Category Archives: redemption

Strawberries and Snap Judgement

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Let me paint you a picture:

photo copy 8

seriously check out his shirt. It was so juice covered that it was unsalvageable

The kids and I were out picking strawberries at one of West Michigan’s most popular U-Pick spots, DeLanges Redberry Farm.  The strawberry picking was fabulous and the kids and I enjoyed time with family as we ate berries straight from the field and quickly filled our box with 14 pounds of sun ripened sweetness.

They brought me their best finds and ran up and down the rows, all while staying close by and declaring: “I love berry picking day!”

When we’d filled our box with bright red berries, we grabbed a green wagon and headed to the shed to pay.

As I pulled the wagon through the grass I surveyed my children, they were giddy and sticky beyond belief.  Caedmon was nearly dyed pink from berry juice and as I approached the shed I wondered if his clothes were salvageable.  What a way to go… a t-shirt lost to a morning of sunshine and berry juice.

As I paid for our haul, and asked the farm worker about pectin while the kids ran around, engaging fellow pickers in line.

Just as I was finishing up, I noticed that the kids were getting into the flags that were used to mark the rows which had already been picked.

“Guys!  Put those back and leave them alone!” I called out as I walked toward them.

Noelle started to obey, but Caedmon grabbed two flags and started running away from me in defiance.  (Defiance is his thing lately, he’s two)

I chased them down and made them help me put all the flags back, or at least I tried.  Honestly, I was tired and ready to get back to the car and a tall bottle of water.

As we headed to the car, a middle aged man approached me.

I was trying to keep the kids close, my hands full of berries while when he spoke up:

He shook his head at me as he told me: “You know, your kids are misbehaved.  Very misbehaved.”  

I was shocked.  I said the only thing I could think of which was a confused and sarcastic: “Thank you.”

strawberries and grace

My shock quickly turned to a line of painful questioning:  Do I have poorly behaved children?  Was their excitement over flags the result of bad parenting or just a normal kid reaction?

Continue reading →

How to eat Humble Pie on Palm Sunday

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Cross palms

I was born into a traditional Christian Reformed church where my family were charter members. I still remember the crazy confetti carpet, the stained glass windows and the padded wooden pews.

I remember getting into major trouble for turning on the organ and banging away one afternoon during children’s choir practice.

I remember gazing longingly into the Sunday school reward case and wishing I’d have done more of my Bible Memory so I could get a Noah’s Ark cup or Jonah pencil.

I remember realizing in horror that I’d picked my nose while the Sunday school sang Happy Birthday to me. I beat myself up over this for years and always saw it as the turning point of my popularity at school.  I was sure they all knew.

Eventually my parents switched to a more contemporary church.  This was fine with me, I was never quiet enough to sit through the service un-spanked.  That’s why my Dad eventually started giving me a roll of Mentos before the service, I couldn’t be half as noisy if I were chewing candy until the Doxology finally announced my freedom. 

At our new church our pastor used videos in his sermon clips we ate cookies and lemonade around tables during the sermon. I swore that I’d never return to anything remotely traditional again.  I was done with hymns and responsive reading, on to bigger and better things.

In my early twenties I left that church and went to an even more progressive church the next town over. It was at that point that I really thought that “this way” was the “right way” and that all the others were clearly doing it “wrong.”

I threw around words like “post-modern” constantly just in case people weren’t 100% sure that I was “in-the-know.”  I was feisty and argumentative and more than a little arrogant.  I railed at the idea of marrying a Methodist pastor and tensed up at the thought of being contained by a denomination.

And I was young and wrong, too busy claiming this new church and faith as my own that I failed to see how un-Christian my words and behavior really were. I spent a ridiculous chunk of my twenties giving very little grace to other churches, or to myself for that matter.

Now that I’m older I want to go back and shake 22 year old me. I want to tell her that the name on the sign, however modern, post modern or traditional doesn’t define the church, the people inside it do.

I want show that girl that she’s a fool for throwing the baby out with the bath water when it comes to church tradition. Because whether we sing hymns or contemporary songs, gather in sanctuaries or experience rooms, listen to TV pastors or those wearing robes we all bear in our hearts a need for the very same God who shatters any such constraints.  

Don’t worry, I eat regular bites of humble pie over that season, God makes sure of it.  These days my usual station on Pandora is the “Instrumental Hymn” station.  Something about the soft sweetness of souls seeking God through those words makes me feel connected to something far greater than myself.

Today found me a bit too sick to make our home church so my husband Kel too the kids for a visit to another wonderful church down the road.

He sent me a picture of Caedmon, walking down the aisle of the enormous sanctuary, waving a palm branch with a tentative grin on his face.  When I saw it something inside me burst, there was my son engaging in a tradition that goes back as far as I can remember.

His view of Jesus is already being formed by a Palm Branch on a Sunday morning he’s not likely to remember but that will be a brick in his faith journey.  

I burst with Joy that my children are engaging in a practice that started back on the first Palm Sunday, with a young boy not so different from Caedmon who sat around a table listening to stories about God and salvation.  Who stood in a street waving a Palm branch because wondering if perhaps his salvation, his freedom was right before his eyes.

Today I lay another piece of my arrogance aside and pray that in every way shape and form may our churches may be like the streets of Jerusalem were that day: a place where God’s people from 2 – 102 can wave their hands at the freedom their souls are finding in that man right in front of them, riding on a donkey.

Red yarn, purity and my misplaced worth

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7782343794_4a8c280005_cI was 21 years old, just, when I found myself sitting in a tiny counseling office trying to recover from a painful breakup. The woman in the chair across from me was praying passionately as she called upon the Holy Spirit to free my heart from my ex-boyfriend.

From the aching of being dumped… over email.

The focus of our session was all about freeing my heart, which was intrinsically linked to his, because we’d had sex.

She opened an old, metal drawer and took out some pre-cut, crimson yarn. She held the ends between pinched fingers and held the taut strands between us.

She handed me a pair of scissors and told me to cut the yarn as a representation of my cutting my heart free from my ex.

Through snipping this yarn, the Holy Spirit would set me free and disconnect us. Although I was told my heart was forever damaged and would be messy and incomplete because of my transgressions.

I remember getting into my raggedy blue Saturn and wondering… “Would cutting the yarn really do it? Should I feel different now? 

And for that matter, would this painful breakup be easier if we hadn’t… “gone there?”

I turned it all over in my head for months, like you do when you’ve been dumped. I took to rollerblading around my parents neighborhood while I listened to Dashboard Confessional on my disc-man.

Was it true that I had superglued my heart to his, never to be whole again?  Had I robbed my future husband of something special? Was I forever demoted because I proved true the age old cliché of “looking for love in all the wrong places?”

The more I rolled around the neighborhood, the more I realized that I hadn’t had sex with this guy out of love, or even for physical pleasure.

I’d done it because I needed to believe that someone had wanted me completely, just as I was.

you see, my problems went far deeper than my lost virginity. I had an incredibly screwed up sense of who I was… and whose I was… and what I was doing with my life.

I thought that I needed to belong to a man to feel complete and that belief was far more damaging than my sexual mistakes would ever be.

I’ve spent a lot of time this week thinking through all the clumsy, awkward steps that led me to ultimately “losing it.” All those concessions I made, one by one that ended with me tucking my purity ring in my jewelry box and hoping my Dad wouldn’t notice its absence on my ring finger.

If all the girls I’ve ever mentored as a youth worker were sitting across from me and I could tell them one thing about their sexuality, what would I say?

They’ve heard thousands of words from hundreds of sources, what would I add?

It’s this: Your worth cannot be found or taken from you through sex.

You were created for a big, bold beautiful purpose. If you go have sex to feel better about who you are, you will only be taking steps backward.

I would tell them that I regret having sex before marriage, but that I regret all the years that I lost believing that I was worthless even more.

I regret looking for my worth in sex, because it only ever left me emptier.

I would tell them that if they’ve already had sex, God loves them and values them just as highly as he would if they had their “v-cards” in tact. I would let them know that they can still have a healthy, joy-filled, passionate, sexy and intimate marriage someday.

I would remind them that even though the church world seems to see sexual sin as weightier or dirtier than the rest, that God sees it all the same. And that he loves the virgins and the non virgins equally.

That he’s close to the broken hearted, even the ones who didn’t wait.

Then I would tell their parents that when it comes to “the sex talk” that they should spend most of their time teaching their children who they are and who they belong to. Because kids who value themselves and have a solid send of self worth are less likely to go looking for it in all the wrong places, Like in the backseat of their cars.

And then I would go home and kiss my husband and cry a little. Because there is nothing easy about this jumbled mess of human sexuality. I would lay my head on the pillow and thank God for infusing my journey with so much grace… for leading me to this place, this day, these words.

Our children, Our mirrors

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he got my crooked smile and my heart

Every parent, from the moment their child is born, delights in the unique blend of gifts that they’ve been given through their son or daughter.

We look around at other people’s children, we skim the milestone charts and parenting books, but somewhere in the back of our mind is the belief that our child is too wonderful to be contained by statistics or averages.

They’re ours, they broke the mold and they will make the world a lovelier place just by being alive.

Then one morning we wake up and we look at them not as a unique work of art, but as a mirror.  We look at them and we see ourselves.

We look at them and we see ourselves not just in their eyes, their button noses or their crooked smiles, but we see ourselves in their flaws, their struggles, the things that cause them pain.

They don’t have an easy time reading
They have a wicked bad temper
They’re stubborn and refuse to learn lessons the easy way
They can’t sit still during story time
They don’t seem to fit in at school

In that moment we freak out a little, or a lot.  Our hearts break as we remember our pain and project every ounce of it onto our child’s future. Continue reading →

They will know we are Christians by our Love.. for each other.

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photo credit of flikr.com/

I promised myself that when I finished the Mother Letters I would do a week of light and easy posts, like a list of my favorite things or all the ridiculous search terms people use to find my blog.  The top one by the way is Fleece Fetish.   I will write these posts soon, just not today.

Today I have bigger things on my heart, like Church, Jesus and all the nitty gritty that goes along with committing to love them both.

Have you ever had to sit in worship or study God’s word in the same room as someone who doesn’t like you?  Someone who speaks openly against you and the work you pour your heart into?

I have, it’s terribly distracting and uncomfortable.  It’s the sort of thing that makes you want to stay home from church and stick a blanket over your head, say something along the lines of “screw it all, I’m out!”  (Or something similar but more rated R)

But as we get out there and do God’s work, dissenters will come along and bring their negative comments with them.  They won’t like what you’re doing, they may not even like you.  They wish you would go away, and lets be honest, often the feeling is mutual.

This where the nuts and bolts of the gospel get hard, where you put your head in your hands and cry about it a little, or a lot.

Heavy is the moment you realize that these people who are against you.. are loved children of God too.  We’ve all been the criticizers AND the one being criticized.  None of us are all good or all bad, we’re all seeking to be more like Jesus (I hope)

We are all travelers longing for home, and in search of his glory and grace.  Looking for a rhythm that transcends here and connects us to Our Father.

So stand strong, realize that there isn’t a place you could go and do the honest work of God without criticism.  Don’t leave because it’s hard, you won’t be able to grow roots this way, some seasons will be hard, everywhere, always.  Leaving is usually not the answer, sometimes, but not usually.

If you look at the early church, as early as the disciples you’ll see that they fought with each other, tore each other apart, unleashed their human flaws and insecurities upon each other.

So much so that Jesus gave them this:

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:34-35

So, as easy as it is to scowl and avoid eye contact, switch churches or life groups, we’re called to keep loving.  This gospel we speak of, it’s not easy, loving your enemy, those that persecute you?  It’s advanced stuff.

 

We love our enemies because God loves them, and through our hands perhaps he can love their anger away.

Always see your brothers and sisters for what they are, loved ones who make mistakes, just like us.  Flawed people who act out of bad information or misunderstanding.

Have you felt this?  Are you feeling it now?  I’m with you, I love you, I’m a mess too.  Shalom dear one, Shalom, Peace of Christ to you.

31 Letters to My Mother {Day 20} Your baby is a Solider, Part II

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apple camera

Good Morning Mom,

Well I promised you that I would write all about graduation day so here I am, true to my word.

Caedmon woke me up early and then Noelle followed shortly thereafter.  The kids and me headed down to the hotel lobby for breakfast.  They charmed the ladies serving breakfast. Noelle pretended her apple was a camera and proceeded to take pictures of everyone in the room.

Continue reading →

Letters to my Mother {day 6} Coffee Wars

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Dear Mom,

We both know that I’m a coffee snob, the truth is that I haven’t even used my traditional coffee pot in two weeks. I’m using my french press exclusively now.

You were not a coffee snob, AT ALL, in fact I’m not sure that you were snobby about anything.  You were pretty easy going, although you didn’t like avocados or artichokes, this much I know.

I gave you so much sass and drama over your coffee being subpar.

I hassled you about your powdered creamer.

I nagged you about how your coffee pot burned the bottom of the carafe, but I think we can both agree the new coffee pot made for a nicer morning routine, no burnt aroma.  Sigh… there I go again, being all snobby.

I guess you raised a bit of a snob, but I swear mom, I hide it well.

The thing is, I wasn’t just a bit irritated about our java differences, I was nasty about it.  When you visited our house I didn’t graciously dial down the amount of grounds I used, as I would for any other guest, I belittled you, made you feel like a burden, a hassle.

I did this to you a lot.  Sure I had some very real concerns but I gave you so little grace..

I worry now, did you think everyone had written you off?  We were just so concerned, wanted to intervene, to help, to somehow… bring you back.

If you were here right now I’d happily make you a cup of half strength Folgers with powdered Spartan Brand non dairy creamer.

I’d tell you that I was sorry for being so horrible to you.  I’d try to explain that I had no idea how to help you or respond to your depression.  I was so angry because I wanted you to take care of me, mother me, not the other way around.

I honestly believed that you were one counseling session away from breakthrough, from a slow return to us.  This is why I nagged and yelled, and sent encouraging songs, sermons and emails, because I believed you had it in you.

I had a funny way of showing it.

I love you, I miss you,

LeaRae

The Evolution of “Us” (A love letter to Kel)

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This week I’m writing about marriage, mine mostly because that’s the only one I’ve been in.  I’m still working on the details, so for now I’m just writing a love letter to my stud muffin, the bacon to my BLT, the brown eyed okie boy who took my life by storm, The Kel.  

a goodbye, nose-smooshing, airport kiss.

Wow babe, six years eh?  Six feels like such an odd number, it’s not tiny and it’s not a multiple of five, it’s just… six.

Six years ago my uncle walked me down the aisle and we cried, you more than me.  We slow danced to a song about a broken road, not because it was popular but because it was just right for us.

We had no idea then how many winding roads we would take together and how soon we would fall apart, side by side.  In a way we both know that this is a getting up place for us, that for the first time since our cross country move, Noelle’s birth, My Mom’s Funeral and Caedmon’s arrival we have our bearings, maybe, probably.

And yes, we know that it could all change tomorrow…

We’re learning to laugh again, you and I, and we’re daily giving each other handfuls of grace, even on days when the sink is broken and the AC has gone out. We’re learning to look across the table and see each other as perfect in the moment, even in paint stained shorts and frizzy hair and always it seems, with bags under our eyes.

We had no idea what a marathon parenting would be, we dreamed it would happen in soft, hazy blips, but the constant march has been a steep learning curve.

So we’re perfecting at art of the “at home date” and the humor that can be found in just how wrong things seem to go some days. Such as babies who build tacos on their head and then poop on the floor without us noticing because we’re Just. That. Tired.

Mostly I just love you and lately I feel like I love you all over again in a new and fresh way that’s come clean of all my unfair expectations.  My heart is full of passion to love you as the man God created you to be.  I’m dropping all my silly notions of who you should become.

I’m seeing you beyond my own nose, taking you into my newly tender heart, surrendering to all the ways that I can’t earn or control love.

In year 7 I’ll keep buying you super hero underwear because I want you to feel strong in spite of all the ways the world can tear you up.  I want you to wake up and believe you’re able to work miracles in his name, because you are and you do.

As the days go on I say screw the lawn, forget the theological bickering and all the high expectations I used to put on everything.  Let’s just draw together, skin on skin in the moments of life, not as we imagined or planned them but just as they are.

And of course I’m half awake writing this, and of course you’re 1,000 miles away finishing up your masters but baby, I love you like whoa.

Bring on 7, 17, and 47.

Beautiful Scars – Princess Abi’s Faith

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Today’s Guest Post came in this week from Laurie Wilks and I knew I had to bump my Friday posting plans to share it with you.  

Laurie is a new friend, mother, teacher and fellow Asbury-ite.  I promise you’ll walk away in love with her beautiful and brave daughter Abi, as I did.  Abi’s perspective on God, Faith and Scars is something that we could all take notes on.  ~ Leanne

A big chunk of our family time happens on-the-go, running errands in our sage green mini-van.

It was the week before Thanksgiving and we had several destinations to check off that afternoon.

We had reached the point in the day when sweet treats beckon, but dinner seems far off. The bickering from the older kids in the back seat was noticeably absent. On a whim, we pulled into the drive-thru and ordered two kid sized hot chocolates and a juice box.  Cheers and laughter erupted from the back seat.  Sweets! With Whipped Cream! Happy day!  John and Laurie Wilks: Parents of the Year!

We waited, as patiently as possible.  Soon enough, an awkward teenager handed us our steamy liquid goodness.  We thanked her and I passed them back to the worlds happiest 8 and 4 year-old kids.  They were so grateful, it melted my heart.  I hollered a warning that their drinks were hot; and glance back at their smiling faces as John pulled back on to the highway.

I wish I could have frozen this moment and savored it.

Suddenly, I heard an ear piercing, terrified scream from my 4 yr old daughter.  She just kept screaming, and crying.  Traffic prevented us from turning around or pulling over. Continue reading →

A Part of the Story

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Do you remember the complete and utter drama of trying out for plays in school?  You audition, trying desperately to bring the hero or heroine to life and then you wait in a awful blend of dreams and dread.

The day arrives when they post THE LIST on the auditorium door.  All the hopefuls gather ’round, scanning the list of roles, wishing to see their name.  Asking the same question, will I get to be a part of this play, this story?

Life gets a whole lot better than it was in high school, thank God.  You come to realize that the most important plays and stories aren’t happening on a stage some Saturday night in April, but everyday, all around us.

waiting on a homecoming

More beautiful than any hoop skirt heroine is a little boy home for the first time from Ethiopia, finally part of his forever family.  More lovely than a choreographed rendition of “Getting to know you” is a text message letting you know that a broken relationship has been restored.  Listening to your son learn to sing is more precious than a part in “Meet me in St Louis” because this is a play that will last a lifetime.

I cherish nothing more than being a part of stories, my story, your story and above all else God’s Story.  I meander through my little house with it’s smudged walls, scattered toys and full pantry and my breath catches and escapes in a heavy sigh.  I think about all the people whose stories are dark today, whose mind is full of hard and heavy sorrow and questions.

I can’t be a part of every story, but I can breathe prayers to a God who is the author of every page.  I can beg him to teach me to become more aware of the story being woven all around me, to play the part that is the most helpful in his over arching desire to redeem and restore.

I can open my eyes wider and savor the moments where I am privileged to speak the most beautiful lines.  To be a part of the dream scenes, the ones that will forever alter the lives of those I love.

Yesterday was a dream day, our family stood along side many others with signs that bore the words “welcome home” and my dear friend Joely walked down the airport hallway beside her son, finally home from Ethiopia.  They gathered as a family of four for the first time.

My heart popped and every hair stood on end, how many times had we sat and talked about this moment, rehearsing it in our heads, the day when she would bring her child home after a 2 year pregnancy of fundraising and paperwork.

Finally it came, and it was more beautiful than I could describe, and as we drove home my heart overflowed with thanks.  I was humbled to be a small part of the day they brought him home to stay.

Anytime you are humbled to be a part of someone’s story and you have the clarity to realize it, breathe thanks.  Really the story is what we have, it’s how we change the world, bring heaven to earth.

Lord give us ears to hear the direction of your spirit as we live out the moments.  Thank you for every story we are blessed to be a part of, and give us the courage to go for the roles that are hard, to reach those that others aren’t reaching.

Thank you for sharing your story with me, dear one, any day that our lives intersect is a moment of beautiful humility for me.  Be blessed, be brave, see the story.