Robin W. Pearson's Blog, page 2

One, for All

“You need to use your platform. To say something about all that’s going on right now.” Standing there in my mama’s kitchen, Songbird’s voice shook with emotion, perhaps because we’d done nothing but talk about all that.

But I don’t have a platform, I thought, my heart quaking even more than her voice. All I have is a cross.

How do I do this, carry a cross that seems to get bloodier and heavier and more splintered every day? Sometimes it’s so unwieldy I can’t work a hand free to point to Christ, the same sinless Christ who bore our burden once for all, the victims and the victimizers; the sinners and the saints; defenders and accusers; the innocent and the guilty; the birdwatchers and the dog walkers; the lawmakers, -breakers, takers, and fakers; those holding the gun and those in its line of sight; curly, kinky, straight, pressed, frizzy; the greatest of us and the least of us.

All.

When I do manage to aim heavenward and manage a hoarse, “Trust Him. Love God. Love others. Pray. Forgive…” three accusatory fingers point back at me, whispering, “That’s not what you want to do. Weren’t you just fussing instead of praying? Speak up. Take a stand.”

But I will only take up my cross. Even if I have to crawl instead of run with it, kneel instead of stand, and beseech and exhort until I am slam out of breath.

Because if I stand on a platform, I won’t be able to mourn the loss of Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor…and Eric Garner, Botham Jean, Atatiana Jefferson, and …

And fix my eyes on Who I’ve gained—Christ.

Yet, I can only do both, for my heart seems wired that way. I was designed to multitask, to split my attention, to rub my head while patting my stomach, to smile through my tears, to praise Him on the mountaintop and seek Him in the valley. 

Up there on that platform, I can’t tremble or waver or move. In that place, I’ll hold onto bitter thoughts of my Daddy having to step off the sidewalk, getting fired when his ability to read and write threatened management, and the theft of his family’s land.

I’ll take the keys from Crusader, Think Tank, and Hubby so they can’t drive on country roads, especially at night and days that end in ‘y.’ I’ll shave all the mustaches and twists and curls on my menfolk so they blend in.

I’ll shush Songbird’s strident voice that cries out for justice and sings of peace, that searches for harmony while marching to her singular beat in high-top Chuck Taylors.

I’ll stop writing stories of people who look, sound, cook, and believe like my people. Your people. Our people. I’ll try to become more inspirational, less evangelical.

I’ll stop teaching my little people life lessons, showing them that it’s natural to feel angry and frustrated. I’ll allow the world to snatch away their joy, dreams, and testimony by not encouraging them to think on things of good report.

I’ll forget that the true enemy of my life and peace is the great destroyer, the master of lies, not the man who refuses to wear a mask to Home Depot.

I’ll swallow the God-breathed words of Solomon, the prophets, and the apostles, instead of speaking them. In moments of grief and sorrow I won’t remind myself that

“Hatred stirs up strife, But love covers all sins.” (Proverbs 10:12)

 

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, Nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, The Holy One of Israel, your Savior…” (Isaiah 43:1-3)

 

“But let man and beast be covered with sackcloth, and cry mightily to God; yes, let every one turn from his evil way and from the violence that is in his hands.” (Jonah 3:8)

 

“The Lord is good, A stronghold in the day of trouble; And He knows those who trust in Him.” (Nahum 1:7)

 

“The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” (John 10:10)

 

“These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

 

“But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

 

“For the death that He died, He died to sin once for all; but the life that He lives, He lives to God.” (Romans 6:10)

 

“Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” (1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

 

“…with all lowliness and gentleness, with longsuffering, bearing with one another in love,  endeavoring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace….And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:2-3, 32)

 

“See that no one renders evil for evil to anyone, but always pursue what is good both for yourselves and for all.” (1 Thessalonians 5:15)

 

“If someone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen? And this commandment we have from Him: that he who loves God must love his brother also.” (1 John 4:20-21)

So, I won’t. stand. on. a. platform. It can only lift me—and me alone—so high.

But I will carry my cross because I know He carries us all, every day on this Earth and all the way to heaven.

 

Busy Bees

If we’re connected on Instagram, you might have seen the video of a bee I posted last week. Hubby and I had moved our inside life to the outside, and I called myself working. Really, I was just holding my laptop because my mind was on everything but work. Distracted himself, Hubby took a minute to wander through the yard, and a bee caught his attention. Soon, it created quite a buzz as the star of our home movie.

I loved the way the bee kept doing its thing, despite the presence of a large, very cute blob who didn’t have anything better to do than get in its way. It only seemed to drone, “Um…excuse me,” move around Hubby, and dance right on to the next flower.

This bee worked with a purpose and a direction I’d been seeking God for. Not that I don’t have plenty of folks to tend to, pages to write, and chickens to fry. But I’ve been asking God, “Is this what You want me to do during this time?”

You can say that bee moved me. And not just my feet, for running is my typical reaction to all bugs great and small. I’ve been focused on the what, where, and how we do it—whatever it is—because they look so different today, in the face of predators that seek to steal, kill, and destroy our life and peace. (John 10:10) Yet, I need to train my eyes on the why:

Obeying and glorifying God.

We need to work like that bee. It had a mission that no threat could change. How can I not be about my Father’s business as well? Not the business that keeps my mind off death, but the meaningful callings that keep my eyes on Life, on Jesus.[image error]

So, I’ll keep answering to “Mama!” while squashing those predatory thoughts that want me to believe this is “time wasted,” not “time invested.” I’ll keep laughing at jokes that don’t make sense, handling reading, writing, and ’rithmetic, and making sure TD doesn’t drive by the bathtub but actually gets in. I’ll watch family movies during my evening writing time, run around outside with critters, teach piano and Spanish and force TD to read Of Mice and Men (okay, Stuart Little), and have in-depth, faith-driven, life-after-homeschooling conversations with Think Tank and Maven and life-during-quarantine conversations with Songbird and Crusader.

I’ll keep feeding the masses without worrying about the lack of everything bagels and abundance of germs on the grocery carts. While my thumb is still a lovely shade of brown, I’ll gratefully plant and grow what we can…green onions. We’ll bake pizza crusts instead and repurpose leftovers that used to while away in the refrigerator. I’ll order groceries for my parents and have food delivered to people who’ve lost their income. We’ll keep observing communion, but now with Ritz crackers and cranberry juice, and celebrate Easter with extended family, if virtually on Zoom.

I’ll keep reaching out and touching, even if it’s from a distance. I’ve learned more about my neighbors during six-foot wide conversations than I did squeezing next to people in the church pew, I’ve reached oodles of homeschoolers in a thirty-second television interview, and I’ve connected with readers in virtual book groups and through social media. We’re missing the ripping and running we once whined about, but sheltering at home has opened up unexpected opportunities to communicate, serve, and interact.

And I’ll keep praying. For if we keep seeking, calling, and praying with our whole heart, we will find God, and He will answer. (Jeremiah 29:12, 13) Not stumble upon Him like I do with Brown Sugar’s Playmobil pieces scattered thither and yon. But hold Him close, the way Lone Ranger clutches her iPad after she’s scoured the house for it.

In this working and waiting, I will

be watchful
be purposeful
prayerful
be faithful
be real
be helpful
be loving
be productive
be hopeful
be quiet
be obedient
be focused
and be creative

as I do whatever it is He sets my hands to do.

I just need to be about it, while we yet have the light of the Son.

“And it happened, when our enemies heard that it was known to us, and that God had brought their plot to nothing, that all of us returned to the wall, everyone to his work. So it was, from that time on, that half of my servants worked at construction, while the other half held the spears, the shields, the bows, and wore armor; and the leaders were behind all the house of Judah. Those who built on the wall, and those who carried burdens, loaded themselves so that with one hand they worked at construction, and with the other held a weapon. Every one of the builders had his sword girded at his side as he built. And the one who sounded the trumpet was beside me.” (Nehemiah 4:15-18)

 

Bringing Up Baby

When Songbird came along, Crusader didn’t suddenly start
wearing suits and cooking his own breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Nope. He kept
doing his baby thing, becoming what my Grandma Vi used to call my “knee baby,”
basically moving from my arms to my lap so I could tend to both him and my
newborn. As you can imagine, we’ve kept both my knees and Hubby’s busy for many
years, from propping up all our little people to praying for them.

It might surprise you that I found going from one to two the
hardest transition. Beyond painting our extra bedroom a neutral light green and
buying onesies and diapers, I did nothing to prepare Crusader or myself for
life with a new baby. Did I expect two-and-a-half-year-old Crusader to suddenly
drive himself to preschool, or at the very least, sit through Sesame Street so
Songbird and I could nap? Well, he didn’t. And it threw me. For several loops,
in fact.

You see, Crusader was our debut, the first grandchild from
an only son on one side and the first baby of the baby girl on the other. Crusader
was the little prince of our household, having all our cake and eating it, too.
Whatever I expected after giving birth to our baby girl, Crusader went on
expecting things in his life to continue along that same entitled trajectory. So
there was a new little princess who was doing her darndest to command her own
slice of cake? That was for me to figure out. Not one to make my first baby
feel second-best or my second precious baby feel third-rate, I did just that. I
figured it out. They’re all my favorites, so I simply baked more cake.

It’s what we writers do, too, that “figuring it out” stuff. A
Long Time Comin’ is my first book baby. It’s barely taking its first steps,
yet here I am, daring to introduce another family member, due in bookstores next
spring. My projects are more like fraternal twins; they require nearly the same
amount, though not the same type, of care. One needs lots of promotion; the
other lots of editing. The first is growing in spite of all I don’t know; I’m applying
what I’ve learned to my second. There’s nothing like my first baby; the second
is icing on the cake. They’re different experiences, but I love them the same. They’re
both going to kill me; working on them brings me life.

Isn’t this what we all do? Figuring it out is not solely the
writer’s or mama’s domain. Everything is priority number one; we have to tend
to lots of “babies”—our families, parents, work, friends, church, deadlines, and
dreams. You put one to bed, and the other wakes up and calls your name. They
all scream for attention at the same time or get eerily quiet so you have to
hunt them down. Our new house was one such baby. We moved within days of
launching A Long Time Comin’ and submitting my second book. The little
people didn’t hold their breath until I typed “The End,” unpacked the kitchen,
and helped my parents. I didn’t think I’d survive it, at least not with all my
hair.

But I did. With hair intact—on my head and sadly, under my
chin. I survived Book #2 the way I survived Songbird, sweet Baby #2, who threw
a wrench in our well-run works way back when. How?

By resting in the Lord. Just like in the early days with a newborn, I’ve spent many nights in the recliner and on the sofa the past few months, typing well into the wee hours. Yet I’m learning to find true rest in the Lord as He completes the work He began, in me and on the page.

By asking for and accepting help. I ran life with one arm while the other cradled a baby or held a toddler’s hand, trying to prove to Hubby and anybody else watching that I could manage my household—and theirs, too. Lately, I’ve been forced to accept and admit that my superpowers are on the fritz and to rely on my trusty sidekicks in my Hubby, family, friends, and writing community.

By falling to pieces. During the early days after Songbird, life became a haze of pushing through. Keeping life moving at the expected pace for everybody but me. But wisdom—and weakness—come with age. The only routine I’ve kept up is rolling my hair, something I did in the hospital after giving birth. (And if there are rollers in heaven, I’ll do it there, too.) God has shown me through my blessings and burdens that He never fails even when I fall. Never ever ever.

By praising Him anyhow. When I potty trained Crusader I thought, “I can do anything,” but I soon learned there were more poop-filled days ahead, in more ways than one. Getting a book published is filled with such mountaintop experiences. I’ve entreated God to move a few of those mountains, but instead, He’s helped me cross them. Sometimes it leaves me breathless and tearful, and I only have the strength to look back and wonder, “How I got over.”

Right after Crusader was born, I told Hubby, “Never again.” I felt much the same way before the birth of A Long Time Comin’. But all my babies have given me the best of times and the worst of times, and they’ve each sat as dusty and unfed as my blog a time or two. While I might change a word here and there, spoken and written, I’d do it all again. In fact, that is my heartfelt prayer. To raise one baby after another.

That’s what grandchildren and sequels are for.

“Jesus said to them, ‘Have you understood all these things?’

They said to Him, ‘Yes, Lord.’

Then He said to them, ‘Therefore every scribe instructed concerning the kingdom of heaven is like a householder who brings out of his treasure things new and old.’” Matthew 13:51, 52

Spotting God

Maven’s gymnastics coach taught her about the power of spotting. By training her eyes on a specific point as she rotated, she’d maintain her balance. Great advice.

Lately, I’ve been taking my eyes off my focal point. When I see all these messages and images about A Long Time Comin’, I’m filled with this disquieting amalgam of wonder and worry. Wonder, that I have a book on the shelves and in the hands of readers! Worry, that I have a book on the shelves and in the hands of readers…

That’s what happens whenever I look at the creation and not the Creator. If I focus on my family, I’m overwhelmed by the blessing of stewarding my seven peeps…and then I get overwhelmed by the responsibility of stewarding my seven peeps. I love to cook, but sometimes it seems I live to cook. I can’t see the new house over all the boxes I have to move. Lunch dates, play dates, dinner dates…promising interactions I want to plan transform into interruptive promises I have to keep. We can’t position the star until we first trim the whole tree and the rest of the house.

In the blink of an eye, an opportunity becomes an onus. An “ahhh” into an “aww, shucks.” I wonder how the wise men felt when it was time to mount up and return home. How do you view your own life’s journey—as filled with pitfalls and bumps or full of fruitful valleys and mountaintop experiences?

It’s all about perspective. Fretting over “best seller or bust” puts my focus on the wrong place. I’m thinking about me, the writer. Not God, the Author. I’m looking inward, not heavenward. Eyeing the message not extolling the Messenger. I start to wobble as my world turns.

And yet…when I fix my eyes on Jesus, my focal point, I want to give praise, not look for it. I can rest in the well-doing for I see my weakness as His strength. I rejoice as a work in progress because I know He is the Finisher. There’s much to thank God for, much to seek God for. Balance is restored.

So when my soul looks back in wonder, my view isn’t obscured by a mountain of worries.

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal.”

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Hero Worship

Liam Neeson’s character delivers one of my favorite movie
scenes in Taken when he warns his daughter, “They are going to take you.”
But a few minutes later, he assures Kim’s kidnapper, “…I will look for you, I will
find you, and I will kill you.” Right away, you get the sense he’ll back up
his promise; after all, he has “a particular set of skills.”

I have my own Liam Neeson in my daddy, and he comes complete with his personal skill set. Daddy doesn’t suffer foolishness or dishonesty. When I was young, everybody knew whose child I was—old and young alike, teachers, friends, and classmates. And when I misbehaved, I knew it, too. I trusted him to defend, protect, and provide for me, and even now, if I call, “Daddy…” he does whatever he can to help.

In A Long Time Comin’, nobody in Spring Hope messes with my character either; she packs a ton of spirit into her 100-pound frame. Beatrice Agnew delivers her children from one scrape after another, using her own grit, strength of will, and practicality. When she says “I wish you would,” folks know better, trusting she, too, can back up her simply stated words.

Don’t we all hanker for a Liam, a Granny B, or a parent’s tough love at some point? Not to avenge a kidnapping or discipline a sassy child, but to ease our distress and vanquish our enemies, whether they’re deadlines, difficult circumstances, or naysayers. Someone to save us from suffering, mistakes, and rebelliousness? Well, we need look no more. Our longing has been satisfied in God.

The Israelites had everything they needed as well in their intimate relationship with their Savior, their Father. Over and over this hard-headed, recalcitrant people turned to earthly pleasures, other people, and idols. Yet God loved and forgave their unfaithfulness until eventually, He sent prophets to inform them—in so many words—“You will be taken.”

Before we start pointing fingers, we must admit we ignore this
warning in our own lives. We constantly get swept up within the whirlwind of everyday
temptations, worries, and distractions, and we run to our earthly heroes—parents,
advisers, lawyers, or friends—to free us. Remember that Veggie Tales song “God
is Bigger Than the Boogeyman”? He also towers over the heroes in our life’s story.

Sure, our hometown heroes can mirror His constancy. Beatrice’s granddaughter, Evelyn, sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong. Yet, that doesn’t stop her Granny B from sheltering Evelyn at her Spring Hope home. Kim’s misbehavior doesn’t deter Liam from moving heaven and Earth to find her and destroying a few sports cars along the way. My daddy’s “No-no-no-no” was legendary, but he was right there to pull the car out of the ditch when I wrecked it.

But there’s no one like our God. The Israelites rejected Him time and again, yet He pursued them relentlessly because He is faithful when we are faithless. He loved them—and us—first and always. So even before their capture, He reassured,

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name;
You are Mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flame scorch you.
For I am the Lord your God,
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior;
I gave Egypt for your ransom,
Ethiopia and Seba in your place.
Since you were precious in My sight,
You have been honored,
And I have loved you;
Therefore I will give men for you,
And people for your life.”

(Isaiah 43:1-4)

Another favorite scene in Taken? When Kim finally clutches a battered and beaten Liam and whispers, “You came for me” and he responds, “I told you I would.” She’s expressing her thankfulness and wonder, not her disbelief. Similarly, in my novel, Evelyn tucks into the warm plate of grits her Granny B offers her; Evelyn isn’t resentful, just grateful—and hungry. I, myself, have cried in relief when Daddy saved the day, and my behind.

Babylon, Egypt, Edom, Assyria…all had counted victory over the Jewish people. Yet, the ultimate victory was assured, though seventy years passed before God brought His people home to Jerusalem. They couldn’t save themselves. And neither could Kim, the Agnews, nor I. As much as I love my own daddy, I need the true Deliverer, a Father, to knock some sense into me, hunt me down, and rescue me. To say “No” or “Yet a little while.” Because it’s not my enemies who should be brought to their knees. I should, every time I encounter trial, endure loss, engage in battle, and lift my hands in praise. I need to remember that all is not lost. Victory is assured. My Savior is not delaying His deliverance but is working all the time on my behalf. That is my hope, my truth.

He’ll come for me. Just like He told me He would.

So he answered and said to me:

“This is the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel:
‘Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,’
Says the Lord of hosts.

(Zechariah 4:6)

Bound by Grace

I don’t know the story behind this tree. All I know is that it has grown with these links embedded in it. Would it have been taller, fuller, stronger without it? Did the chain start out as a helpful boundary that will ultimately kill it? Did some long-ago little person drop part of a toy or tool? Whatever the case, those links eventually grew with the tree, and whether or not they weaken it, the state of this crepe myrtle serves as a unique reminder of how I accommodate my own limitations. I’ve learned to walk and run with a hitch in my step, wear progressive lenses (okay, bifocals) as the type size shrinks, and tap out letters with my left hand when I hurt my right. We all press on. We grow. Either we do, or we die.

But back to that lovely tree.

Its imperfections, its weak places, don’t detract from its beauty. In fact, that chain makes it stand out from the other trees lining the yard. We’ve actually been informed by a neighbor that it might even bloom better if we had it pruned, despite its iron thread. (I should’ve shown him that like my smiling face, both my thumbs are brown. It’s by God’s grace that tree is still alive!) Which brings me to my point: I live by God’s grace not condemned by my imperfections. I can’t let my fetters prevent me from stretching toward the Son, blooming where I’m planted, and being rooted and grounded in faith.

I confess, I haven’t done much stretching and blooming this week because I’ve let my own chains hem me in. I’ve spent days “perfecting” this post. I started out with less than 500 words and ballooned to nearly 1,000 carefully crafted words and who knows how many commas. At one point, I nearly chucked the whole thing because I couldn’t get it just right. That’s the same paralysis that kept A Long Time Comin’ my book of secrets for years, that robbed the joy from the life of my main character, Beatrice Agnew. Fear of failure, rejection of grace, self-condemnation. Chains.

So, before I hit “save” and stored this post away with the others I’ve started and discarded, I prayerfully cut out those extra sentences and precious punctuation and pressed on. No, it won’t be perfect, but I trust God to reveal the beauty of His truth. Which leads me to think we should get our crepe myrtle pruned. We need to preserve those limbs twisting so exquisitely with its chain. But don’t worry, my precious tree-hugging friends. I’ve no plans to wield the shears. The sword of the Spirit is reserved for me.

“…and for me, that utterance may be given to me, that I may open my mouth boldly to make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains; that in it I may speak boldly, as I ought to speak.” Ephesians 6:20

Friendly Fire

I’ve had some friends call me out recently.

“You change the subject when you don’t want to answer a question.”

“You withdraw when you’re struggling.”

And here I thought I was being smooth. Not so.

There was a part of me that figured they couldn’t be bothered with all the grisly details. I assumed they wanted to hear, “I’m fine, thank you. And you?” the way you respond to strangers in the grocery store when your eyes meet over a crowded apple bin. But they didn’t, because like I said, they’re my friends. To tell you the truth, I think I’ve shared more about myself with folks in the grocery store—“My budget can’t handle these prices!” “Hubby usually does the shopping, so would you help me find the beef jerky?” “Ooh, tell me how you cook that. Mine always comes out bitter.”

Now that I think about it, I’ve probably shared more with all y’all.

Yes, there’s a part of me that seeks to protect my friends from me, but what about the part that protects me from them? This side wants to jettison tough questions altogether and not merely employ evasive maneuvers. That’s the Robin who wants to post the “after” pictures and not the “before” or “during,” the fearful me who expects rejection, the one who’s always giving encouragement even though she desperately needs to hear it. Turns out, however, that’s the Robin my friends want to talk to—the whole me, Dr. and Mrs. Hyde. The good, bad, and the ugly one. They’re more than willing to pick me up this time and strong enough to let me carry them the next.

Why? Because they love me. And to return that love, I need to let them in, to invite them to take a giant step off the welcome mat and through my open door. They care enough about me to tell me so.

This is the same way I need to let in Jesus, Who stands there patiently and persistently knocking. I must let it all hang out, surrender all, like we sing in church. It’s time to be vulnerable, show my tender underbelly, come clean….which builds relationship between Him and me. When Jesus entreats, “Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden,” I shouldn’t change the subject by talking about other people’s problems, sharing other folks’ weaknesses, or telling Him just what I think about what He’s (not) doing in my life. I need to rest. (Matthew 11:28) I should draw near with my problems and praise, and He will draw near to me. (James 4:8) After all, He’s well aware of the hurt, sadness, and sin I’m hoarding. Pain is like money: the more I bank, the more it accrues, growing interest exponentially. God invites me to divest myself of it all by giving it to Him.

Sure, as my Father and Friend, He calls me out just like my friends did, correcting, disciplining, and discipling me because He loves His own, infinitely. (2 Timothy 3:16, Hebrews 12:6) Yet, loving me intimately means God knows all the yucky middle parts I like to keep to myself because He planned my end before He created my beginning; there’s nothing God hasn’t seen, felt, or experienced, so I can’t scare Him off by showing my true self—and I don’t mean the “me” in orange rollers beneath my satin cap or the one without my ever-present lipstick. I’m talking about the “me” I don’t even rightly know. While I don’t like feeling vulnerable, exposed, and defenseless, humbling myself in my earthly relationships prepares me to kneel before God. It announces to my friends, “You can trust me”; it informs God, “I trust You.”

Indeed I can trust Him, though He’s never sipped coffee in my kitchen or told me His prized blueberry muffin recipe. According to 1 John 4:12, 13, that matters not: “No one has seen God at any time. If we love one another, God abides in us, and His love has been perfected in us. By this we know that we abide in Him, and He in us, because He has given us of His Spirit.” And by God’s grace, my friendships abide, evidenced by the way we pick up right where we left off ten minutes ago or ten years ago, through our shared, silent look that reassures, “Mmm-hmmm…You see that? Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”—and with my heartfelt confession of “Right now, I’m struggling.” I’m grateful God holds together our precious, flame-kissed friendships, gifts from Jesus Christ, “whom having not seen [we] love.” (1 Peter 1:7, 8)  

So, I’m grateful for their friendly fire. It burns, but they prove themselves ever faithful (Proverbs 27:6). These relationships constantly point me to Christ, reminding me how I am with Him and in Him: trusting and trustworthy; forgiving and forgiven; loved and loving; willing to bare all and striving to bear all.   

Why? Because Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.

“Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends. You are My friends if you do whatever I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I heard from My Father I have made known to you.” (John 15: 13-15)

Photo by Cathal Mac an Bheatha on Unsplash

 

 

Flit, Flutter, or Fly

Fret much? I do. I’ve been more a hummingbird than a Robin since I signed my publishing contract, hovering over everything I must do and haven’t done, beating my wings frantically but not moving outside my figure-eight path: Little people. Edits. New synopsis. Hubby. Social media. Church. Work in progress. Homeschooling. Anything that alters my route —maintaining the summer reading log, buying dog food, a doctor’s appointment—throws a wrench in the works. Planning my cover reveal?! Talk about heart palpitations, enough to make a hummingbird keel over.

But Sunday, Pastor Jason shed a different perspective on all my flitting and fluttering. Sure, deadlines must be met, books must be written, little people must be fed, but my attitude…? That, my fellow feathered friends, must be changed. So, when I consider my list of to-dos, five words comprise the list:

Find out what pleases God.

It’s that simple. Just in case I needed a little help, he gave some guidelines:

Have faith. Hebrews 11:6 

Be just, merciful, and humble. Micah 6:8

Praise God in every circumstance, especially, when I don’t want to. Hebrews 13:15, 16

Spend time with God. Luke 10:41, 42

That’s it. And guess what? Fretting isn’t on the list. Neither is fussing, complaining, whining, anger, fear, or even busyness, my all-encompassing reason for not enjoying my blessings, not investing in people, work, and activities that matter.

When I seek to please God, I employ faith, trusting Him to hold me aloft, to take me farther and higher than I could ever go on my own strength or caloric intake. While I’m reaching higher heights in whatever role God gives me, I continue serving my family and others in humility and gratitude, extending mercy and justice, forgiving those who’ve hurt or rejected me or just plain stressed me out. And in those difficulties, in the face of failure or doubt, when I don’t know which is the “next thing,” what need is most pressing, or which fire to put out…I will praise and thank God. Though I can’t do or know everything, I serve a God who knows all and who does all things well—what I’ve learned by spending time with Him. He is my source and my resource whether I’m tending to booboos or signing books.

So, by focusing on those five words—Find out what pleases God—I can not only put an end to my hovering and fluttering, I can fly. Soar. Because I’m not a hummingbird.

God designed me to be an eagle.

But those who wait on the Lord

Shall renew their strength;

They shall mount up with wings like eagles,

They shall run and not be weary,

They shall walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40:31)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blessed and Highly Favored

When it comes to TD, the little people act as my sword and shield, jumping in to deflect every request, complaint, and need. Notice I say “deflect,” not fulfill, address, or meet.

“May I have some water?” No, you already had some and it’s almost 9.

“Could you read to me?” Mommy’s working.

“I’m hungry.” You should have finished your pancake sausage dog. (Yes, this is a thing.)

“Can you help me go to sleep?” You’re big enough to put yourself to bed, not depend on Mom.

“Okay if I play on your phone? Where’s yours? If you’d kept up with it…

And so on.

Not only do they deflect his requests, they point out my own parenting shortcomings—when it comes to TD, that is, and relative to their own terrible childhoods.

“I had to be in bed by 7:30.”

“I was doing school on my own by now.”

“I couldn’t watch that much TV.”

“Are you letting him talk back?”

“He never finishes his dinner.”

“We had to brush our teeth before we came downstairs.”

By my estimation, I must have been an over-the-top, overachieving mother then. By theirs, I must be a delinquent, permissive mother now. More than likely, I’m a mixture, unevenly distributing discipline, mercy, humor, snarkiness, a side eye, and a blind eye to all and sundry as I see fit.

Now, if I asked the little people, most would swear “the baby” always has it easiest. As the youngest of three girls myself, I shake my head, “No way, no how.” I bear my own scars. As a mom, I nod a little, “Hmmm…maybe.” I can see how it might look that way.

Yet, they all come bearing gifts. Some get my jokes, giving as sarcastically as they get. Others kill the bugs, take out the trash, and help me post stories to Instagram. One bakes the best chocolate chip cookies; another pops the butteriest, saltiest popcorn; a few eat anything I put on their plate. Some can mind the whole crew, others actually want to, a few are sweet enough to listen, one breaks everything, including the rules.

We have introverts, extroverts, writers, photographers, talkers, brooders, thinkers, givers, athletes, TV watchers, mathematicians, engineers, scientists, debaters, chefs, singers, readers…not that I love them for what they do or don’t do. Even if they simply took up room on my couch and breathed, they’d still be my favorites. Believe me, some do just that. They can get on my last nerve, yet they’re still my favorites. The oldest, the youngest, all the ones in between—they’re all the best and the worst. My favorites. My babies.

Just like I’m God’s favorite. His baby. Along with you unloading the dishwasher, you over there who feels like a red-headed stepchild, you way in the back who takes care of everybody and everything, and you up front who gets all the awards and attention. All of us who wail, whisper, and wonder, It’s not fair. Why me, and not them? and those who hail, whoop, and holler in celebration at the front of the line. We are all His precious children.

And just like my own little people, I’m quick to remind my Abba Father that He’s not treating all His people all the same all the time. Why can’t our house sell as quickly as theirs? Why do I have to stay up until 2 a.m. to get work done while she watches television all day? Why do we have Friday pizza night when they have Friday prime rib night? Why has my publishing journey taken so long?

Because…He’s wiser. Over the years, I’ve realized that running in the house provides more exercise than danger; a “reading day” for the little people means a “writing day” for me; a spotless house means I’ve invested more time on stuff than people. Imagine God’s eternity-long parenting experience. He knows the difference between our needs and wants; when to say no, yes, wait, or nothing at all; and all the whys, wheres, and heretofors. He knows “altogether,” for He has “hedged me behind and before…Such knowledge is too wonderful for me. It is high, I cannot attain it.” (Psalm 139: 4-6) Period.

He’s more loving. When I was pregnant, I gave up Mountain Dew, tuna sandwiches, and bicycle rides. I slept on my left side and even suffered through bed rest. I birthed them without medication, nursed them all night, and cooked and clean with my one free arm. I set aside my career, sleep, and going to the bathroom by myself. And the whole while I whined, complained, and fussed about “all I do for them.”

But my Father doesn’t complain, He Who did everything for me. He only reminds me of His constant, generous, sacrificial love. A love that merely entreats me to love in return—not graduate, clean the bathroom, or sit quietly in church. He doesn’t love me because of who I am but because of Who He is. Even if He doesn’t do another thing, He is and has done more than enough.

He’s more patient and attentive and never tired. Sometimes, it’s not until TD calls, “Can I come out?” that I remember I put him in timeout. Brown Sugar forgets her question by the time I feel her hand on my shoulder. I doze off when I pray in the early morning and if I sit too long in the passenger seat. I snap when I’ve told Think Tank to clean his room the fifty-eleventh time, threatening “No PlayStation, no food for a week, no breathing for the rest of the afternoon!”

Not God. He doesn’t sleep, look away, or forget where I am. He doesn’t act out of anger when it comes to His children. He righteously doles out justice, grace, and mercy. In our suffering, we can trust Him to remember, comfort, and relieve us. I can trust Him when He says, “If I take the wings of the morning, And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, Even there Your hand shall lead me, And Your right hand shall hold me.” (Psalm 139: 9, 10) Why?

Because He says so, in true parent fashion.

So, regarding the little people, I may lean a little to the left or the right depending on my mood or the situation, but our God doesn’t play favorites. I might ban them from my virtual island, and anyone else who bickers, refuses to share, or who forgets who they’re talking to when they address me. Yet God doesn’t bless the cutest, most compliant, the quietest, or the youngest and smite the rest. He also gives to the least, the lost, the grumpy, the old, the unfaithful, the angriest, to those who kill, plot, complain, or disobey—just ask His servant, David, the Apostle Paul, and big brother Judah. Ask Mama, and Crusader, Maven, Brown Sugar, Songbird, Think Tank, Lone Ranger, and yes, TD. We are all loved, cherished, and spoiled. God has adorned each of us with a glorious coat of many colors.

Still…just to be safe, our youngest dreamer should look out for any suspicious pits in the backyard or nomadic, camel-riding traders with extra cash on hand.

But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light; who once were not a people but are now the people of God, who had not obtained mercy but now have obtained mercy. 1 Peter 2: 9, 10

Abba’s Got a Brand-New Bed

Baby Jesus found a new home this year.

Since the proliferation of the little people we’ve drawn names for Godly Gifts on Thanksgiving. Each Pearson reaches into the basket while still sitting around the table, swallowing that last perfect bite of turkey, dressing, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, rice and gravy, ham, and dinner roll (it’s a big bite). They anticipate this tradition more than basketball fans do the draft.

So, that’s Thursday. When Friday rolls around we shop for our Christmas tree. Before we moved, we went to the same farm where the little people rode the same horse-drawn carriage, petted the same rabbits, and made the same requests for a teacup pig (and mind you, heard our annual “No”). Then, Hubby and I debated over how tall the tree should be, haggled with the same farmer, placed the tree in the same corner of the family room, and let the branches fall for twenty-hours before hanging the same collection of ornaments on it.

Here in our new digs, we’ve done our best to cling to these routines. The Saturday following Thanksgiving, still full from turkey and ham, we dragged out all our boxes of garland, lights, and Dr. Seuss-inspired floofloovers, tartookas, whohoopers, and dardookas. As usual, Brown Sugar and TD wrestled over the finale—who’d climb on Hubby’s shoulders to top off the tree with the angel and the star—while we draped greenery, tested batteries, and hung wreaths. We sang Christmas music and planned our schedule of animated Christmas specials while Crusader, Hubby, and I peeked at the games on TV.

But even before we did all that—before we strung one fickly blinking light, looped any twenty-four-year-old garland from our wedding, or baked one oatmeal lace cookie—we arranged our Nativity.

Which brings us back to Baby Jesus.

In our old house, we tucked the ceramic Babe behind a topiary on the mantel until Christmas Eve. Then one of the little people placed Him between Mary and Joseph to signify His birth. But you see, we don’t have a mantel now—at least, not one that’s mounted. That rather sizable piece of solid wood is currently propped up against a wall. Not only that, the packers crushed the legs of a papier-mâché camel, and the Magi astride it lost his face. Also, we now have fewer windows to hold our candles and fewer stairs to climb, which leads to less garland draped around the rails. Lower ceilings mean a shorter tree and less room for our myriad doodads. No porch and no porch light equal no spot to hang our Star of David which the movers dismantled when they packed it. Our precious fixer upper has a bigger yard and enough space to live, homeschool, and work…but where will Baby Jesus lay His head?

Aah…a centuries-old question.

Our answer, ostensibly, is inside the drawer of our chest in the foyer where the Nativity awaits. Yet boys and girls in Sunday school classes everywhere would shout, “In our heart!” Yes, our hiding place simply satisfies the little people who annually wrangle over who gets to set out Baby Jesus in eighteen days, one of the many traditions that bind us. I nearly had a cow when I realized I’d missed “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” (Why CBS aired it before we’d finished Thanksgiving leftovers is beyond me. You’d best believe I didn’t miss shouting, “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”) Surely, we love to celebrate Jesus’ birth, life, resurrection, and imminent return during this season. We read an Advent story, sing carols from November to January, go to church, and buy every battery from here to New Jersey to honor the Light that shines more brightly than any plastic Star of David. Yet, traditions like these don’t necessarily flow from the heart but from a habit. Maintaining them becomes second nature; what we do without thought or intention. But second isn’t first, is it? And worshiping God should be anything but routine. It’s first and last. Always. Intentional.

That means we can sing Christmas carols all year long—right?—since we’re no longer waiting, looking, and hoping for Him. He ever abides in each of us—constantly, not seasonally or annually; ours is more than a holiday observance. These holiday routines are only an infinitesimal part of our worship, the daily laying down of our life in order to pick up His. Our “Joy to the World” is an everlasting gift, not merely how we feel at the end of a candlelight service. His presence is a sweet-smelling aroma of Life we inhale and exhale even when burnt gingerbread wafts through the house and peppermint candles overpower the nasal passages. We know that sipping a cup or ten of eggnog and eating turkey-and-cranberry sauce sandwiches on this side of heaven pale in comparison to our future feasting with Jesus. We prepare Him room in our hearts every day by making room in our lives for those He sends our way, folks searching for a listening ear, a soothing word, or a slice of warm lemon curd pound cake.

So, let’s get in the spirit and change up some things this year. Remember to feed the poor in spirit in March just as you fed those in need at Christmastime. Study the prophecy of Revelation after reading the good news in Luke. Constantly share what happened on Good Friday instead of what you bought on Black Friday. Be a light in the darkness long after your cinnamon-scented candles melt. Let peace rest, rule, and abide in your hearts in every season.

And take Baby Jesus out of the drawer before Christmas morning, just like TD did. After a brief, bloodless tussle with Brown Sugar, of course.

Some traditions only Jesus can change.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth. John 1:14