A "Milk" Revelation

I love to write about faith. Right up there with parenting, my relationship with God is perhaps my favorite reflection.

I haven't written much on faith lately because I feel like I've been subsisting on a lot of "milk" in my quiet times. Sometimes as far as I get is, "I have Jesus in my heart, I'm not going to Hell," because there are about a million things I hope I do differently in 2015. If I could wake up January 1st a different person, that is acceptable progress to me.

Last night, the "milk" was no exception. This is a "milk revelation," I am sorry to inform you, but it substantially changed me.

I was praying for myself- if I'm honest. For HELP. God, I need so much grace. The other day in church I was worshiping and telling myself I'm pretty sure I'm not going to Hell. I reminded myself that there exists an entire slew of religious people that don't do half of the things I do to capture God's heart, which in itself is pretty religious, and again I feared eternal damnation. I hate religion.

Fast forward to last night I was having a discussion with God about my many failures, and I'm not saying that He was confirming them back to me but just a quiet Presence there to listen and if all goes well, offer me earth-shattering wisdom to conquer my personal setbacks. I was telling him about someone very special to me, someone that I desperately want to please and I find myself falling short time and time and time again. You can say that my single mission is to please God and not man, but if you are married you understand that part of serving God is serving your spouse- and not in a subservient way, let's not make mountains out of mole hills. Here I am, asking God to help me please be a better wife. Help me die to myself. Help me not live and die by my feelings. Help me not love him so much. Help me not hate him so much. Help me. Help me. Help me.

Paul and I are in a weird season. I don't have the paper space to go into it, but just know that we're not separating, but forging, rather. I think marrying and divorcing are opposite processes, but make no mistake, both can be painful. Neither of us are in an abusive situation so we choose the process that will not cost our children millions of dollars in therapy and generational setbacks, K?

Where were we? Oh, yes. HELP. God whispers, "Have you forgiven him?"

Forgiveness is the cornerstone of nearly every deliverance and since I have been through inner healing and shame healing several times, you can believe that I have forgiven a number of perpetrators who were downright careless with my hapless heart. The need to forgive has sometimes flowed from me like a rushing rapid, and other times I have held a "how to forgive" guide in my hands and trembled as I read word for word, "I FORGIVE {insert name}" When God asked if I had forgiven Paul, I immediately thought yes. I mean, of course. We have been through marriage counseling. We have been to marriage conferences. We have RIDDEN IN THIS RODEO. Then I heard God ask, "Did you forgive him this morning?"

That was it. All of the sudden the revelation just fell from the air in my quiet room and I could just feel God's eyes on me, searching my heart as I thought about my morning, and my day, and my week.

Did I forgive him this morning....I think the answer is, no. I'm going to go with, no. 

But I wasn't really mad at him this morning....except when he said "such and such" and it reminded me of something he said yesterday that hurt my feelings...which reminded me of this big, fat hairy problem that won't go away...that's leftover from 5 years ago, that I'm pretty sure I forgave him for last year. 

Kris Valloton has a one liner that goes like this, "Forgiveness restores the standard." That means, when you forgive someone, you have no right to judge them based on what you forgave them for. What I felt like God was showing me was that forgiveness is not a verbal one-liner. Forgiveness far surpasses a choice to read a paper that says "I forgive..." Sometimes that is all we can do, and I believe God honors it. What I also believe, while we are talking about "milk revelations," is that living a life of "meaty Christianity" is having a lifestyle of forgiveness, therefore an inability to operate out of offense. If you are feeling the weight of impossibility, just know that while God sympathizes with our humanity He is also deeply involved and interested in our process. We're going to need grace for this.

I heard Father whisper also "70 x 7" and then in my head at 11:30 pm I counted my fingers until I had the proper number, and decided that I have actually forgiven my husband that many times, at least. With all eyes on me, I realized that this is more than something we do, but a condition of the heart. Since I had heard 70 x 7, I was compelled to read the scripture today and saw that Jesus quotes it before referring to the "parable of the unforgiving servant." If you haven't read it (Matthew 18:23ish), basically a wealthy king forgives his servant of an outrageous debt and then the servant refuses to forgive one of his servants for a minuscule debt. Then it goes onto say...I know you don't want to hear it....but stay with me, the King sends the servant to be tortured until he can pay his debt back. So while I said that we need grace to live a lifestyle of forgiveness and that's true, the real secret is to understand the depths of depravity that we have been forgiven of. God has pardoned us far more than we will ever pardon another. Speaking of a lifestyle of forgiveness, that is the life Jesus lived towards His followers. That is in essence the prophetic ministry, to see others how God sees them. To forgive others, as God forgives them. Every morning, His mercies are new, and ours should be as well. I remember in Firestarters someone once said, "I am grateful for a second chance" and our teacher corrected this recovering drug addict, "You mean, you are grateful for another first chance?" That is God's heart. Oh, praise Him.

I made the decision to forgive Paul, not even for wronging me, but for being different than me. Once I did that, I realized that it wasn't even about him, but ME. Then I saw that learning to live a lifestyle of forgiveness is not going to be about the other person 99% of the time but what I choose to do in my own heart. After this, I rolled over in bed and wrapped my arms around-seriously- the greatest, earthly blessing in my life, and kissed, kissed, kissed his face all over, and apologized for being such a flop of a wife. He assured me I wasn't, and then apologized for being a flop of a husband. I assured him there was no way he could ever be that. Then we kissed some more. And I decided, again, that Jesus is pretty much, hands down, the smartest person I know.

Holiday Baking

My last post invited my readers into my food-obsessed world, where I am obliviously satisfied, buried deep in sugar and flour. Does it fulfill me? Within moments, absolutely. But I shared that it is not my complete passion, just a piece of me. Like a sliver of my second favorite pie- it's apple pie. A choice I enjoy, but would gladly trade in for all the time in the world to simply write. Passion or pie? I'm not sure what we are talking about anymore.

Ok, let's talk pie. Or desserts, rather.

I had a tremendous honor of being interviewed by a college professor recently who had taken notice of my foodie posts and asked if I would divulge secrets to getting children to eat healthy. It was fun to be noticed. There is a piece of me (another sliver of life pie) that answers, "ME?" Yet, another that smirks and affirms, "Oh yes, a thousands time, ME." That slice isn't from my "humble pie," unfortunately.

If you want to know what I expressed concerning my foodie habits, it's really this: keep it simple. If I could sum up what I believe about food, my goal is to cut out the middle "production line" man and just make what I am able to in my kitchen. I have a head start in this arena, as I am a stay at home mom. I get paid $0 to spend 1,000 hours in the kitchen each week. All sarcasm aside, I have time to live like this, and if you don't, grace to you, friend. If you do, well, life can be sweet, salty, and as savory as you like.

I was inspired to write a short blog on food because I have been busily crafting gift baskets for family. I have a disease, still unnamed and therefore without a cure, that compels me to compulsively over-prepare food. Nearly every potluck I am invited to is prefaced days before with pacing and panicking, "There is just TOO much good food in this world! How can I pick ONE thing to make?" *pant, pant* 

Here I am, yet again, crafting my food baskets, only 15 things to make! And, per my standards, they must all be basically from scratch, and at least 85% gluten-free and sugar-free. And organic and $500 worth of ingredients. And shoot me. I don't want to skip over the part of me that really enjoys baking diverse foods, because it's there. I just overbooked myself. I am committing to sit down right now and rest. Yes, writing is rest. I need to rest, as the last three days have been slammed full of sauerkraut making, cranberry-ginger ale, coconut-date thumbprint cookies, cinnamon granola, creamy coconut vanilla candies, chocolate covered caramels, thumbprint jam cookies (with homemade chia seed blueberry jam), and orange-chai flavored curd. Someone STOP me from cooking up some rosemary-thyme farmer's cheese. STOP ME! (Oh, so tasty on crackers). Ok, I'm under control.

I will now begin to divulge some of my Holiday recipes:

Christmas Granola:

You can find my recipe here. We made it with pecans, walnuts, and added in cranberries, unsweetened coconut, raisins, and cinnamon when it had cooled.

Creamy Coconut Candies:

Coconut manna melted down. Add vanilla extract, raw honey, and chopped pecans. Ta-da! Instant candy. I normally can't afford coconut manna, but I found it discounted 50% at the grocery store because someone had dropped it and busted the lid. I saw it, lonely there on the shelf, and immediately visions of raw, organic, super-food candy danced in my head (It's not nearly as poetic without "sugar plums". Interesting).

Chocolate Caramels: 

I couldn't find a recipe, no matter how hard I tried, on google. I just want the option to SWEETEN my chocolate. So more visions danced in my head: of powdered coconut sugar (it has a lower glycemic index and I like to think I can eat more of it without getting the shakes) stirred into melted 100% cacao. With the help of my husband's coffee grinder, the coconut sugar became a great soft powder (I have made icing like this before too). I stirred it into the melted chocolate and kept tasting it until it was bittersweet.

Then, came the caramel. I researched homemade caramel, and then if it was possible to make caramel with coconut sugar. There were varying results, none was exactly what I was looking for (they were either completely dairy-free and I refuse to make caramel without butter. Or they were pure sugar and butter, which sounds awesome, but wasn't creative enough for me). The caramel I came up with was:

1/2 cup of 1/2 and 1/2 (figure that out!)
4 tablespoons of butter
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup coconut sugar
whisk and boil until it thickens.

It did thicken, but was taking forever, and I started worrying that when it cooled it would be toffee and not cream (which I wanted for the center of my chocolate). So when it was syrup, I removed it from the heat. Again, with the coffee grinder I made a chia seed dust. Chia seed will become gelatinous when stirred into a liquid, and about 4 tablespoons of ground chia seeds made the caramel extra creamy. The texture was just right.

Thumbprint blueberry-jam filled cookies:

First the jam: I cooked down frozen blueberries for about 15 minutes. I cooled it for about 20 minutes, then I put it into my food processor. Add raw honey or stevia (I have made it with both in different jam batches) and 1/2 tsp vanilla extract. Pulse until liquidy-liquidesque. Whatever. Then pour into a jar and add several tablespoons of chia seeds. After 30 minutes, it will be a jelly texture. I wanted mine a little thicker and added gluccomannon. If you've never heard of this crazy word, well, it is technically a ground up konjac root. The powder expands and makes a great gravy, smoothie, jam, whatever you need thickened. It is one of those "random buys" I made last year and I use it quite a bit.

Now for dough. I love a good almond flour recipe like the next person, but sometimes- no wait, all of the time- there is no match for flour and butter. None. One of my favorite flours to work with is spelt. It doesn't seem to bloat me like regular wheat flour. I wanted a really crispy cookie, so I used 1 cup of Bob's Red Mill white flour and 1 1/2 cups of spelt flour.

 First, I creamed 1 cup softened Kerrygold butter with 3/4 cup sugar.
Then added vanilla.
Then add the flour, 1/2 tsp of baking powder, and a dash of salt.

This was all an adaptation I found from a fully white flour recipe. It recommended wrapping the dough in plastic wrap and putting it in fridge because cold dough is easier to work with. After 30 minutes of chilling out, I brought it out and rolled one inch balls onto parchment paper, and pressed my thumb into it. The kids LOVE this. Then we scooped our blueberry jelly into the center wells we had created and they baked for 12 minutes at 350 degrees.

Cranberry-ginger ale:
Make Sally Fallon's base recipe, found here. After several days, it will be fizzy and read to go. I strained mine, and poured the two batches I had made into a bigger jar. Then I added 1 cup of cranberry juice, and 3 tablespoons of sugar. I also put a dash of cinnamon in. It will sit on the counter for two more days, ready for Christmas. Sauerkraut and Ginger-ale are at least a 7 day wait, so need to be planned.

Orange-chai flavored curd:

I started with this lady's base recipe, found here. It turned out delicious, but still, I felt the desire to make it mine. Cinnamon, clove powder, and a dash of ginger add up to a sweet, yet spicy orange flavored curd. Highly recommend. But get it off the burner before it turns to custard! Even if you don't, orange-chai flavored custard is delicious as well....you can trust me, I've tried it.

If you've noticed my coconut-date cookies didn't make the list, I just didn't like them. I also made some lemon creme candies from the coconut manna, but it wasn't my favorite either. I am making cranberry-spelt scones tomorrow morning and will serve the lemon candies melted over top. Problem solved!

Kids are running wild from all of the candy tasting they have been subjected to, so I must attend to their needs. Love to all, and happy holiday baking!

Healthy Seeds

I love my kitchen. If all goes my way, I can become lost for hours. For the past couple of years, I use Christmas as a way to stock up on kitchen essentials: blenders, dehydrators, food processors, cast iron pans, and a bread maker are all gifts from Christmases past. This year I felt no different when my husband asked what I wanted. I really want a new (refurbished, maybe?) Vitamix. Sometimes I daydream about erasing my heart from this blog and just talking about food. I daydream about little cottages with my name out front where I can serve up custom teas, and join the trending dish on essential oils and sauerkraut. I believe in natural remedies, that's true. But, if I may confess, there is also a dirty truth, that I use food to escape from feeling certain things that need to be felt. Fear. Loneliness. Confusion. Anger. Grief. All of it- and you'd never know because I am 95 pounds. Let's just say I store it in my neurons and grow increasingly insane as I lose my grip on it all.

This year, my will wanted something new and shiny on my kitchen counter. I wanted to spend all of my money on new flours and super foods to stuff my pantry with. God, I feel good when my kitchen is full. My emotions promise to behave when there is new food in the house. Not always, but usually when I post to facebook a meal creation, more than hard work and passion went into it, but all of my pain and guilt. I never feel satisfied or revived, just lousy. Or like I want to spend more money on more food. That is all for another time because I decided to do something different, something that would force me to reckon with all that usually stays masked, hidden beneath a frothy paleo coffee drink and pumpkin chai muffin.

I asked for my own laptop. Now, we're not the Waltons (were they wealthy?) so this guy I am typing on is not fancy or big, and can boast of no technical millennial advances- but it does have a keyboard and a screen, which were my basic requirements. Why a laptop? Because every piece of pain that arises from this broken life has a story. I have a story- YOU have a story. More than anything, I want to write mine. Yes, it's fallen and ugly. Yes, I get jammed up in the same places in my life time and time again, and I am frustrated. Especially since my story has already been written, and in the end my soul will be perfected along with my spirit. Somebody say "PROCESS" with me and then bang your first on the table. I'm tired. Aren't you tired? When I am at my end, writing to me is like feeding my story into a recycling bin. I empty out all that used up garbage, and in return I get new vessels to store my feelings in. New ideas and strategies to sort out life.

When my laptop came I first felt a drop of dread. Drop. Drop. Drop. You're a failure. You'll never write. The voice of my arch nemesis, Satan: I am going to laugh at you with the rest of the world.

I turned my eyes to Heaven, "Why did you make me do this?" (I like to blame God when I do brave things....it's usually obedience, not courage on my part), "Don't you know that being healthy is important to me?" I never really hear God speak in coherent sentences, maybe that's strange. I just know what He's saying to me and it was along these lines, "The healthiest thing you can do for yourself is start tying on that laptop." Nobody ever laughs at me in the kitchen, and it's my worst fear.

This, this is true ownership of my dream. When it came time to name this laptop I called it "Summer's Seed" because I don't expect to turn out a novel in a year, or even five years. This is my seed. Careful tending and consistence. That's my goal. Honesty, and commitment. I was thinking about this at church this morning when the Christmas story was told and someone read that the Wise men fell to their knees before baby Jesus, bowing in reverence to a King. He was a baby. He was God's seed, and hardly even resembled who the Savior of the World would become, and yet He was already the fulfillment of everything God has promised He would be. God would always provide for Mary and Joseph to tend to Him, and He would save us all. So many who have gone on to change the world, though not to the scale Jesus has done for us, started with a God-given gift. I wondered if this seed is already the fulfillment of what God is doing in my life: the full favor, all of the Father's pride on my projects, and unending ideas and inspirations from which to draw from. Those things are not in seed form- they are the completed promise. That's enough to make me sit up straight and tall, and tell the truth, well, in fiction form.

Jesus and new laptops, who knows if there be a correlation. All I know is that I want to be healthy, and this here, my little modest seed, is the best place to start.

Trinity's Birth

I have started this particular blog many times, and not captured all that had to be said in my mind. First of all, I am glad I waited. I just read through a previous draft and the subject entirety was basically, "I will never be pregnant again. You can't make me, world!"

Now that I have cooled off- literally, still sitting on cool packs 7 weeks post partum, I think I have a more well rounded view of my birth. There are two distinct and equally important stances that each of my feet is well embedded in.

One: I am watching my 2 year old circle about the living room right now. She stinks like poop. She has major bedhead. She is doing something really naughty by the Christmas tree, and as soon as I correct her, she will scream like a banshee and I will carry her over my shoulder and plop her in the crib. She will kick me in the nose, most likely, and damage an ear drum. BUT, I love her. This is just a moment in time, and as she circles the Christmas tree and throws glistening tinsel into the air and into her hair like a 4th of July reenactment, she is full of wonder and joy and thrill at all that is new in her life this Christmas. Praying she doesn't break anything glass. Warmth, aching heart, desperate devotion stuff stirring in me now.....I love my children.

Two: I don't enjoy giving birth. Well, who does? (Actually I have come across a few on certain birth blogs) I don't just not enjoy it. I skate past "I don't endure birth well" to "I cannot handle birth."

I have had 4 very different births, I think I can sum up pretty quickly.
Birth 1: Less than 4 hours long. Hospital. Epidural. Graceful delivery. 5 stitches and hellish recovery.
Birth 2: Less than 3 hours long. Hospital. Attempted spinal. "BABY IS COMING! I AM NOT NUMB!! BABY!!!". Graceful recovery.
Birth 3: Less than 2 hours long.....crowning in the elevator (of the hospital). Moderately difficult recovery.
Baby 4. More than 15 hours long. Homebirth 7 weeks ago. Still recovering.

I'm sure there are more components to each labor- like labor length, stresses surrounding labors and births, and baby sizes. I, however, have entered every birth with a "plan" and every birth my plan seems to go terribly wrong. (Has anyone ever followed that thing that every pregnancy book on earth tells you to create- THE ILLUSTRIOUS BIRTH PLAN!!!? The value that they carry in a birth was made known to me when I had my first baby....yeah, it stayed folded up in my hospital bag.) Once I realized that I have babies too fast to get pain relief, I had a PLAN to try natural birth. Once I realized that natural, 10 minute long births in a hospital are more traumatic for the staff THAN me, I planned a homebirth.

I am friends with many moms who are full on homebirth proponents- like, consider the hospital to be the most dangerous place for a birthing mom to be. I've never crossed over that far, but I did my research and felt it was safe, and even normal. Now, I am probably the first homebirther in history to admit that I really didn't enjoy my homebirth. I missed my IV, and my catheter, and nurses who took my baby away. I missed heating pads, and cold packs brought to me every other hour. I missed the pain pills. Even after I'd done the research, then I felt painfully guilty that I am apparently not as "natural," as I thought- or that I don't love my baby enough to choose the most natural route. But I've tasted and seen too much, and knew what I was missing.

On the flip side, I had a midwife who spent hour long appointments with me. She was kind and full of traditional wisdom I had never heard before. AND EVERYTHING WORKED! I soared through 3rd trimester. After the birth, I didn't have medical students popping in every couple of hours and bumbling around with my newborn, while trying to make small talk about breastfeeding and how much babies should urinate. I won't even mention the medical students that EACH took a turn dropping newborn Cori to test her startle reflex. THREE DOCTORS IN A ROW. I will never forget her jolting and screaming as she startled and squalled, startled and squalled...and again. Ok, so I mentioned it. I didn't miss that, ok? One thing I loved about homebirth is having CHOICES. That was nice.

But I'm stuck. I don't like giving birth in a hospital, and I don't like giving birth at home either.

As for Trinity's birth, I will start by igniting a mental picture for you. Imagine this book erupting into ghastly flames:

Intense? Well, my labor was intense. I feel foolish I let faith arise for a painless birth. Maybe I should laugh instead? Some day.
     Because of my history with fast births, at the first sign of pain, I called my midwife. I was really convinced Paul was going to deliver Trinity and I wanted to eliminate that possibility. When my midwife arrived, I was 6 cm and mostly effaced. She confirmed my bag of water was bulging and Trinity was on her way.  Somewhere around 3 am, Cori started screaming. Probably because our dog was outside our door (which is parallel to her door) whining to come lick and sniff our midwife and her sterile supplies. We have a wonderful friend (Laurie) who came to our house at that ridiculous hour to watch "Barbie's Life in the Dreamhouse" with Cori. Then came 3 am, 4 am, 5 am. I walked the halls and was amazed at how little pain I felt. Contraction...five minutes later....contraction...with perfect consistency. I became tired, but also knew that walking was moving my labor along. My midwife's apprentice checked me sometime in the early morning hours and determined I was close to 8 cm- she said dilation was kind of uneven, but it some places it was that much. I thought, "IT'S WORKING!" As in, I was experiencing a 98% painless labor. All I felt was pressure. At 6:30 am, everyone was sleeping but me. I started crying because for the first time all night, I felt all the energy drain from my body. I hadn't slept all night, my body had been laboring, AND I was met with a crossroad: keep walking or go to sleep. I was thinking that everyone would be majorly disappointed in me if they hung around that long with NO baby action, so I kept walking. At 8 am, I was met with a new challenge: finding completely new people to watch my kids. I cried some more. Good thing I had already tried to build a community here and many came through for me. I just had to network a little. Once that was taken care of, I went to sleep (with everyone's permission) and woke up to no contractions.

What happened? I don't know. I went for a brisk walk, and maybe contracted once every 10 minutes. My midwife checked me and guessed I was closer to 6 centimeters, but the cervix had swollen. After several more hours of napping, nothing was happening yet again. My midwife had some natural ideas to jumpstart labor and I agreed. First of all, clary sage in the diffuser gave me a god-awful migraine. Now I was tired, achy, AND my head hurt. Then came the black and blue cohosh- a uterine stimulant that I took alternately every 15 minutes for an hour. An hour after my doses, nothing was happening. My midwives had been at my house for over 10 hours and it was time for them to go home. I was nervous, but knew they couldn't live with me. So they went on home, and I curled up on the couch by my husband and watched the Giants game. Around 10:00 I had a contraction or 2 that hurt. In fact, they started to hurt so bad around 11:00 that I just stayed on the couch and slept because I didn't want to be alone. Paul woke me up when he went to bed and I moseyed to the room. At 2 am, I woke up in excruciating birth pain. I crawled to the toilet and when I peeked between my legs I saw BLOOD. It looked like a lot to me, and I panicked. I called the midwife in tears. At this point, I didn't trust myself to really know if I was in labor but I was terrified of the blood. "I am the worst human being on earth!" (that's what I was thinking). She reassured me the blood was normal "show" but I had never seen myself "show" that much! Contractions tightened, and I encouraged my midwife to come my way- to check baby, and possibly deliver her. I prayed in the shower as the contractions came, "Please God, protect my Trinity!!  I love her so much!!" The contractions came and I cried some more, "Why, God? Why does this hurt so bad?" I finally got the courage to "feel" for myself, and sure enough, a squishy little head was just 1/2 an inch in.

When my midwife arrived, I was rejoicing inwardly, though outwardly wincing in pain and mentally tormented by the idea that blood loss could have meant something bad. She got a good heartbeat on Trinity and reassured me that all was ok. DEEP BREATH moment.

At this point Paul was being annoying, or as a sane laborer might call him, endlessly helpful. Poor Paul. I always feel like he's "in the way" as I'm laboring, pacing around me asking senseless questions, "Are you ok? Can I turn on music for you? How do you like this lighting?" I guess I'm just not a detail person when it comes to birth. He was telling me that my coping mechanism (showering) was depleting the hot water supply for my birth tub. Pesky details, again. Once the birth tub was full of basically warm water (he wasn't lying) I made my way into it, and was told 10 minutes until I met baby, most likely. You know, I really wasn't looking forward to meeting Trinity. I was, however, looking forward to ending the pain. I HATE that I felt this way. I HATE that "you're going to meet baby soon!" didn't comfort me. Maybe, "When this is over, you will have NO MORE PAIN!" But that would have been a lie, I guess. The poop, the blood, the creamy cheesy baby, the placenta, I really think homebirth put me closer than I'd like to be to that "stuff" I once considered non-mentionables.

I saw Anna Duggar's homebirth for her second baby. Do you know what she said as the baby passed into this world? "Thank you, Jesus!" I always wanted to say that. The thought, however, was far from my mind as Trinity came out of the water and onto my chest. The first thing I said as I peered down and onto the face of my miracle baby, "God that was hard. That was so hard." Welcome, Trinity.

Then, I proceeded to birth my placenta, and what looked like my body's complete blood capacity. I moved into the bed, my entire body trembling with chill (hormones turned hypothermia, apparently?) and continued to cramp. One thing I never knew about myself is that my blood clots really quickly. My midwife picked up on this when I was still cramping, and continuing to bleed heavily. She called it the "high end of normal," just something we were keeping an eye on. Two hours later, I was still nauseous, still dizzy, and still not able to nurse my baby. No heartwarming baby meets mommy stories here.

Recovery was hard, and has continued to be an oscillating process that has not carried me into normal just yet. I'm not sure if I want to have more children of my own, though I'm not making any permanent decisions. I just need more time to process. For now, I am in love with my new little person. OH, MY HEART. The hormones, these guys are for real. If you listened to my heart, I have this hunch it would sound Trin-nee-Tri-nee-Tri-nee. Just yesterday she lay next to me in bed, her eyes wide with wonder. I whispered, shhhhh and her eyes rolled back. I did it again. Her eyelids hung heavy and she went to sleep, that fast. "Shhh" is the sound my blood made when she was in my uterus. MIRACLES- that is what growing babies are made of.

This whole gushy, mushy, self-sacrificial baby-love stuff is real. It makes my processing more painful because I ask the question {to myself}, "Well, if this is what suffering gets you, can your heart afford to give it up? Who has precedence here? HEART OR BODY?" I don't know. Questions, just stop with the questions. Plus, no woman should be making decisions about future babies after just having a baby. All I know is A) I'm in love with a new baby, and B) Bringing babies into this world hurts.

Now stop all the "You're superwoman! I'm amazed by you! You inspire me!" comments I received while I was in labor. I'm here to destroy the notion that birth is romantic and beautiful--

actually, what hurts the most is that I hope and pray you don't believe me. I hope you GO FOR IT, have your babies (whoever you are!) because the truth is, birth is not impossible or wrong in any way. There's something that is wrong with me: I don't want to do it again. As hard as it is to admit that, I really need to take care of myself for a little while...emotionally, mentally, spiritually, physically, philosophically!!!

*Cue hysterical crying* WHY DON'T STORKS BRING BABIES????? WAHHHH!!! 

Granola

I really thought when I got back into blogging, I would begin by telling my birth story.

But that's not going to happen. Instead, let's talk about happy, wonderful things. Like, homemade granola.

In the last month, I have attempted to make granola. I scoured the internet for a recipe, and found one that satisfies. So yes, for my return to blogging after pregnancy and birth hiatus, I am referring you to someone else's blog. This foodie is a genius and her granola is way better than my experimental attempts ever were:

Crunchy Granola

I do think, however, that I have made enough changes to warrant this my own recipe, but I still rely on her steps. This is how I do it:

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Whisk together,
 1/2 cup coconut oil
1/3 cup blackstrap molasses (or maple syrup is awesome, here)
 1/3 cup coconut sugar
3 teaspoons vanilla
and a dash of salt.

Then, I mix in,
 5 cups of regular oats
 1 cup of walnuts (or pecans)
1/2 cup pumpkin seeds
1/2 cup sunflower seeds

Read this lady's blog, she gets credit for the ramekin pressing. I'm guessing this seals the deal with the crunchy-holding-togetherness.

Dump your mixture onto a pan with parchment paper and use the back of a ramekin or glass jar to PRESS the mixture down.

I also cannot bake this longer than 20 minutes or it burns. I cook 10 minutes, rotate pan, 10 more minutes. Let it sit 45 minutes, and break it apart. It holds together so perfectly and beautifully, you'll feel like a 5 star chef. A mom chef. It's hard to get 5 stars, people. My critics are tough on me. After all, cereal makes them happy. If I use more than 3 ingredients things get tricky. This is a winner, though, and I hope you will make it!

Another optimistic tidbit: the recipe makes so much, there is no way you can eat it in one sitting! Yes!

Add ins at the end: coconut flakes, organic raisins, cranberries, and maybe a pinch of chocolate powder or cinnamon. Get creative, it's a flexible granola.

Faith, Hope and Love

A friend and I were talking recently of the dangers of small talk. We imagined what life would be like if just maybe, one of us or all of us could unhinge a cabinet of regret, remorse, pain, and panic into a place of zero control, and just let it all land on understanding ears. Or just ears that would clear away the static of their own sense of control and just listen. What would life be like? What would the church be like?

I haven't sat to write in weeks, perhaps because what floats just beyond the surface of my life is hardly worth journaling. In many circumstances, journaling brings a certain sense of relief- the peace that follows simple processing can often times be unmatched. And then sometimes, processing is of no use because human emotion against reason is senseless. That is how I have felt lately, in this still new place, with this new baby on the way, in a marriage where I find myself completely- honestly, certain it is where I'm supposed to be, and yet I am still navigating what it means to be faithful and steady even when I'm confused. He has his baggage and I have my own, added to that we are one in the same {So God says}, and all of it together can feel like a cyclone of uncertainty- except as I mentioned, the certainy that it's all meant to be.

Then, there are the kids. I can hardly sleep sometimes for fear they are not safe. Is there anything more right in my life besides my kids? I have justified it this way: I bring glory to God by celebrating these gifts He has given me. Although I find myself wallowing on the floor at times, drenched in my own tears, asking Jesus to help me put Him first and not my kids, as it is all too clear to me how little control I have. Oh, Jesus, that I would serve You first, make it so. This all comes at night. During the day, I am tripping over my own sense of entitlement: to keep my house clean, to stay glued to the iphone, to not have kids rambunctiously leaping from one furniture piece to the other, to feed them what I have available and feel appreciated for that, and for God's sake, let me rest- sometimes all of these at once- some justified, others not so much. My goal for an entire day is to take time to notice them at least once, to pull them aside and let them know, Mommy is having a sad day, but I love you, and you are precious to me- quite literally the reason I found the strength to get out of bed this morning. I am asking God to help me stay strong. If I'm the reason you're having a hard day, ask God to help both of us to be strong.

I've known it was coming. That my husband would notice this is all too much for me- the dishes, the laundry, this being stuck indoors 85% of my life. The pelvic pressure endured just to move across the room. That I can't seem to homeschool consistently. That I'm homesick for 3 different places. That even I don't know what we are doing in Texas, though I have found contentment here- as content as someone can be when left beneath a sopping wet towel of loneliness. I have begun to make friends, but feel completely stalled in my attempts as I grow more and more pregnant, and less able to be involved in social functions.

So he finally said it, "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep letting you have kids when you are struggling so much."

Is it freeing to hear that? A little. It makes it his decision, and not mine, that feels freeing. Then I wonder why life is supposed to be easy? Who said that we should stay within our comfort zone- or even stay careful enough to not toe the line of hardly surviving? I'm not saying that I think we should go on having more children, or if at 39 weeks pregnant I should even be pondering those sorts of decisions. Ultimately, I find myself wondering what any sort of applied wisdom looks like versus a life radically reliant on an unseen God that is faithful. I know my husband worries about me in this season, wonders how tomorrow will even be lived out. I wonder the same. I have to believe that nothing is beyond my doing because God tells me it isn't.

Yet, I feel in the storm, far from the eye, far from peace. I know it would be there if I would just stop....stop. STOP. What would I see but a thousand undone things? That is how I feel. Hiding away in my room for the two hours alone I am alotted each day while the kids are drawn in by the television, I don't know how to make either shame go away or peace to envelop me. I know Christianese provides the purest of answers: God loves you. There is, therefore, no condemnation in Christ Jesus. He has a hope and a future for you. All things work together for good for those that love the Lord.

And yet, none of these truths are a substantial balm beyond comfort, which my life is quite consumed with by way of media and sugary foods.

But these three things remain, faith, hope and love. I love this, perhaps the most overquoted Christianese I could conjure. Yet, this promise has tied itself to my ankles and drug me through the mud and muck of recent trial. I am learning that despite what I've always believed about knowing God, that mature Christianity is not about being ok, but being utterly wrecked and still embracing faith, holding onto hope, and navigating the art of both receiving and giving authentic love. And sometimes, in some weird twisted way, we can love by faith, find hope in love, and love others through circumstances where our faith and hope have been dashed. I've never doubted once God's genius. It is here that I can begin to thank God for myself not being ok. Of course, I'd like to, some 75 years down the road, look back on my life and sigh a great sigh of relief, admitting, "That wasn't so bad," but then I might be afraid to crossover to the other side. Instead, whether my time is tomorrow or 75 years, I know exactly whose arms I am running into- they are so familiar to me, I can close my eyes now and imagine resting in them. That's where I'm going. I know that because my life is hard at times, broken, and shattered beyond what I can repair on my own. It's a mess, and it's exactly why I became a Christian. The new state in which my family resides, the new questions my husband and I have asked one another about how the heck two people so different wound up together, the new baby, the tribe of children we already have, and the constant lack of stability we have found ourselves in has all come by way of faith, hope, and love. It got us here, and it's pulling us through. It can be frightening as all I have are these intangible tools, but apparently, at the end of it all, that's all that will be left- for me and you both, friend. I usually like to have some sort of conclusion to my blog, some proactive suggestion for all of us to take away, but for this one, it's this: Sometimes, we can be the "friendliest of friends" with God, and life is still hard. But the alternative is separation from Him, and that is called Hell. You can recide there, a place of perfect peace, or somewhere in the middle where by His grace you can sort through your humanity day by day and bring Him glory in a place that it truly matters towards the great and final harvest. I hope in some way that my honesty, and still, absolute adoration for God is some sort of contribution towards that.

For now, I plan to sit back, watch a television show of my own, and by faith believe that my upcoming birth will be blessed. Then, hope that my husband will find himself in this season of transitioning from home to a state that is not home [just yet]. Now, and always, I will stay consumed with love- for Jesus, for the bravest guy I know, Paul, and my precious treasures Jacob, Sonora, Courage, and Trinity. I can began to understand very much why these three things will remain.

Surrendered Expectation, and the Glorious Fruit

     When we were at Bethel, the adventure sustained the instability I often felt. I knew that the season of close quarters with housemates, one usable- yet unregistered vehicle, and the chronic miracle of rent appearing the day before it was due was not a life I wanted to live forever, and it wouldn't be. As Paul approached graduation, we joyfully proclaimed our future into place, as we were always encouraged to do. "Graduation is a launching pad to a career in ministry!" Honestly, in my mind, I absolutely believed it would be. My faith was high for this. I knew what we had sacrificed, and the payoff would be stability. I would take lots of deep breaths and tell myself that God was my stability, and as long as I had my constant, I could survive any season. It was true- I survived. Here I am! But several months ago, we signed a year lease on a house rental that I love, and it felt pretty darn good. Oh, and I have my own bedroom, and it's the largest bedroom in the house, which I highly, highly recommend. Although I have landed smack dab in the middle of stability, something stunning met me here: boredom. No more school, no more church 3 nights a week, no more classes or conferences to attend, no more prophetic parties lasting until 1 am, no more coming home completely wrecked by the Holy Spirit- just.life. 

My husband didn't land his dream job, and just barely did he land a job. Immediately I started a new "declarations" chart. All we needed was a little vision for our lives. Vision. What are we doing? Having a plan seemed like the ideal antidote for my little boredom problem. After reveling in his disappointment for awhile, Paul came to terms with, "I didn't get my way," which sounds selfish, but he also wrestled with this, "None of my declarations, prayers, or prophetic words came to fruition." I wrestled with these very same issues on his behalf. He wasn't ready to make a plan, and that made me really, really uncomfortable.

Several days ago, I was rehearsing some prophetic words I had received at Bethel. One in particular is my favorite because it was given to me by an incredible evangelist who half the time can't speak English for speaking in tongues. It was also given to me in front of an audience, and I received a standing ovation on its behalf. That's the funny thing about the prophetic, it picks up a truth in your life even if it is yet to be fulfilled. Trust me on this one. My friend and mentor declared that I was a Proverbs 31 woman and read the entire scripture over me.  Once he finished, a group of leaders blessed me as a favored woman of God- an anointed wife to my husband, and mother to my children. Someone even gave me a word of knowledge that I was going to be pregnant soon, and next month, two lines appeared on a plastic stick (We had been trying to get pregnant for 5 months prior to this). It was a good day. This is the part I remember most clearly: I was leaving class, and a large hand gripped my shoulder. I turned to see a young, but handsome man had stalled me. He humbled himself and asked, "Mam, I hope it's ok I stopped you. I am a BSSM student, and I came here to find a wife. I pray every night God will bring me a wife! Would you lay hands on me and pray that God will bring me a wife like you." Now, there is a lot of freedom at Bethel so I wasn't weirded out by this guy's request, but I was a little stunned. Me? The truth is, I laughed. He continued, "When you got that word, I thought, that's the girl I'm looking for!"  I didn't give him a prophetic word- which are always wonderful to receive, but simply told him the truth.     

      "When my husband married me, I already had a baby. I was a single mom, and I had very recently surrendered my life fully to God. I knew like 4 books of the Bible, and they were the gospels, but I didn't know the difference between the New and Old Testament. I had a bad reputation. When I met my husband, all I knew is that I loved God and I was done with my old life. So my best advice to you is to stop looking for the Proverbs 31 woman, and start looking for someone who is wholly surrendered to God. She might not go to BSSM. She might have a kid. She might smoke. I don't know, but ask Jesus to give you His eyes for this girl, and see if you find someone." 

That was my best advice. Stop expecting something to happen the way you think it will. Stop expecting God to fulfill your plan, by your own efforts. Dontcha know that God is higher than all this earthly mess we find ourselves in? That's what I ministered to this kid, and yesterday, began to minister to myself. 

Why am I so surprised that my life isn't a mirrored fulfillment of my declarations? Of my prophetic words? Of my extremely specific prayers? Only God can match a future pastor to a single mom. Only God would place Daniel in a position to serve a godless king. Only God would choose David to be the next king, when Jesse didn't even bring him along when Samuel asked to meet his sons (Historically, it is thought that David might not have been a true son, and was produced out of wedlock). Yes, even Samuel was tempted to pick a handsome son to be king, but God told him to look at the heart alone. God chose to build His church upon Peter the rock, also, once a coward. And a traitor. I know we've all read the familiar meme explaining the many flaws of Biblical heroes, but my point is, God does some pretty backwards things (by our perspective, of course) to achieve His goals. Sometimes it looks like abandonment, Jesus once confessed this, "Abba, why have you forsaken me?" I have been reminding myself of these things, instead of sighing until my rib cage breaks, 

"Ok God, you're doing something else in my life right now. It's not what I imagined, or thought would happen, but it's part of your plan for me and I'm going to apply your grace and goodness to the disappointment I feel, and move on." 

      Surrender brings freedom, another completely backwards kingdom philosophy. 

       After that young man asked me to pray for him to find a wife, that night my husband was stopped by a young girl in his small group who- not kidding- through tears, asked him to pray for her to find a husband like him. I've always thought we should have hooked those two young love-seekers up, but never got around to it. You know what else? If God wouldn't have clearly told me to marry my husband, I probably wouldn't have done it. I felt agonizing fear over our relationship being primarily long distance. I loved him, but knew I couldn't rely on my feelings alone. Paul (my husband) used to tell me, "Summer, what are the fruits of this relationship? That is how you'll know if we're in God's will!" He told me this all the time. Spiritual fruit doesn't look like making good money, having all your prayers answered, or being the healthiest person alive- that's what the world says is a "fruitful" person. The best sort of spiritual fruit is born of the ability to abide in the Father (whoever remains in Me, and I in him will produce fruit), often times a surrendered life. In that season then, in this season now, I feel totally reliant on what God is doing. The more I let go of my expectations, the more I can lean on Him to follow through with His mission in me.

      And if you're curious, I really think God is teaching me how to thrive in stability. No flare. No adventure. No miracles or manifestations....just being faithful. The funny thing is, that's what I have hungered for all along. 

A Memoir of Grace

      When I began this blog, I wrote about my inspiration for "Cultured Grace" The entire point being that I am on a journey- of loving others well, especially those that share my last name. They seem to be the most challenging, somehow! Since I am on a journey, I haven't arrived. But, by allowing myself to culture in the grace of God almighty, day by day I see something beautiful: GROWTH. Suddenly, what was once so impossible for me is-actually-happening. It feels me with hope for my future, because I know I can overcome stubborn habits. My life is full of successes, some I share in the post I linked above, and here I will share another. Yet, to avoid promoting myself, I will remind all of my dear readers that I am still making small strides towards where I really want to be as a successful lover of Christ, and my family.

     Here is a success story:

     On Monday afternoon, at exactly 1:42 PM, I applauded myself. I even danced a little, and spun in a circle. What had I accomplished?

     I cleaned a bathroom toilet.

     You see, I didn't grow up cleaning bathroom toilets. I am of a lucky few, raised outdoors, a product of free-range parenting (a concept now I actually cringe at the thought of, though I do examine my fingers, toes, arms and legs sometimes and take note I am still in one piece). My parents owned a farm, and I spent 7 days a week in the dirt, imagining the most outlandish of scenarios: that I was a famous riding instructor or a veterinarian, or some days, my friends and I just pretended we had been dropped in the middle of the woods and had to survive against all odds (which is what free-range parenting really is, if we're honest...but we won't go there now). There are days I don't even remember eating, simply because I refused to come up for air. My mom suffered with a chronic fatigue and pain when I turned 9, and when we weren't at the farm, she was resting. Cleaning was a twice a month phenomenon, when my mom would lock all the doors and threaten that my sister and I would not see sunlight until we could see the floor of our house. I dreaded cleaning. I imagined that one day I would live in a house so clean, it would never have to be cleaned! Ha! My mom eventually found a cleaning system that worked for our fast-paced family, which encouraged 15 minutes a day of cleaning, and a vow to never leave dishes in your sink (always shine your sink!). From there, the way we cleaned took a turn and our house was nearly always company-ready. Mentally, I could never seem to get to a place where cleaning was just that- 15 minutes. Instead, I saw my entire day disappearing beneath the heavy burden of picking my clothes up off the floor.
      When I got to college, I filled my desk with cleaning supplies: Lysol, sponges, 409, and febreze. I was determined to pick up this skill I had never practiced. I made my bed. I shined my shower tote. I lysoled my door knob like a plague was imminent. I thought I had "arrived." That was then, before I was a wife and mother.

       For the past 6 years, I have majorly tried to become a "clean" person. I have bought numerous books on organization, blamed my nostalgic childhood, wrote myself schedules, and still, only found relief in allowing the house to fall into madness before spending 10 hours straight pulling it back together. I did happen to marry a "clean freak" who has relieved me of the burden of perfection because A) that isn't his standard, and B) if I don't measure up to his standard, he will get off from his work and began cleaning like a madman on a mission. You can imagine how wonderful I feel about myself when that happens (only every other day). I am really grateful for how much my husband helps me, but I've felt all along this was my battle to conquer. Recently I returned home from a 13 day trip with my three children last week, and put the laundry away within the first five days. I can see my living room floor every day now. My bedroom is the cleanest room in the house. And...and....I am a regular scrubber of toilets. Regular, as in weekly. I weekly clean toilets. No one open my fridge or my closet door...but my house is getting to a place where I can SEE that I am overcoming my weaknesses. All of this has been a PROCESS. Gradual. Not overnight. Somehow cleaning two bathrooms in a consecutive manner made me feel like a rock star.

Now, failure (or my next achievement, really...):

     Somewhere along the way, I forgot to socialize my 6 year old son. I watched him goofing off with our grandpa a couple days ago and it was completely safe and fun, an environment where my son could test his strength and know he wasn't going to get hurt. Except that he did get hurt- only he didn't, he was just whining, "Stop!!" and as soon as grandpa would relent, my son would begin lashing out with merciless hitting and slapping. When Grandpa would say stop, he wouldn't. So Grandpa would up the tickling madness, and my son would fall into a stoop and cry. I was on the sidelines saying, "Don't hurt him! He's asking you to stop!" [To my son, that is. My 83 year old Grandpa can take it!] Eventually my husband pulled me aside and whispered, "We have a problem. You're turning him into a Momma's Boy!" Yes, what every momma wants to hear. I would have loved to grab that little snuggle monkey into my lap and promise him grandpa would never be allowed to play with him again, but the more I watched, the more obvious it became. My son was acting like a brat- dishing it out, but not allowing the fight to come full circle. I thought about a lot of things in those following moments, about how I was homeschooling him in some ways, to keep him close and safe. Even as I read my homeschool curriculum I have gasped, "He isn't ready for that! What kind of overachievers write this stuff??"

    Oh, but he is. Ready for sports. Ready for friends. Ready for patterns and graphs. Ready for *gulp* some independence....from me.

With that, I ask for grace. I ask for HELP. Just like five years ago I began my journey of asking God to give me grace as I learned to keep up a house for three people...then four...then five....soon, six. I can feel myself stepping into that growth and I celebrate. I look into the obvious places I continue to fail and know if I am intentional, if I declare war on these shortcomings and partner with God, I will find success.

Just yesterday, I read in my "Jesus Calling" devotional: My Power plugs in most readily to consecrated weakness.

I love that. Consecrated weakness. That is what allowing our lives to be shaped by the Master Potter really looks like. You could start now. Ask God what weakness He wants to mold into a strength. Discover the true power of grace through vulnerability and submission, and celebrate along the way.

How to Survive Transition

I turned on the television for my big kids, and snuck away to my bedroom. It is messy- true, but it is quiet. I have decided that there is not nearly enough quiet in my life. Even my husband finds life more productive with early 90’s pop music blaring throughout the house when he is home, and the kids, well, they are constantly making music by use of butter knives, gavels, and rattles. Paul has been taking the kids to the park more and giving me time to rest, all the while assuring me that the more rest I get, the more tired I will feel. I don’t know if that theory is true for pregnant people, but maybe it could be since I manage plenty of sleep and still feel tired. Even now, I could nap, but since I don't feel rested, I am going to try a creative outlet for making it through another evening.

Sonora cracked open the door and poked her nose through, “I am hungry, mom.” I’m not entirely sure I made lunch today. At around noon the kids and I made hummus together, and I cut up cucumbers and put out a bowl of chips to accompany. Jake said he was still hungry about an hour after this, so I smeared some honey and peanut butter on store-bought wheat bread, and tossed it on the table for him. When Sonora asked for food just now, it got me wondering if I had fed the baby more than hummus. Maybe Paul fed her when I took a shower.

These are just my days now. The kids are still in pajamas. I shaved my legs today because I thought we were going somewhere. In a matter of moments, plans changed. It is beyond easy to feel sorry for myself: I can’t drive thanks to an expired license, none of our expectations for this season have come to pass, and worse of all in my sphere, we are running low on food and I can’t do anything about it. My husband has been shopping- God, give me grace to give to him. None of this is his fault, let me be clear. It is my job to steward my emotions- not allowing food, healthy or not, to send me into a dizzying panic attack. It is my job to choose joy, to trust God, and be patient as I persevere through a season that is quite frankly, one of the most difficult I have seen in awhile. All I can think is, I just want my life back. I can’t even figure out how I once ran a household smoothly. It’s not that we are falling apart completely, but there is such a lack of structure and it would crush us all- me especially, if we just resumed life as it once were. Seasons come and go, and there are tools and strategies for thriving in each. Leaving transition starts at ground zero. Here is how we moved forward: First step, establish routine bedtimes for the kids. Second step, establish flexible meal times. Third step, don’t neglect the children’s needs as I scramble to have my own met. Fourth step, don’t blame this mess on your husband (I know better than to blame it on God). Fifth step, Don’t blame Texas for being a lonely place to live when you have done nothing aside from stay indoors. On and on. Transition is brutal. Believe it or not, even though I am requiring an inordinate amount of sleep and caffeine right now to survive, that still makes me a survivor.

So, here you go, another list. How to weather transition well:

1) Get out of your head! That’s right, no daydreaming. No assuming the worst, especially. But don’t lie to yourself either- transition is not simple. Just take a deep breath and do some self-talk, “I am a strong person, and I can handle this. Whatever happens, I will be fine because I’ve lived a long {insert age} years and I’m still here.” Before we hit the road to Texas, I agonized over the journey (3 children in the backseat of a standard-sized sedan for 6 days of driving 8-10 hours, through some metropolitan cities you could not pay me to return to). I was dreading it. Every now and then I was able to rise above that dread and just face the facts- this is hard, but I can do this.
Not, I will probably die on this journey, which I was tempted to meditate on.
Or, This is going to be FUN! Definitely never went there.
But the realistic self-talk helped me realize that even when life is hard, I am not a fragile person.

2) Make a to-do list. We established, transition is not simple. Your brain will be over-extended, and that’s completely normal. Keep a to-do list going, on paper. Don’t give your brain more work to do. Whenever you cross something off the list, take a deep breath- you’re one step closer to your goal, which is to survive transition.

3) Don’t buy into the lie that you’re lonely. In life, we should always keep the main thing the main thing- relationships with people. Love the people in your circle really well. Transition can be lonely at times. It often feels like the more you accomplish, the more you still have to do. Who doesn’t want to crawl into a hole when they feel worthless? Don’t do it. Make yourself sit on the floor with your kids while they eat breakfast, or talk to your spouse while they’re checking off their to-do list (best not to talk to them while they’re forming it). If you feel overwhelmed, take another deep breath. Don’t isolate yourself.

4) Let-it-Go. Without breaking into song, of course. You probably won’t do a lot of singing in this season, sorry. You will have to give up things that matter to you during a season of transition. A few things off the top of my head- comfort, structure, security, a healthy diet, possibly your health or the health of your children {as an addendum to the afore mentioned}, FINANCES, quiet time, and possibly a small amount of time where your vision for life can become cloudy. These things though, they’re not necessary for survival short-term. Remember? Keep your relationships healthy. All those other things, if you feel them slipping away, just lay them down for a bit. Transition may be brutal, but it is almost always temporary.

5) You have permission to freak out. As much as you want. Just make sure to separate the real stuff from the irrational stuff, and wrap it up fast. If you can’t wrap it up, confess it. There were many days on the road I simply did not want to drive, but I kept it to myself. A day came when I had not slept well the night before, and 8 hours into the driving, we still had 2 more hours to go. I finally broke down and confessed to my husband that I would not be able to drive any longer. He wasn’t happy that our well-laid plans had been foiled, but he also knew that I wasn’t compulsive with this feeling stuff. He “let it go” and booked a hotel for the next town. I LOVE him for that…I was borderline suicidal at this point. A little extra trip here: It’s best not to let it get that far.

6) Not everyone believes in Jesus, but if you do, talk to Him a lot. Even if you can’t feel Him or hear him. During my transition, the first “thing” to go was quiet time with God. I’m talking, getting away for a bit and closing the door. There really isn’t time for that when you spend 10 hours in the car at a time and live in hotels. But the purpose of Holy Spirit is so you have a friend, and every now and then I would just remind myself of that. I’m not alone. I mentioned before, transition can drive anyone into isolation- the busyness, uncertainty, and strain. I really found that as I separated myself from relationships, I also felt distant from God. When I was distant from God, I couldn’t recognize myself. Ultimately, me with God, that is who I am. Sometimes I would beg God in the car to just let me feel him like I might in church, or in the prayer room. I would get nothing. I would ask Him a question and strain the “ears” of my spirit, and again, nothing. Times of transition, while often times fueled by God’s tugging, are an intense time of spiritual battle. As you move forward into chaos, you will be introduced to yourself- perhaps a version of yourself you hadn’t been acquainted with before. Some if it is truth, some of it lies. All the while, with a foggy radar, you are left to decipher. This is when everyone has a choice to stay in faith and stand on truth, or be tossed like the double-minded man in the first chapter of James. I feel hardly qualified to deliver this message, but I know it’s the truth. Faith can feel foolish. I heard Bill or Eric Johnson say once, “Faith isn’t blind, it’s visionary.” In essence, you could be in transition for the sake of something that hasn’t come to pass. Often times that looks like nothing is happening. Or, the obvious, you’ve been abandoned. 

The truth is, God is faithful. You will survive. In the natural cycle of life, some sort of stability will always follow transition. Even if you don’t find it, it will somehow find you in just the daily sort of piecing your life together once more.

7) Read lots of scary news. Not really. But keep life in perspective. Ever heard of, “What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger” ? Transition is no exception. You’re still alive. Your kids may contract weird viruses on the road, or hate their new school, and your husband could slip off into becoming someone you don’t recognize for a season, only because transition breaks you and shapes you, and no one makes it out the same as they were before. But in the greater scheme of things, take another deep breath here, you are a survivor. You are moving onto bigger and better things, from glory to glory. You will soon have a story to tell, much like I do….I made it. To sum this up, I want to share that as I was listening to a Jesus Culture song the other day, a lyric stopped time and massaged balm into my soul, “The Winter has passed, and the Springtime has come.” The Lord, who has been uncharacteristically silent in my life, spoke up, “That’s your word.” I’ve been going around the house singing that one line, “The Winter has passed, and the Springtime has come.” That’s my perspective, by the grace of God, and I think the theme of transition.

8) Think on Spring. It’s coming.

Sacrificial Love

      Tonight, I talked to my son about the Ebola outbreak in Africa. This wasn't the first time. We talked last week when I read the news and saw that the young doctor had been affected. I told Jake what happened and called him to a task, "Pray hard." The story moved my heart, hurt my heart, burdened my heart, and for days I prayed for healing for Dr. Brantley. As the details unfolded and his age became published, quotes from his family, and pictures of his young children, I prayed all the more. I reminded Jake just days ago, "Don't forget to pray for that doctor. He is a missionary." Then, we talked about what it meant to be a missionary. I told him that our roommate from last year, Nicolas, had learned about Jesus when missionaries visited a remote country in Africa. His chief accepted Jesus, and later the mayor. Nicolas is very special to us. I told Jake about Sonja and Andrew, his aunt and uncle that he adores, and reminded him that they had spent nine months in Africa learning and participating in mission work. Then, I told him about Jim Elliot, a missionary who had given his life to serve others. The devil is not such a fan of missionaries, for obvious reasons. 

When I read headlines of the young doctor being brought to America, such hope began to rise within me- YES! America, you are the one. You are a safe place. America, you have always stood as a beacon of hope! 

        Anyway, my hope was immediately offended- if hope can be offended, by the comments I have read beneath the trending articles on facebook. I realized very quickly I was in the minority. Tonight I explained to my son the situation at hand: Missionary from America is sick with deadly disease, that can be contagious. Contagious means people can get it. He was in Africa, with lots of other sick people. The remote areas of Africa do not have very good medical care, that is why an American missionary went there. What should we do? Like a well-trained little disciple he answered, "Pray!" I goaded him onward, "Yes, we are going to keep praying. What else?" He said, "Get him to a hospital that can help him!" I asked him the obvious questions, "What if other people get sick?" 

     And still, his innocent mind wasn't grasping how we could leave this American doctor in Africa. Don't hear me say that Ebola isn't frightening, or that I wouldn't hold my babies a little closer if I lived in Atlanta by Emory Hospital. I'm just saying that it's important to ME to teach MY children that putting your life on the line for another is the ultimate picture of love. Sacrifice equals love. The emergency personnel that ran into the twin towers on 9/11 and gave their lives. To save one person, if they were able. The parents that wrap their arms around helpless infants and jump from multiple story windows when a fire is raging. Pedestrians that hold tight to car accident victims, and they themselves are side-swiped and their life ended. Sacrifice. The truth is, a positive truth that perhaps many avoid in the light of heightened drama, is that maybe no one will be sacrificed in this ordeal. Maybe this doctor will become well, and this will all blow over in another week or so and be replaced with another "Your lives are in imminent danger!" story. That is my hope- sort of. In either case, I explained to Jake both sides of the spectrum and told him why I was glad the doctor was in America. Yes, it could present a potential danger. It's a sacrifice to bring him here. But, we're America. We're the best.

And P.S: Were all going to die some day.

Lessons from Faith in the Trenches

I just returned from a lovely trip to North Carolina. Keeping up with the kids was a chore, but overall, all was easy. Paul was in Israel having the time of his life. Each of our excursions were welcomed get-aways, which by definition are temporary. I could tell as soon as Paul got back to Redding his voice turned to drab. Back to life. Back to the battle. I saw it coming too. Sure enough, I woke up yesterday morning and it hit me, this is hard. Paul scratched his head and informed me of our empty fridge, “You can spend $80 on groceries if you need too, but then we won’t have a gas budget this month.” Sigh.

A couple months ago, a friend told me, "I wish I had the faith that you and Paul have." You wanna know how I responded? I laughed. I cannot tell you how done I am. But Done. Tired. Not really standing anymore, just hunkered down until the month is over. You know what happens when you start hunkering down in your faith journey? You turn to logic.

Logic. It’s right there- it’s beautiful. It makes sense. It offers clarity and comfort.

Logic. Just choose it. Can’t you see it? It’s close enough to taste when everything else falters. Beyond tempting- give all this chaos up and do something that feels wrong, but looks oh-so-right. Do it so people can see us and say, “Summer and Paul are doing pretty well for themselves." Because here, we are not. We are being tossed like broken buoys, our one consolation is that God gave us permission to just go. He has given us permission to pursue passion. Either the pursuit is reckless, or all of hell has broken lose- maybe a bit of both. Today I tread barefoot through a damp yard and braved a swarm of buzzing bees to steal a grapefruit off our prolifically producing tree. When I pricked it off the tree, I almost cried at the thought, “I wish we had an orange tree.” I know it sounds like discontentment, and maybe it is. This just isn’t what I thought. Following my dreams isn’t what I thought. After I consented to enjoy it nonetheless, it wasn’t quite ripe. I almost cried at that thought too, because I feel like I should be ripe by now! Ripen, spirit! It would take a textbook for me to record what I have felt up against, and yet, I’m still here. As I enjoyed my grapefruit with a sprinkling of coconut sugar on top, I took a deep breath. I tried to recall all the reasons I thought I was ripe, even if God isn’t finished with me yet. Even if the enemy hasn’t relented. I decided to thank God for my grapefruit, and then, think of all the wisdom plenty God has supplied in a season of lack. So here it goes.

The storehouses always surprise me.

I don’t even fully know what this means, but the Lord spoke it while I prepared a meal plan for this week. I went into my pantry and I had much more than I remembered. Not to mention, it was exactly what I needed. One more bag of rye flour to sour for a couple of days and make bread. Frozen meat stashed in the farthest corner. Tons of beans. I went to make the kids granola bars, and in the process of digging through snack remains, I found coconut shreds, raw sunflower seeds, flax seeds, and sesame seeds. Even though my budget was cut in half for this week, I realized that we would eat just as well because of what I had stored. Take that, poverty mentality! It pays off to stock up. Well, and God really does know what you need before you ask.

You will survive.

Do you know how many weeks I have rolled out of the bed into expecting to be evicted…expecting to run out of food…expecting to be pulled over by a cop because my car is out of registration…expecting for Paul to be denied his opportunity to go on the missions trip…expecting to run out of gas…expecting for Paul to be kicked out of school because we are 2 days past the due date for payment...expecting the worst, expecting the mere reality of our predicament. But it doesn’t happen- ever. And no, I can’t figure it out, or offer any logical sort of explanation. Let’s just say, there is a God, and miracles do happen.

God is not a genie, and He doesn’t answer prayers the way you think He will.

Several weeks ago, I sat in my car and cried. I begged God to make a way for me to get my car registered. We were stuck in a tension between having to get Paul’s car done, and then mine. Paul had gotten a ticket for his which had a deadline for registration or a large ticket fee. Given the deadlines, we decided to invest our money in his car first. Except, it failed smog- twice. Long story short, neither car got registered, and we had to pay the ticket fine.  So I prayed that I would have a car that was legal to drive. The next week, a friend called and offered us her mini-van for free. They had purchased a new car, and their mini-van had been given to them, so they passed it onto us. While my car is out of commission for the time being, the mini-van is a dream come true and works wonderfully. And it’s legal for me to drive, hallelujah! Just know, His blessings sometimes come in the form of rainbows and sunsets, exact and timely prophetic words, or your kids spotting angels in the house, getting their prayer languages and asking to be baptized. It’s all His provision.

God doesn’t care if you look like an idiot.

Ok, maybe He does care. It’s my job to remain grounded in what He has called me to. It is so hard. Oh, I cannot even tell you how difficult this mandate is, to stand on His promise when everything else around you says you’re a failure. You’re walking through the desert and God is nodding His cosmic head at you- You’re exactly where I want you. Sure, there is freedom to run away from it all. But there is also an opportunity to make a voluntary sacrifice, to lay face down at the cross and proclaim He is worth it all. He is so worth it, as is the prize of radical obedience. It’s about more than what you get on the other side, it’s an inheritance for an entire generation. To stand on the promises of God, allowing Him to cultivate such a counter-cultural faith in your heart, and to learn to dwell in a moment with Him and not look forward or backwards- just dwell, those are skills of lasting value. Not that I have attained them all, as Apostle Paul says, but I press forward.

Giving sets you free from fear.

Whenever we feel afraid of finances, we give. Sometimes it’s just one dollar, though I can still remember a couple months ago when we had our last $10 crumbled in the bottom of Paul's wallet and he admitted he took a beggar to Mcdonalds and split lunch with him. It’s just habit now, it’s our mantra: we serve God, not money. If money makes us anxious, we do something generous. This week, when I went grocery shopping, I planned in advance to take a friend dinner. Paul was like, “Are you sure…,” but it’s another habit I’ve started, planning to have a family over every week or take a family dinner. It’s a stretch for us in this realm, but it’s another way to trust God and stand on the promise of His provision. And I have never seen Him not provide enough.


Faith in the trenches; standing in the storm. The ultimate lesson I have learned is that He is enough, and relationship with my Father God is the prize of it all. Even when I want desperately to cry, retreat, or just stop fighting with my husband about the tension of our crazy life- we both know how to ask for what we really need, “Can I go to the prayer chapel for an hour?” There, I am reminded that I’m not really poor, and I’m not a failure either. I am a daughter; a powerful person. I am rich in Heavenly Places, and I don’t lack. Then I remember a most imperative truth, this life is temporary. And everything-all of this- is all about Him and the glory due Him. It’s about Love. It's about a testimony of survival in the desert, against all odds, reminding me why His name is Faithful. Even in the trenches, imagine rain and muck, the enemy’s bellowing cry at me to surrender already, I whisper to my soul I am already the victor. That is the secret to faith in the trenches.

Embracing Femininity

May 13th, 2010- a day that came and went, forever changing my life. That was the day that my first daughter was born. My firstborn was a boy, one that I love and have repeatedly thrown myself into his world to connect with him. So many times there is a wall in front of me and I knock it down with a stern self-talk, I will spend time with my boy.

But, Sonora Grace is completely different. I love to spend time with her, we giggle over goopy eggs and slimy mushrooms while we make dinner, and take turns eating raw cabbage right out of the bowl of prepped coleslaw. I invite her almost everywhere I go, for fun. We have a solid parent/child relationship, and there are boundaries- one minute we’re laughing together, the next she is over my shoulder and on her way to the bedroom for time out. I can hardly stand to be without her though, because I know her. I miss her. I want to help her figure herself out so she can be happy again, it is my greatest joy as a parent.

A folded down toilet lid is the perfect perch for a toddler watching momma get ready for the day. Sonora sits on it several times a week and watches on as I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and apply my makeup. I usually brush her cheeks with powder, and allot us each a mist of body spray. Usually, she is content just to watch me. Sometimes she makes small talk and I happily engage. The mirror captures the majority of my attention, and Sonora, perched on the toilet watches me, her mirror. I am who she wants to be, doing the kinds of things she wishes she could do, so I kiss her nose and say, “Very soon you will wear makeup just like momma, but right now you are perfect the way you are.” This morning our routine commenced and she was raking her fingers through my makeup bag, and retrieving different items I needed. She found pink nail polish and nearly fell off the toilet lid, “MOM! I found pink nail polish! Will you paint it on both of us?!” She was elated, and I pouted, “I don’t have time for nail polish, honey. We’re in a hurry.” She kept rattling my makeup bag and pulled out two matching earrings, which I didn’t even remember I had. She stood up on the toilet seat and held out the dangling [faux] diamonds, “Mom! You should wear these in your ears today!” For a moment I wondered if my pierced ears would still tolerate earrings. She dropped one behind the toilet, where I warned her to retrieve carefully, as her brother frequently misses the water when he aims. She giggled, grabbed the earring, and washed it in the sink. “Here, Mom! Wear it!”

The idea of wearing earrings was annoying. Painting my fingernails sounded like torture. I know I conveyed all of this simply through my body language, and Sonora just sank back onto her seat and made faces. It made me think about her, so full of creativity, and a portrait of pure femininity. She wants to paint her nails. She wants to wear earrings. She wears skirts everyday. Then, there’s me, a total female failure. What really struck me is that I used to love those things. I used to really care. It’s not like I stopped caring overnight either, I have just trained myself. I have just reevaluated what is important to me, and what isn’t. Even though I used to love painting my nails, hence why I own a million colors, I just haven’t had time. Even though I love doing my eye makeup for 30 minutes, I’ve dropped a few stages from my routine as the “Hurry up, Honey! We’re late!” became more frequent, and that has happened with more children. We’ve also been very frugal in the last few years, meaning my makeup has typically been the cheapest I could find. Some people don’t care, and that’s fine. The truth is, I actually do care, I just laid that part of myself down. I stopped getting haircuts. I stopped wearing earrings. I stopped wearing eye shadow, and toner. I stopped caring. I realized as my daughter was watching me, eating up my every move, startling at pink nail polish and clutching my old earrings, that somewhere deep down I was her and it was really painful that motherhood had caused me to give that up. Especially since my kids don’t need a robot to raise them, but a real person, who has likes and dislikes, emotions, and preferences. Tears pooled in my eyes, and I thought to myself, I really want to embrace femininity again. 

I was thinking about frugality as well, its one of my excuses for buying $1 synthetic brushes, and frequently using the same lipstick I wore the day I got married, which was 5 years ago. I wondered if I actually stepped out and bought nice makeup, if the money would be there. What if makeup is a need? Sure, it doesn’t put food on the table. But really, can our heart have needs? I guess I could argue that my heart needs a $500 Louis Vuitton bag, but that’s actually not how I feel. I am grasping for pieces of my DNA that God specifically crafted, and realizing I’m not living in its fullness. I love being feminine. I love to look beautiful for my husband. I love to have my little girl look up to me. I love spending an hour on my makeup. And I actually, with a passion, hate the makeup I use. It is so cheap, and makes my face break out, so I try not to wear it unless I want to look nice. In my heart, I am a little girl, who loves to wear sparkly dresses, strappy sandals, and trendy chunky bangs. Today I rescinded the decision that it’s too hard to be me, that it takes to much time to let myself do things that I enjoy. I didn't do it just for me, but for Sonora and Cori, who I want to teach to value themselves, not for vanity's sake alone, but for letting that little girl inside live on.

I’m a proponent of setting boundaries for my kids to protect my needs, and I am going to start setting a new boundary, for myself- I, Summer Krismanits, take care of myself. My birthday is this month and if anyone is curious, I am asking for makeup, a haircut, and earrings from Target.

And....not to negate Biblical inner beauty, just feed your soul, ladies. That's what I'm thinking.

Receiving

I am so exhausted- what a long week! This is the first quiet moment of my day, I can’t bear to go to sleep before 9:00. I’ve played on face book, researched claims of Roma Downey being New Age- no way she is, and checked my email. Then there is my neglected blog, and my racing mind.

This week my husband was told he couldn’t go on his Israel Mission trip unless he raised $1500- raised, because we didn’t have the money. It was a really cloudy week, weather wise, but also in our minds and hearts. I was given a ticket to the prophetic conference from a friend who couldn’t go on the same day an Israel team leader prophesied to Paul that she thought we should go to the conference because we were going to receive a word that would change our life. That excited me, obviously.
This same day, an acquaintance/power house business woman I know (I love women in business!) invited me to apply for a part-time position that was opening up in her company. I tossed the idea around in my mind a lot. For years I have tossed the idea around that I could work and be a mom, but I never found a safe place to test that stirring. All the while, I’ve been home, dying. In a good way. I’ve been laying down my life, doing hard things with grace as my propeller. Lots of times, I dream of working because I know I would do a better job at that than I am at home, and let’s face it, what’s better than being proud of yourself? Well, maybe learning to forgive yourself and start over- that’s a worthy skill too and has been more of my season. I found myself excited about the prospect of a job, not that I am even insinuating that I will get the job, or choose to work if I don’t get the job. I don’t know. The point is, during worship I was asking God whether I should apply or not. He asked me why I wouldn’t apply and my first thought was, “Because, I would like doing it.”


Bam. Exposed lie: I think I’m only serving God if I’m swimming up the creek. I learned I can be  prideful about "working" as a staying at home mom because I know what I’ve sacrificed to grow in this calling. God asked me, “You don’t think I want you to be happy?”

I said no. Yikes. I love my kids. I love my husband. I am addicted and comfortable to my routine. But in my heart, I miss connecting with people. We hear so often that God loves our weaknesses- which is totally truth, but He gave us our weaknesses and our strengths.

God began to tell me the truth, that while there are seasons of pruning, there are also seasons of tasting fruit. While there are seasons of sacrifice, there are also seasons of learning to receive. He told me that Paul and I have learned how to sacrifice, but now He will began to teach us to receive. He told me to humble myself, and to believe that He wants me whole and happy.

I believe that I can have joy anywhere because God is fullness of joy. He is my Father and Friend, and I have found a lot of grace at home. The problem is that I am afraid to receive. I am afraid to steward. I am afraid to FAIL. Thankfully, God sent me a good teacher to help me figure this thing out. I observed more than 15 foreigners attending the conference, and I had been given my ticket for free. I didn't have to sacrifice anything. Paul’s mission trip was paid off that day, and actually received over $1500 so funds spilled over into his ministry trip account, and he was approved to travel with Bill Johnson next month.

As the week continued, I was beyond expectant for a prophetic word that was going to change my life. Nothing. On Friday night, I enjoyed the conference, but my expectation was not satisfied. Paul asked me why and I said, “because I didn’t receive a prophetic word that changed my life.”
He scrunched up his face, “What about the word you got the first night about God teaching our family to receive, and giving us the fruit of our pruning season? Didn’t He teach you that you can lay down your life and still follow your dreams?”


Receiving- It's hard to do. I realized that although God’s word to me had been timely, and even confirmed through various miracles of generosity, I didn’t value myself enough to receive it. God is moving me into a season of learning to receive, and the first test I faced was, "Can you receive from yourself?"  I am not a prophetic word chaser by any means, but I would rather have a stranger prophesy over me than prophesy over myself. I felt God saying, “No, prophesy over yourself.” That night I had a dream and I was prophesying in it, but I turned to God and said, “I don’t even know what to prophesy!” and He told me, “It’s easy, just prophesy what you know.” For the past few days I’ve answered the call, “I love people. I love connecting with others. I love my children. I am a good mother. I am a faithful wife. My kids are so powerful.” The truth is, it’s not about me receiving just from myself, but from my union with Him. I’m processing the power of receiving, realizing if I can’t receive, I can’t have a full revelation of the cross. Learning to receive is a worthy pursuit, so thank you Jesus for prophetic words that change my life, especially when I give them to MYSELF. Ha!