Signs You Might Be Getting Older Than You’re Comfortable With

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Warning: I don’t even know.

My son’s snowboots are the same size as mine. His regular shoes haven’t caught up yet but it’s just a matter of months, I imagine. I bought him pants for Christmas that were long enough for me, and even though they’re a little too long on him, again, just a matter of months . . . he’s thirteen now and I catch myself saying, “Make sure you wash your face so you don’t break out” and wonder what happened to my life.

My daughter, who I still think of as my baby, read the words “feminine napkins” on the machine in the Walmart bathroom today and asked what that was. And I totally brushed her off because I am a woman of 2015 and I know that there is nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about in the normal facts of a woman’s life and also I know that I am not having that conversation with a six year old dressed in a t-shirt that says “I give warm hugs” while standing in the woman’s bathroom at Walmart. I have limits.

I have finally outgrown the super mega greasy hair stage of puberty and can go three whole days without washing my hair. This is amazing, except I traded my greasy scalp for gray hair and at least one son who seems to be following in his mama’s oily footsteps.

I used to stay up late to talk on the phone about cute boys or (occasionally but not often) to cute boys. Now I stay up late because my house is quiet and I really just need to finish the next chapter of this super exciting book I’m reading about gardening in England during World War 2. Except it’s not really very exciting, but December has been kind of busy (translation– ohmywordwouldsomeonepleasejustmakeeverythingstopbeforeilosemymind!) and I just couldn’t spare the time for a truly interesting, up-all-night page-turner. There is something strangely comforting in reading about what kind of radishes the gardeners of the early 1940s in England preferred. But I feel like this says something awkward about me as a person.

I really really wanted warm mittens and fuzzy slipper socks for Christmas. And I got them. And I was happy.

I worry about my digestive health and that of my family. Also about cavities.

“Am I the only one who notices when the back door is standing wide open?” These words. So many times these words. And the thing is, yes, I am the only one who notices, because the children are busy doing all the fun stuff I used to do while I was wishing I was all grown up– like not worrying about the heating bill. In fairness, my husband also notices. As the only Paid Adult in this home, he notices with a vengeance. Poor man. (I also may have threatened to take away allowance money if the door got left open again. I have become my own parents.)

The very idea of all the sugar my children have consumed in the last two weeks makes me feel kind of sick. This from the person who once ate a whole bag of Conversation Hearts in a day. (I am not proud of this fact).

I have no idea what anyone is talking about when they talk about 1) video games, 2) popular music, 3) movie stars, 4) social media other than facebook, or 5) television shows other than Dr. Who. Also, I’ve pretty much given up running the technology in our house unless it’s my phone or my laptop. And a few weeks ago my six-year-old fixed a pop-up on our family computer that I couldn’t fix.

My sister and I are going to start a Super Awesome Sisterly Book Club and read a book about cleaning. Which means, not only am I older than I am comfortable with, but so is she. And since she’s my baby sister, that’s pretty much ridiculous.

this post is written
for my sister Laura Jean
who inspired me with

her cleaning book and
her super awesome lameness
and her fab haiku

now where is my kid
to show me how to publish
haha just kidding

Sonnet for the Child

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christmas blog

Sonnet for the Child
by Erin Kilmer
Christmas 2015

Oh child small, in manger wrapped and laid,
In infant hands You hold our life and hope.
Alone we barely breathe, we cannot cope
With this great debt of sin that must be paid.
Oh child small, Creator of the day,
Self-emptied, humbled God become a man,
What mercy and what love lie in this plan!
Born new, yet somehow Life and Truth and Way.
Oh child small, worshiped by humblest men,
And given gifts by kings of noble birth,
You are God’s holy sacrifice for earth.
Accept my worship, holy Lord and Friend.
Oh child small turned Man upon the tree–
All this was done because You first loved me.

Emptied and Hungry

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We put up this tree, with its lights and ornaments. We decorate this house with lights and garland and pictures and candles and the manger scene, and we say It is Christmastime.

We read the stories, listen to the music, bake the treats. We shop and wrap gifts, write cards, sing carols, visit the shut-ins, throw parties, light the candles and clean the house for guests and take goodies to the neighbors. We do all the things that say It is Christmastime.

Even as the space under the tree fills with gifts from brother to sister, aunt to nephew, I feel separated, wild, and far from all the joy and peace and silent holiness of it. I blame the busyness, the pressure, the hyper kids, the rain and the mud and the laundry. I’m tired, worn out, desperately wanting a rest but failing to find it.

I read Mary’s words of praise– copy them in my journal:

He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty
.

I feel hungry and I want to be filled with good things. I nod at that; stop short at the next line– why would my good Father, who gives good gifts, send the rich away empty? I stare at the stack of gifts under my tree. I think of my big house, my full freezer, my dresser overflowing with clothes I never wear. I think of my fullness, my wealth by the standards of so much of this world. I think of my husband, my children, my friends and family. Rich– I am so rich.

Would this God of mine, the God who sent His Son to be my Immanuel, would He send me away empty? Why?

I have learned something in this year of sacrifice, and that is that emptiness is a gift. How can my God fill me with good things if I am not hungry? If I am so full of myself, my flesh, my possessions, my comfort, my family, my responsibilities, my whatever that I don’t recognize the deep cravings of my heart as what they are? I have learned– am learning– the gift of hunger, of thirst, of weakness and emptiness.

The only thing I really need is Jesus, and I am so empty without Him. But that gets masked by all of the things that go along with being rich, being full. And so He empties me– not because He is cruel, vindictive, unloving. Not because He loves the hungry more than He loves me, but because He knows that when I am hungry and thirsty for His righteousness that I am ready to be filled with all the good things He has promised.

The stockings hang tonight, empty and waiting for tomorrow night’s filling. Fifty-one weeks into my year of sacrifice, I am learning to be empty too, to be hungry, to wait.

He has filled the hungry with good things.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.

Changing and Unchanging

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tree decorI sat on the floor, surrounded by tissue paper, slowly unwrapping ornaments. So many ornaments.

We don’t have a designer tree and the decorations aren’t placed with geometrical precision. No professional decorator would allow a fun foam penguin that is missing an eye to hang on her tree. At least two of our ornaments are actually keychains, one is laminated cardstock, and one is an absolutely hideous ceramic bell I painted at VBS in third grade.

I love it. Every year I unpack the ornaments and each one is a memory– a gift. The one that’s been missing a foot since I was a little girl. The one I won in a coloring contest in kindergarten. The one Mom gave me when I went to China. Three glass balls with three little handprints on them. A sheep made out of yarn. My mom makes angel ornaments each year and sends one home with each kid, and one for me. And my parents give us ornaments every year that have to do with our year. And we buy ornaments pretty much every time we take a trip. The kids make them, and people give them to us, and each one is special and makes me smile. Or cry. Sometimes at the same time.

I so love my tree.

It’s getting pretty full, though. This year I left a few off that really weren’t meaningful to me. Last night, as the kids hung their special “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments and the ones they made out of cinnamon dough and the ones with birthday party pictures, they were pretty worried about how full the tree was getting. And then my oldest– my baby who will be thirteen in eleven days– said, “Don’t worry, Mom, when I move out you’ll have more room on the tree.”

Children should not say things like that to their mothers.

I don’t want to spend my days dreading the future, or mourning over partings that haven’t come yet. But today as I sat here in my chair, thanking God for my good life, for His good gifts, Angry Ranger’s comment came back to me. And I thought of how empty that tree will be someday, and I thought about how it stands each Christmas as a memorial of the goodness and faithfulness of my God. And I cried.

I hope my children marry people who love a slightly messy, non-designer tree. To me, it’s the way it should be. Every place I look is a reminder to me that I live a messy, non-designer life, with real people who leave their fingerprints on my windows and on my moments. Someday my kids will take their “baby’s firsts” and the cinnamon man and the popsicle stick reindeer and the little handprints and hang them on their trees and make memories of their own. And when my tree is so much emptier than it is now, I will still be loved by a good and faithful God.

Because everything changes except Him.

And He’s the whole Reason for this season anyway.

 

 

In Due Season

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Sometimes obedience doesn’t come with an immediate reward, and we doubt. We make the sacrifice in faith that in due season we will reap, if we do not faint, and then when time passes and there seems to be no harvest, not even a small hint of fruit, we despair.

His ways are not our ways.

There is a due season for an apple tree to yield apples, for a cornfield to be harvested, for a baby to be born. And there is a due season for fruit in the Christian life, but it is not a date, or even a month to be circled on the calendar.

He works deep within, planting seeds. And we are promised one day those seeds will bear fruit. But God sees time so differently than we do. The beauty, the bounty He promises seldom comes when we expect it. And it seldom comes in the way we expect it. What if the harvest we are reaping is different that our expectations, our dreams?

His thoughts are not our thoughts.

I struggle to be faithful when I don’t see an answer to my prayer or a result to my work after a time that feels like it should be enough. This morning I faced the reality that a real knees-to-the-ground sacrifice I have made– faithfully– has not had the results I hoped for. In fact, by all outward appearances it has had the opposite result. What’s the point?

Sometimes I’m afraid that I will serve God sacrificially and no one will ever notice– that no measurable, visible fruit will ever be seen. I’m afraid that I will not be recognized for my sacrifice. Of course that’s pride talking; that’s flesh. Flesh says to Erin be the glory and if Erin’s not getting the glory then there’s no point in what Erin’s doing. Pride says I deserve some kind of recognition.

Can I live a whole life of sacrifice and obedience and never receive a moment of praise? Me, whose love language is words of affirmation? I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can do this day after day after day and never see any outward change so that you look at me and say, “Great job, Erin!”

Today God brought me to my knees. He does that when I get freaked out by my crazy, prideful mind. I want to be faithful, and I want to be humble, and I want to be willing to trust and obey for no other reason that to know Him and the power of His resurrection but it is so. hard. Today, hungry for outward change, for applause, I came to my Father and I confessed my weakness– my hunger and thirst not for righteousness, but for my own pride to be upheld, my own name lifted up.

I love my Lord so much. Because in that moment of confession and desperate hunger, He reminded me of this– that He sees me, He knows everything I do in secret, and He favors me. He is proud of me. He has seen the sacrifice, and He will reward me in His time, in His way. He will not forget even one teardrop. There will be a harvest; there is already a harvest within me. My God approves of me, because of grace, because of Jesus– not because of my sacrifice. He delights in me. And He promises me grace and strength, not for a whole lifetime of seemingly unrecognized sacrifice, but for today. And tomorrow there will be new strength, new mercies in the morning.

Today my God reminded me that He is at work within me, in the hidden places, and it’s not important for others to see and approve. And He reminded me that He is at work in other areas, in other places that seem fruitless. His grace allows me to keep discipling my children, to keep pouring into that one hard relationship, to keep teaching those wiggly kids at church– because my eyes can’t see what He’s doing with these hearts, but He can, and He asks me to sow and water and teach and love and let Him bring the increase.

I can trust Him to see, to accomplish the work within, and to bring it to fruition in His good time.

I say none of this to bring praise to myself. My sacrifices are so small, so very meager. I say this to encourage you to keep enduring, to be faithful, to not grow weary, to entrust yourself and that situation that seems fruitless to the God who sees you. If you are a believer in the finished work of Christ on Calvary, then God rejoices in you.

He delights in you.

He approves of you.

And He will make all things beautiful in His mysterious time.

His ways are beyond understanding, His thoughts past finding out.

 

Of Weak Places and God My Strength

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It’s raining and the hearts in my home are a mess of raw emotions– mostly anger. A contentious woman is like a continual dripping, Solomon said, and I’m sure he was right, but this morning in this house it’s all contention and the dripping outside wears away at us all.

Within minutes of “Good morning,” one child is in tears because of the unkindness of another child. There is blame and yelling and sharp words. Moments later, a Lego creation goes crashing off the dining room table, and pieces have gone missing, and all is not well. Soon no one is speaking to anyone else, and it’s all because of those stupid expensive sharp-cornered plastic pieces. At least that’s my feeling.

Up to my elbows in dishwater, I briefly consider banning all the Legos– just breaking apart the X-wing and the spaceships and the hair salon and the fire station, putting all the pieces in one huge tote and listing them on eBay or giving them away to an underprivileged kid who would actually appreciate them.

With a sigh I decide that’s probably an overreaction.

What’s a mama to do when she woke up too early and felt unprepared for the day even before the kids woke up with their minor major catastrophes? When her heart is just as prone to the temper tantrums and the outbursts of anger and the frustration over the little things?

Last night we talked at Bible study about temptation and attacks and our adversary who sees our new resolve to walk in obedience and attacks with no holds barred. Last night I reflected on how God has been changing my speech patterns and softening them with grace, especially towards my children. Last night when my glass pitcher was knocked to the ground and shattered, I spoke kindly to my weeping daughter– “It’s just a thing. I love you”— and I knew that God has been working in me.

This morning I woke up and knew beyond a shadow that an attack was imminent. I could feel it in my weakness and recognize it in my pride. Oh, how very prone I am to pride. One small victory and I’m quite convinced of my own remarkableness. As the unkind words bite back and forth from the lips of my children, I feel my own anger rising. Here is a chink in my armor– this pride that says that I have mastered my words and surely my children can too.  This taking of credit for the work of God. This unreasonable expectation. This tired frame that is so impatient– that reacts with instant frustration when my children speak harshly to each other.

How can this one, so weak and so easily irritated and wearing armor so full of holes, ever possibly speak life-words to these little hearts? One child a bristling fortress of anger, one child falling into near hysteria, one screaming and taking offense at every perceived slight. And one mama, just wanting to go back to bed on a rainy morning.

This God of mine– He is the answer. Of course. Always. If only I could remember immediately, instead of after the rankling sharp words and the sarcasm and the empty threats have shot from my lips. I can’t be what my family needs, but He can. And He is strength in weakness.

My enemy knows all the chinks– the weak spots– in my patched-together armor, but so does my Savior. And all those holey places have the very real potential to be holy places– to be filled up with the sufficient grace and strength of the God who, as a dear friend used to say to me, knows my dust and loves me anyway. I am not enough, but HE IS.

We sit around the kitchen table with our eggs and bagels and cereal and one giant green smoothie and I read to my children about who our God is:

Bless the Lord, O my soul!
    O Lord my God, you are very great!
You are clothed with splendor and majesty,
    covering yourself with light as with a garment,
    stretching out the heavens like a tent. . . .
O Lord, how manifold are your works!
    In wisdom have you made them all;
    the earth is full of your creatures. . . .
These all look to you,
    to give them their food in due season.
When you give it to them, they gather it up;
    when you open your hand, they are filled with good things. . . .
May the glory of the Lord endure forever;
    may the Lord rejoice in his works . . . .
 I will sing to the Lord as long as I live;
    I will sing praise to my God while I have being.
May my meditation be pleasing to him,
    for I rejoice in the Lord.

Here is the answer, then, to a day started wrong, to a morning when I feel like there is not enough of me to deal with the crises and the anger and the tiredness. My God, who made heaven and earth, who designed with mere words whole ecosystems that intricately provide food and life for huge varieties of created, who set the moon in place and leads the seasons in procession without fail– He knows me intimately and He provides what is good for me as well. He says look to Him and not to the mess of markers on the floor, the missing Legos, the snide comments from the lips of my children.

He provides the self-control for a deep breath instead of an angry outburst when yet another Lego conglomeration crashes from the dining room table, when brothers won’t help sister, when arithmetic is all about attitude problems instead of addition. He gives grace for open arms and hugs when what I want is to push away, to retreat to my own bed, my book, and to ignore and, yes, even to shun my own children. Because my flesh is so weak.

When my armor is more holes and broken places than not, He is there, and He doesn’t just patch the weak places– He becomes the patch for the weak place, if I let Him. My adversary can attack but if I yield to the Spirit of God, every dart aimed at a weak spot in my armor is aimed at the very strength of my Lord, mighty to save.

Today my fight is words and weariness. Tomorrow it will be another battle, but the battle belongs to the Lord. And in this battle, when I am so unable to meet the challenge, when I am aware of my very deep weakness, I am called Overcomer, because of God, who through Jesus Christ daily gives victory– victory over shame, over fear, over loneliness, over grief, over anger, over addiction, over pride– over whatever sin I fall to.

He is God my Strength– my Strong Tower. I run to Him and there I am safe.

Forsaken

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She is weeping.

I just want to be happy, she sobs, and I am silenced by this grief and pain.

What do you say to this one, who is so alone in this world? All the words seem empty. She stands in the midst of a rubble of broken dreams and shattered hopes, the ruins made of poor decisions and bad relationships and a hard past. She is forsaken and alone, and she knows it.

Her face is red and worn from the grief. Tears glisten on her cheeks and words catch in my throat.

I just want to be happy.

I don’t know how to tell her that happiness isn’t the answer, and that a fresh start and a fat bank account and health and people to love her won’t be the answer to her problems. I don’t know how to tell her that we can’t circumvent the grieving and the valley and the desert– that what we need is joy and that joy comes when we walk through, not when we try to walk around or go the other way.

I don’t know how to say these words to one so broken and so lost. I don’t know how much she understands when I look in her eyes and say God sees you and He has not forsaken you. She says she knows Jesus. She fights her demons and falls back into her old patterns and maybe I have been wrong to doubt her faith.

I fight demons and fall back into my old patterns too. Mine are just prettier and more acceptable to my Pharisaical line of thinking. They are still proof of my brokenness.

We are the same here on the level ground at the foot of the cross. We have only one hope. I fumble my words and do my best not to speak in cliches and empty promises. We might seem to be worlds apart but we can clasp hands here and say together what we need is Jesus.

We are all brought by diverse paths to this place– this place where we see our smallness and His greatness. This place where we bow the knee to the King of kings. This place where we must dig deep into the hope of the Savior because there seems to be no hope in our circumstances. This is where we find joy and peace and strength to keep going another day, even when everything around us is rubble.

The world shatters and falls apart, and all the hope we have placed in the things of this world– in our money, in our position, in our leaders, in our friends– all that hope disintegrates like the soap bubble it is. Our happiness comes and goes with the shifting sands of our lives.

But Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

He is the same when a husband leaves, when the money runs out, when a child rebels. He is the same when the terrorists attack, when the cancer has its way, when the car crashes. He is an unchanging Rock of Refuge, a deep stream of Living Water, the One who holds us in the palm of His hands, where we cannot be shaken.

How can I tell her all of this, when she can’t see past today’s insurmountable fears?

How can I remind myself of this, when I’m angry or afraid or grieved?

The peace of God that passes understanding doesn’t come because our hard circumstances become easy, but because those very circumstances drive us closer to the heart of Jesus. There is deep peace there, and joy that cannot be explained, that spring from a place completely separate from the temporal and physical life we live here now.

Be anxious for nothing, Paul writes. He says to pray. To give thanks. To think about what is good and true and beautiful– to think about Jesus. And he says the peace will come.

Peace. Even better than the happiness she craves in her loneliness.

She is not alone. I am not alone. Neither are you.

For He Himself has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

From the End of the Earth

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My heart is overwhelmed.

Seems like my state of being most days lately– so many things happening. So many sorrows, hard times. So much bad news. And on the days when everything outside seems okay, my vivid imagination invents all kinds of things to worry about. The enemy of my soul knows my weak spots and he whispers lies and twisted truth, until I am a desperate mass of weakness and weariness. In this heart there is no peace, just chaos.

My heart is overwhelmed.

I have so many questions. I bring them to my Father and I say help me and what about this and I don’t understand. He always hears me, sees me, welcomes me into His presence. He doesn’t always answer my questions. He reminds me that He is God and that is enough. I struggle to believe, to live without the answers. I may be without answers but I am never without hope, without my Savior.

My heart is overwhelmed.

I consider the God I serve, read about Him in His beautiful Word, and I well over. I pray for my eyes to be opened, for the dark to be lifted so I can behold Him with unveiled face. He is glorious in His power, enthroned in majesty. He is steadfast in His faithful love to me, and He is the God Who Sees. He is great enough to juggle galaxies, small enough to capture my tears in a bottle. He is beautiful beyond all description, and an eternity with Him will not be enough to reach the depths of His perfect and holy heart. He sees my fears and He cares about them. His Spirit is my Comforter, whispering peace and words of truth into my wild heart. He is my good Father.

My heart is overwhelmed.

He leads me to the Rock, higher than I. He leads me to His Word and He says, see this: My peace I give to you. He commands me to be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving make your requests known to God, and He promises the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will keep your heart and mind in Christ Jesus. He says to me My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in your weakness and He gently reminds me to take every thought captive, to think about what is true. And then He shows me Himself: Behold, a white horse! The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True.

Oh, this God. This God we think we understand. He is sovereign over all. There could never be any end to the praise He deserves.

My heart is overwhelmed.

 

 

Sacrifice, Satisfaction, and my Savior

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At the beginning of 2015 I named this year Sacrifice. I knew when I did that that I was opening myself up to all kinds of scary stuff, because sacrifice is a scary concept. I saw within my heart a selfishness and a love of comfort and ease that I knew God wanted to deal with. And on January first, God gave me my word, and I bowed my head and said yes, Lord to the sacrifice.

I had no idea what I was saying yes to. Do we ever? And isn’t it good that we don’t?

Because the first thing God did when I said yes to the sacrifice had nothing to do with me or my behavior or my attitude or my selfish heart. Instead He took me back to the Cross and said here is the sacrifice I want you to understand. For maybe the first time in my life I really stood and looked at the miracle of grace completed at Calvary, and I was so humbled.

It is so easy to grow so cold to truth, to gut-wrenching, painful, horrifying truth– to the Son of God, in all His perfection and sinlessness, beaten and gory and broken and mocked and spit upon. It is so easy to forget the agony in the garden where His flesh cried out against the injustice and the pain to come and yet He said yes, Lord. He thought of me in all my unworthiness and my sinful rebellion and He said yes, Lord.

This is not the place our eyes want to rest. We like the manger with the baby and the angels and the fuzzy sheep. We like the empty tomb. We don’t mind our cleaned-up versions of Calvary, with a vaguely sad-looking European male with a crown of thorns hanging off a nicely polished cross.

I really think our enemy loves it when we clean up Calvary, don’t you? I mean, if we can gloss over the death of our Savior, then it’s pretty easy to start thinking that maybe we somehow deserve a life of ease, or that when Jesus told us to take up our crosses He probably meant to wear a shiny gold one around our necks.

My eyes hate to stare at the cross, because it is not pretty, no matter how fancy the one around my neck is. And the reality is hard. The sacrifice is hard. What Christ did on that cross– we can’t even really imagine it, I don’t think. And He did it for me. The reality is that’s exactly what I deserved– every horrifying, unthinkable, shameful moment of it. All the embarrassment and humiliation, every cruel lash of the whip, the bloodied back and bloodied head and naked destroyed body hanging there for all the world to see. All the grief and heartache, the agony of separation and the weight of sin, the gasping for air– that was what I deserved.

What wondrous love is this, oh my soul!

The thing about the cross is that when I linger there, I realize how small I am, how amazing my Savior is. I love Him more every time I think about it. I type with tears in my eyes because I am overwhelmed by the sacrifice of my Jesus, my Friend. It is here, at the cross, that I become willing to take up my cross. Because how could I say no to someone who said yes, Lord on my behalf? Who endured so much suffering so that I could know Him?

I am learning that there is no sacrifice too great to be made for such a Savior. I used to flinch from sentences like that. I know that in so many ways my faith is untested. I have not had a hard life. He hasn’t asked so much of me. But I stand by that statement, because by His grace He has put a new desire in my heart– to know Him and the power of His resurrection.

A sacrifice is all fire and death and pain. I am so weak. I have prayed so many times this year, Lord God, I hate this sacrifice. I hate that You want me to do this. And He says to lay it down. And sometimes He says it a hundred times in a hundred ways before I finally do. But there is beauty in the sacrifice, as I come one step closer to the heart of the Jesus who died for me, who lives for me, who makes intercession for me.

Tonight we read the Beatitudes. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Nothing else satisfies but Jesus. None of it. Not status, not my own works, not a giant bowl of ice cream or a cup of the best coffee in the world, not your approval, not a huge bank account or house or church. Not a closet full of clothes or a body free of rheumatoid arthritis or the two babies I lost or a maid to do my laundry or a successful writing career or kids who obey all the time. None of it.

The only thing that satisfies is Jesus, because He is my righteousness.

He makes every sacrifice worthwhile, every cross easy and every burden light.

Let me cling to nothing but Jesus.

Writer’s Block Haiku

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So I have a bunch of friends who are writing novels for NaNoWriMo, and I’ve been seeing all kinds of posts about it on Facebook. I’m not going to do that because hahahahahaha no. I did, however, plan to blog today, but alas, I am experiencing that evil enemy of writers everywhere. So instead of a real blog post, I present to you (and to my novel-writing friends)–

Writer’s Block Haiku
by Erin Kilmer

my sons are writing
sci-fi masterpieces for
novel writing month.

my husband sketches
and paints and just generally
creates awesome stuff

even my daughter
writes and illustrates little
stories about Bear

my home is filled with
creativity, but all
I made was dinner.

 

 

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