Some might think them menial. These tasks that I do. Week in and week out. This caring for our home and all that it entails.

Sometimes I believe them. Sometimes when I’m folding the last piece of laundry and I hear more clothes drop down the chute, I wonder about the futility of it all. I wonder if I’m just wasting my time. Anyone could do these jobs – scrub these toilets, dust this dresser, fold this laundry. Does it matter that I’m the one standing here doing it? Does my work make a difference?

Yes! I say Yes! It strikes me that there is a beauty and a deep satisfaction that can come in these tedious tasks. As I fight the tide toward disorder and strive to make this place an island of peace and rest and refuge for my family.

Could anyone do these tasks? Technically, yes. But not just anyone could do them for Rick, Caleb, and Madison. For the friends who will cross our threshold. For the family who will gather here in celebration. For the stranger who might pass by and need a cold glass of water.

Such vision and love as I approach my work is the difference between housekeeper and homemaker. It might seem like semantics but I am finding that it is a critical difference. God has appointed me to tend to this home.

As I tackled my pile of ironing yesterday, I was overflowing with the beauty of it. This task that I have always hated and put off and bemoaned was a becoming a precious offering of love. Right there. As I stood at the ironing board. Right in the middle of the thing, I could sense my heart embracing my task at a new level.

I found myself smiling as I ironed the napkins. These napkins that Rick has always ribbed me about because they are one small way that I fight against the wasteful, disposable mentality of our culture. I laughed as I pictured him rolling his eyes and calling me a hippie. I was filled with pleasure at the memory of the first time I made my own napkins. In the months before my wedding, in my mom’s sewing corner. Her teaching me to use the serger to finish the edges and me calling her back in again because I had gotten it tangled. I reveled in the moments at our dinner table – my messy Caleb wiping chili off his chin. (His napkin is always the sloppiest.) Our discussion and our laughter as we eat a meal prepared by my hands.

This ironing. These napkins. They are a part of all that.

Then I got to Rick’s shirts. I pictured him in those shirts day after day. Loving people – praying with them, counseling them in their brokenness, telling them about Jesus, rejoicing in their triumphs, visiting them in the hospital. Leading us in worship on Sunday morning – opening the Word to us, praying for us, crying over us. Serving communion, dedicating babies and young families, marrying couples.

He is doing significant work in our church and in our community. And, in this small way, I am there with him, as I lovingly launder and iron his shirts. My man will slide his strong arms into these shirts. He will hold babies and hug people in these shirts. He will speak truth and intercede for others – in these shirts. This ironing. These shirts. They play a part.

And, so I asked myself again. Could anyone do this job? Sure. But, not like this. Not for these people. Not with this heart. That is my domain alone.

My ironing will never be the same…

The signs are evident. The rest of the story is being revealed. There IS life under all that snow.

Here in Northeast Ohio, we’re emerging from one of the snowiest Februaries in recent history. (Do you know we only had one day of sunshine during the entire month?) While my snowy walks were utterly breathtaking, I’m ready for Spring. We all are – as is evidenced by the student I saw in a tank top last week. A tad premature for tank tops, I think; but I’ll take the Spring temps just the same. (I didn’t have the heart to tell said student that it will probably snow at least one more time before the weather fully changes! She’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.)

On this first day of the week I need my gratitude list – truth be told, springing forward with EST has me a little grouchy. (Why does that one hour make such a difference?)

Thanksgiving is just the place to start. Continuing the list:

• Signs of new life emerging in nature;
• Clear sidewalks so that we can walk to school again;
• The pile of muddy clothes from boys playing in newly thawed backyards;
• Fridays with Rick at home;
• Plans in the making for the Crossroads Mexico trip;
• Madison’s thrill at getting her scooter back out – up and down the block she goes;
• The fun of having a toddler in the house this weekend and watching my kids nurture someone else’s sweet girl;
• Stirrings in my heart as I contemplate Easter in fresh ways;
• Starbucks with a dear friend and shared anticipation as her wedding draws near; and
• Three new babies at church with eight more on the way – how we welcome these little ones into our midst!

Ahhh. The thanksgiving is so good for my heart – chasing the grouchiness away and reminding me of a life that overflows with plenty.

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Each Monday, I join with others who start the week with gratitude at:

“I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics; even if they dress in rags; even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young. They’re still princesses. All of us. Didn’t your father ever tell you that? Didn’t he?” – The Little Princess

When the Maker of all things moves heaven and earth to be born a babe, die in your place and exchange His righteousness for your filth, I think it’s safe to say you’re His princess.

So glad that my Father did tell me. He left me His book of love and invited me into His story so that I’d never question it. May I never look elsewhere to validate my place in the royal family.

Blue skies for the second day in a row. Trader Joe’s run with Community Group friends. Lunch and laughter at Corky & Lenny’s (smoked turkey in a sundried tomato wrap for me). Pretzel-Chocolate Bar samples at Malley’s.

I think it’s safe to say it was a happy day for this little heart.

Hunger. Perhaps you’ve felt it before. At the end of a long day of physical labor. Maybe the whole family has been in the yard all day: mulching, weeding, planting. The kind of day when you’re bone weary and there is a gnawing in your stomach because your body just needs more fuel. You feel a little light-headed. The kids are hungry too. Long faces. Exasperated whines. “Momma, I’m starving…”

Thankfully, dinner is waiting. The crockpot of chili you put on before the work began.  It’s been simmering in there all day. As you walk through the door and into the kitchen you are greeted by the smell of it. The goodness can be served up in the next 20 minutes or so. After hands are washed and cheese is shredded and table is set.

But, that 20 minutes can seem like an eternity to the tired, ravenous bellies. The options are few: stave off the hunger by snacking on junk until the meal is ready (this is usually the choice of the children), control your appetite (maybe you’re on a diet and you’ll have a slimfast to suppress your craving), or refuse to settle and just wait for the good stuff.

You’ve probably done all three at one time or another.

It occurs to me that we often do the same thing with our spiritual hunger. Living this life can mean weariness. The toil, the stress. Fighting the law of entropy – trying with everything we’ve got to stop the decay and the tendency toward disorder. We know that everything around us seems to be falling apart.

And so our souls cry out. We are ravenous. Hungry for something to fill us up and fuel our inward places. Maybe the longing isn’t for something but for Someone. “Abba, I’m starving…”  

So, we take our hunger to the One who made us. He who knit us together and knows the deepest longings of our hearts.

But sometimes He doesn’t fill us up the way we expect Him too. Maybe we have to wait too long or His feast is not the meal we had in mind. Again the options are few: we can fill up on junk, we can try to tame the appetite, or we can wait for the good stuff.

The temptation to fill up on junk is a strong one. We do it all the time. “If only I can numb the longings with other things. Something that will give me a quick fix.” The junk food can take on many forms – some more obvious than others. Sometimes we dress it up and try to make our Biggie Fry sound healthier than it is. We can even make it sound spiritual. An event or a program or an experience. Even a relationship.

But, truth be told, taming the appetite is often no better. It looks better on the outside and it’s often the favorite in religious circles. But it’s often just legalism. Controlled, scheduled times of religious duty. Our attempt to keep God under control in our box in the closet.

But, what if we rejected both of those options and just let the hunger burn? What if we refused to settle for anything short of God Himself? What if we let the desire consume us?

It might be messy at times. Maybe even a little crazy to the people around us. Loving God does that. People don’t always ‘get it’. Especially if it changes things. Too much passion makes us civilized Westerners uncomfortable. We’re OK with religion as long as we can keep it in its nice, tidy, politically-correct box.

But the omnipresent, all-powerful, all-knowing God of Heaven & Earth doesn’t fit very well in a box. And neither does hungering after Him.

Perhaps Mr. & Mrs. Beaver said it best in The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe:

“Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he – quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.”

“That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs. Beaver, “if there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.”

“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

“I’m longing to see him,” said Peter, “even if I do feel frightened when it comes to the point.”

Let me join with Peter and long for Him. Let my hunger for Him be a consuming fire. Let it undo all my manipulating and efforts to control my appetites. Let them instead be fed in Him – even though it might not be safe.

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Thankful to be hungering for God with Ann and others at A Holy Experience.

A new month begins.

We’re in the hard stretch of winter here in Ohio. The sky is gray. The snow has gotten dirty from plows and road grime. The novelty of snow angels and crazy sled rides has worn off a bit. Caleb sighs as I remind him once again that he needs his hat and gloves before he leaves for school. Even the magic of whipped cream on a frothy mug of hot cocoa doesn’t seem to fill them like it did in January. 

I can feel it in the air. This pervasive sense of longing. For blue skies and bird songs. For greens to peak out and color to return. For lawnmowers instead of snow blowers. For flip flops instead of boots.

And, it’s not just the kids. The grown-ups long for it too. I can see the question in their eyes: when will the Spring come? March always feels like such a long month as we wrestle with the reality that Spring is still several weeks away.

In this season of hopeful longing, I must continue the list. Bringing color to my gray days with splashes of gratitude. Looking for beauty and filling up on the good stuff.

• Extra time to create and indulge on scones and fresh whipped cream when we had the snow day on Friday;
• Family game night and discovering a new, fun game together (yey for Little Red Wagon and its wonderful, creative game selection!);
• The whistle of my tea kettle;
• The feeling I get when I pull up to the great brick house on Longmere and find my Grammy home for a chat;
• Watching my own kids explore said brick house where I once played – creaky steps to the attic, pokey rug on the landing, Werthers in the bowl;
• Time away with a newish friend at our church overnight – our friendship is becoming a sweet, comfortable place for my heart;
• The firm conviction that God does “raise the dead” as I pray for dear ones in broken marriages and hurting friendships;
• KidSingers “standing like an elephant” in worship yesterday;
• A surprise book in the mail (a just-because delivery that was a BOOK about TEA from my MOM… how good can it get?!?!);
• The hum of the furnace kicking on just before the alarm goes off in the morning.

The list of thanksgiving holds the bleakness at arms length and allows me to keep looking for beauty – even in March. Thanks for joining with me and others in the Gratitude Community this first Monday of the month.