i find that i feel a bit ironic when i read rachel jankovic's loving the little years. the moments i snatch to read are not exactly moments i'm loving these years: i'm nursing and ransom is destroying the living room/kitchen or i'm bouncing calvin in one arm, book in the other, and ransom is clutching at my leg, whining, and almost without fail, the dishes are high in the sink and the living room is a minefield of toys and laundry (clean laundry ransom has pulled off the couch again before i could fold it).

times like tonight-- when calvin screams hysterically in his swing the entire time i am making dinner and i have to turn a deaf ear, when ransom insists on doing every. single. thing. he is not allowed to do and i have to discipline, my hands covered in bread dough-- i don't feel like i'm loving these years.  i feel more like i'm losing my sanity, like something ugly is rising in my throat that i try and try to swallow down before i spew out regrets.

but i do want to love these years. after all, these babies will never, ever be babies again. this is it, the time given to me to be with them. here, now, this place.

at church on sunday our pastor spoke about seasons in life as gifts of grace. of course, it seems obvious-- God gives us these seasons. but i forget. i forgot singleness was a season God had given me to enjoy. too often i wished i was married. i forget now, too, that this time is given to me, and no matter how hard, it is a gift of God's grace.

when josh and i were planning our wedding we spent most of our time working on the ceremony. too often we had heard people say, "it was all a blur, i don't remember anything!" we wanted the ceremony to be slow, deliberate. it was, and we savor the memories of making those binding promises to each other. i think of that now as i have babies-- if i want to love this time and remember this time i have to give thanks for it now, deliberately, in the middle of it all.

for two beautiful children who are able to scream and laugh and cry.  for a husband who always, always does the dishes for me in all that chaos.

some favorite parts:

      I remember a time when I used to be much godlier. It was sometime in junior high and my room was clean. It must have been beautiful weather outside because the lighting was very nice in my room where I was reading my Bible every day and feeling really good. It was quite clear to me that my sanctification was progressing very well. As the feeling wore off, I remember looking back to that time as a high point. That was really living the Christian life.
     The truth is my Christian life then was like a rock, being refined by a slow river in a quiet place. It wasn't as though I wasn't growing spiritually, but my word! So easily! And so little!
     But God took me out of that life and threw me into the rock tumbler.  Here, it is not so easy to feel godly, because we spend our days crashing into each other and actually getting our problems addressed. Here there is very little time for quiet reflection.


     The opportunities for growth and refinement abound here--but you have to be willing. You have to open your heart to the tumble. As you deal with your children, deal with yourself always and first.  This is what it looks like and feels like to walk with God, as a mother.
     God treats us with great kindness as we fail daily. He takes the long view of our sin--knowing that every time we fail and repent, we grow in our walk with Him. It is easy for us to accept this, because our sins are, well, ours. 
     But our children sin against us, annoy us, and mess up our stuff. We want to hold it against them, complain about them (if only to ourselves), and feel put upon by their sin.  We have a much harder time accepting that every failure from them is a wonderful opportunity for repentance and growth and not an opportunity for us to exact penance.


     It is no abstract thing--the state of your heart is the state of your home.