how different we feel when we wake up in the morning.

(And thankfully, no matter how long it has been since we’ve showered).

Two Years. Too Fast.

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It has come to my attention (thanks to wordpress.com) that TODAY is my 2-year blog anniversary!! (blogiversary?…)

I can’t believe my little blog baby is 2 years old already. I remember our first days together like it was yesterday…

You really never know what you’re going to get when Mrs. Gore is pregnant. With Gideon, I was a bit of a basketcase, facing identity crisis after identify crisis for 9 emotional months. With Rebekah, I was more prone to hysterical fits of laughter and ate enough donuts to open a Krispy Kreme chain in my own stomach.

But Betsie was my muse, and midway through her incubation, I found my voice.

The getting there is a rather long and boring story, so I’ll spare you, but one cold afternoon, great with child, I sat down at my computer, opened a WordPress account, and I started writing.

I wrote all afternoon, until the kids woke up from their naps.

And after they went to sleep that night, I wrote late into the evening, the thoughts and stories and memories pouring out of me. One story would lead to another, and before long, I had fallen into a comfortable daily rhythm of remembering and writing, and then sharing those stories with my friends and family.

It was a therapy like no other, and I found in my tiny little blog a means to express my thoughts and my failings and my deepest gratitude…

and now, exactly two years later, I am still speechless at this unexpected gift that God has blessed me with. I can’t tell you how pleased at am with the opportunity to share my writings, and to have them received so warmly and consistently by the kind and caring friends of Mrs. Gore’s Diary; I cannot begin to express how you all have encouraged and blessed my life. What a sweet treasure you are to me.

And so I only think it appropriate to celebrate this milestone by sharing some wonderful news with you…

I have a new little muse in my tummy. He/she has been with us for 2 months now, and though this little gift has slowed down my writing considerably during this first uncomfortable trimester, I have every hope that, once the nausea and fatigue have settled down a bit, I will once more become the blogging machine that I was in January 2011 (or who knows? This pregnancy might bring about the biggest case of writer’s block the world has ever known!).

Am I fearful of what lies ahead? Always a bit. But if you read every story found in Mrs. Gore’s Diary over the past two years, there is one persistent theme running throughout, whether times were grand or temporarily dismal: God is good. Life is beautiful.

Such is the story of everyone who finds their feet on the narrow road that leads to life…

Thank you, as ever, for being a friend to me and for reminding me of how many brothers and sisters I have in the faith. I have been nearly bursting keeping this news a secret, and oh, do I already have some funny stories to tell. Some of you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting “Small Elephant”, have you? You’re in for a real treat. (Please pray for my poor husband…).

And if you’re interested, you can read my very first blog post here, Papa Upstairs, Papa Downstairs. (Warning: it is about baby vomit…which is exactly what my day had been about!).

Once more, many thanks! And Happy Birthday to my little blog toddler, Mrs. Gore’s Diary. I sincerely hope that blogs don’t go through the “Terrible Two’s”…

31st Birthday Musings

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~ written on December 15, 2012 ~

Here I sit, right smack in the middle of my birthday. I’m not 30 anymore, but I don’t really know if I’ve been born yet 31 years ago.

Still yet, by the end of today, I will most certainly be 31 years old.

An easy age.

Doesn’t hurt a bit to turn 31.

Which is kind of nice because, rather than spending any time bemoaning my ever-increasing age, I have had plenty of time to contemplate what has taken place this past year, as well as mull over any changes I might like to make in the year to come…

My 30th year has perhaps been the best year I’ve ever had, and not for the typical things one might be thankful for –  health, financial blessings, ease – on the contrary, looking back, I am surprised by how many challenges we have faced as a family.

But true to His Word, God has used each one of them for our good:

surgeries. My sweet Miss Sunday’s index finger saga was as hellish an ordeal as I’ve ever experienced, and I will never, ever forget holding her in my lap while the doctor manually reset her finger. Every cry she made (for a complete hour) reverberated through my body, slicing at my heart and leaving me more helpless than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

Likewise, I grew up by dog-years when Mr. Gore had back surgery early in the Spring. I am still recovering from our drive home from the hospital, mentally cursing at car after car that zoomed past us on the interstate, but his recovery period was one of the most sanctifying times I’ve ever experienced, and strangely enough, I still find myself thanking God for that time of togetherness as a family and personal growth as an individual, for I don’t think I honestly understood until then what “hard work” meant. If you could have seen me dragging our garbage holders (I don’t even know what they are called!) out to the road that first Monday, you might have thought I was a duchess (wearing frumpy pajamas) who woke up to find that all of her servants had abandoned the manor during the night (I’m pretty sure my pinkies were sticking up in the air), but by the end of his long recovery, I was relishing my newfound strength and work ethic, one that continues to develop in this girl who was previously, to be frank, quite lazy.

financial changes. Oh, the paradox of Christianity, that causes you to see with ever-changing vision what is important, countering the lies of culture over and over and over again. God has been extremely faithful to this single-salary family in the past year, but He continues to wake us up to a new worldview where 10% is just the beginning of our giving and where consumerism grows less tasteful by the day. And while this has been extremely freeing, it has brought with it a share of difficulties, especially for me. Like a dog that returns to its vomit, I have a longtime love affair with the beautiful things this world has to offer; I might walk away from the lies one day only to return to them tenfold the next. But guess what? We drive 2 cars from the 90′s, we have one old-fashioned cell phone, we cut off our satellite, those metal springs are still poking me every night through my seat on the couch, and…we are as happy as clams (on most days). And as challenging as these denials have been for me (among others), I thirst for more. Like I said…paradox.

death. We have lost a great-grandparent, two grandparents, and too many beloved brothers and sisters in the Lord. With each passing, I realize afresh that we are not made for this world with all of its sadness and separation, for there is nothing more final and sobering than seeing the body of one you held so dear being lowered into the ground. But there is hope in this sadness, for if we were not made for this world, and if mortality brings so crushing a blow, then I am quite confident that I should start living more intentionally for the world to come. The forever world. Where the things that are real and life-giving last for eternity…

Which leads me to my short list of wishes for the coming year.

~ Wish 1 ~

I long to continue returning to the things that we were created for. As I steadily grow in my faith, I am learning to discern the difference between those things that are fulfilling and those things that leave ashes in my mouth (I call them “ashy”).

Thus, my foremost goal in the year to come is to train myself to engage in the fulfilling rather than the ashy, even when everything within me is shouting “Choose the ashy!!”

What fulfills my redeemed heart? Studying the Bible. Spending time with my family. Biblically fellowshipping with the body of Christ (spurring each other on, confessing our sins to one another, praying together, discipling one another, submitting to one another). Giving my children my undivided attention. “Going forth and multiplying” with my husband. Making food with my hands. Digging in the dirt and growing things. Keeping a tidy and functional home for my family. Feeding my mind with good books. Being quiet and allowing the Spirit to talk to me.

Life, when lived in such a manner is a continual feast.

And which activities persistently leave ashes in my mouth? Overindulgent internet consumption. Overindulgent television consumption. Choosing television or other selfish pursuits over “going forth and multiplying”. Ignoring my family to pursue my own ashy desires. Making nonstop wishlists of things I want rather than tending to the things I have (for instance, cleaning up our filthy yard would beautify our home WAY more than ordering the latest trinket from Anthropologie). Overspending. Overeating. Being lazy. Being ridiculous. People-pleasing. Whining. Being jealous of others. Getting uptight about politics.

All that to say, I so want to choose the fulfilling, even when I don’t want to, and I know this won’t happen by osmosis; therefore, I am praying for grace and power and wisdom and growth, the likes of which I have never known.

~ Wish 2 ~

I would love to have a robot or something that would floss my teeth for me.

But speaking of the world to come (remember? I mentioned it in the mile-long intro to this post?), I’m excited to go to a place where flossing is not required or probably even suggested.

~ Wish 3 ~

I want to better understand and employ the unfathomable tool of prayer. I just paused in this writing to tiptoe upstairs and check on my children (it is now almost midnight – I think I’m definitely 31 now!). Seeing first that each one was breathing, I took a moment to look at their little sleeping faces, my heart a painful mixture of love and gratitude and, in the light of yesterday’s horrible tragedy, overwhelming fear. A prayer that began as “Oh, God they are so precious…” quickly turned to one of desperation that they would never be faced with harm or terror. But even as I prayed, my spirit was quickly moved to have faith and to trust in God’s plan for us and to reevaluate what our purpose on this earth is, and as I tiptoed back downstairs, I had to marvel at the unspoken exchange that took place in my mind. Those outside of Christianity would call me crazy for actually believing that my progression of thought was anything more than a one-sided conversation, but…I know better. Mostly because I know that the natural Mrs. Gore would never find faith through her fear – that’s simply not how I roll; when left to myself, I can get to the worst-case scenario in less than a second. So if God can move me and teach me in a 1-minute random “conversation”, imagine what He would do if I would take those conversations more seriously. Set time aside for them. Start my day with them. Pursue Him, even a fraction of the way He pursues me.

~ Wish 4 ~

Nay, this is more than a wish; this is a soon-to-be reality. I shall write a children’s book about some teensy little mice and I can’t talk about the plot out loud without crying. Promise you’ll buy a copy when it is published? In the year 2032?

~ Wish 5 ~

Well, I really must be getting old, because the only wish I can come up with at this incredibly late hour is that I wish to go to bed and put an end to this terrifically wordy blog post! But before I stop, I do want to put in an extra plug for Wishes 1 and 3…I really, really want those to come true.

And Wish 2 would also be lovely, although…I am a bit afraid of robots. I don’t think I’d want one touching my teeth.

Guess that means I’ll never be a flosser.

What I am, however, until I close my eyes in sleep, is the Birthday Girl…

and a very happy one I am, at that.

Newtown.

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He had no idea when I pulled him onto my lap and held him tightly against my chest that I was inwardly aching for a group of mamas I had never met, their precious babies lost to a senseless and evil school shooting in Connecticut early this morning.

I kissed his neck and laid his head on my shoulder, hugging him as hard as I could over and over and over again.

Before too long, he pulled away, eager to return to his toys, but I wasn’t finished yet. “Just one more?” I asked, “for my birthday?…”

Even though my birthday is actually tomorrow, he acquiesced, and we sat there on my Mom’s loveseat and held each other, he to pay homage to the all-important birthday wish, me to try all at one time to show him the depth of my love, to thank God for his safety thus far, to pray for every Connecticut family member whose world had come to a screeching and heartbreaking pause that day, and to desperately try to fathom the mysteries and tragedies of this sin-sick world.

It was an attempt that quickly proved to be impossible. How does one reconcile the beautiful lights of the Christmas tree in the corner with the horrific news on the television screen in the bedroom?

And how is it possible that so many beautiful lives could have been taken in one cruel and heartless moment?

For I have a 5-year old son, and I know that there are few things more precious on this earth than a Kindergartener.

Their innocence.

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Their happiness.

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Their silliness.

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Their random outfits.

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Their thirst for knowledge.

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They are losing teeth and growing up…

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and they should never, ever have to face violence or harm.

To the community of Newtown, we are mourning over the loss of your precious Kindergarteners, along with all who were killed on this awful day. We cannot possibly know the depth of your pain, but we humbly offer you our tears, our hearts, and faithfully, our earnest prayers.

~

Come, Lord Jesus. Deliver us from this world of sin and sadness.

Sunshine.

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She was heartbroken.

Because, even though her 5-year old Cousin Anna was still downstairs playing with Gideon, it was naptime, and 3-year old girls simply must have their rest.

It’s funny, isn’t it, that the ears of a mother can discern the different tunes and chords of their children’s cries? And while Miss Sunday is notorious for her loud, fake cry that she can turn off and on like a switch, this cry was real and deep, and I felt her pain in my own heart.

How tempting it was to give her the afternoon off and allow her to indulge in her heart’s desire, but we had a long night ahead, and I knew that she and I would both pay if I allowed her that luxury.

And so I held her, instead.

Sitting on her brother’s twin-sized bed, she straddled my waist and buried her head on my shoulder where I could feel her tears sinking into my shirt. We rocked, together, riding out the storm of her hurt, and I absent-mindedly mused over what a blessed invention the rocking chair was, created, I am sure, for moments such as these.

Still yet, mamas can rock just about anywhere, even without a special chair.

“Can I sing to you?” I asked her, searching for any means with which to ease her sadness.

She nodded, and her wails of despair immediately calmed down in both decibel and frequency.

First it was her standard favorite, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”. And then the old standby “Rock-a-bye Baby”. With each word I sang, her tears ebbed a little more, and she began to relax on my chest.

And then I heard her muffled voice from my shoulder: “Just one more?…”.

I breathed in the smell of her long, golden hair and relished the feel of her warm body cuddled into mine as I perused my musical index for the perfect song to describe the way she makes me feel…

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,

Oh please don’t take my sunshine away…

I sang the song to her, the words flowing directly from my heart to her ears, and as I sang, I praised God for the gift of children, especially, at the moment, for my beloved Miss Sunday.

There were times in my young life when I thought that motherhood would be a stifling road, one that would ruin my body and strip me of my dreams, one that would leave me haggard and old and washed up and…lost. At that egotistical time in my life, nothing scared me more than the thought of forgetting who I was and losing my “identity.”

I understand now that I had a sinful aversion to self-denial and living for others, and that I had digested the lies of my culture, hook, line and sinker…

But God, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, knew so much better, and He weaved a sanctifying tale of motherhood into the story of my life, one that has changed me and challenged me and humbled me and taught me first-hand that great paradox of Christianity, that “losing ourselves” is where we are actually found, and that in dying is discovered the road to life and life abundant.

And now I have these little gifts running helter-skelter all over my house, keeping me on my feet from the minute theirs hit the floor in the morning and until their eyes close in sleep, and I am training myself daily to live for Christ by living for them…

but sometimes, like today, it hits me that it’s not all dying and losing, is it? And it’s not all exhaustion and training…

for as boisterous and energetic and sinful, even, as these little ones are, they are sunshine.

And I have seen over and over again that, when times have been especially dark and confusing, and when the outside world seems unbearably cruel and unjust, God uses my children to bring moments of happiness that transcend words and reason: a small hand on my shoulder radiates peace and comfort, a mispronounced words pops a giggle out of my mouth, an unscripted and unplanned moment of togetherness drops down like a gift of grace from the sky…

and I fall in love with God’s plan for my life over and over and over again as I heave a great sigh of contentment and see with clear vision that children are a blessing and a heritage from the Lord, and are, at times, great little ministers of peace and hope and love. Not burdens. Not exhausting little monsters. Not roadblocks to personal success or achievement…

if only we would always see them so clearly and bask in the sunshine that they bring into our homes during these precious and fleeting years.

As I finished the song, Miss Sunday asked me to sing it just one more time.

And so I did. For her and for me. She needed the extra comfort and time, and I needed to say the words – and the accompanying prayer of my heart – again and again and again…

~

I may see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, while I minister in Christ’s name, I make a willing sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother’s heart, welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares, to her lifelong prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest!

Elizabeth Prentiss, Stepping Heavenward