Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Home

Life In Progress

A place for everything and everything in its place. Our motto these days is more like “no place for anything and nothing in its place.”

Thanks to Christmas, the addition of a new baby and traveling, our house is far from orderly. We still have suitcases (empty) in the bedroom, mounds of laundry that seem to multiply overnight, toys in every room of the house and piles of papers and other miscellaneous objects that seem to have no home.

This bugs me. I like order. I enjoy putting things where they go. I want to be able to walk through the house without worrying about tripping over a stray toy or cup.

I’m thinking that’s not going to happen until Phil and I are empty-nesters. Realistically, it’s probably possible sooner than that, but when I look around the house, I wonder if it’s always going to be like this. When we lived in our first apartment, our stuff was packed into it in an out-of-control, embarrassing sort of way. Then, our daughter was born and the disorder was more like chaos. When we moved to the house we now live in, we couldn’t believe all the room we had. We’ve learned, though, that when you upgrade, you find a way to fill the space you have. Add to that the birth of our son and we’re back to feeling a little like sardines.

Maybe that means we have too much stuff. Thanks to ample storage space in the attic, we have a few boxes of things we haven’t used since we’ve been married. They’re mostly decorative things, I think, like picture frames and wall hangings, although there’s also a box of music boxes I’ve collected since I was a girl that haven’t seen the light of day in close to 10 years. I’ve never been much of a decorator, but I want to be able to display these things and create a homey atmosphere. Right now, the atmosphere is modern toddler, at best; messy family, at worst. I fear that our kids will be 16 before we’re able to show off their baby pictures or that Phil and I will be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary before I get around to putting up our wedding pictures.

We’re definitely a work in progress when it comes to our home, and I know this happens to most families with young children. It’s just hard for me to accept because I’m not a work-in-progress type of girl. I like to finish what I start. This was the hardest time management lesson to learn as a reporter. Most of the time, I had to have three or four stories “in progress” while I waited for phone calls to be returned or interviews to be scheduled. If I had waited until one story was finished before I started the next one, I would never have made deadline and probably would have been quickly out of a job.

Most of the time my life feels like a work in progress, too. Some days, I wish I was a lot closer to complete than I am. I’m often reminded of how much work is left to do, especially when I say something I don’t really mean, become overwhelmed by the little things, or ignore a need when I could help meet it.

I’m grateful for other work-in-progress people in my life, who even if they’re a little closer to complete than I am, remind me that nobody’s perfect and nobody will be this side of Heaven. I’m drawn to those kind of people, who easily admit their faults and acknowledge they don’t have it all together.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved Philippians 1:6: “being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”

Someday I’ll be complete. Until then, I can rest in the truth that every day is bringing me a little closer to that end.

Connected

It’s been too long. Those of you who know our family well or follow us on Facebook know that on December 2 we were blessed with a son, Corban Ranard, who weighed in at 9 lbs. 10 oz. and was 21 inches long. After the weeks and months of anxiety and waiting, he arrived just a few hours after his due date, via C-section, which was a fearful prospect before it happened but actually turned out to be not so bad. The last month has been full of family visits, holiday celebrations and adjusting to life as a family of four.

Even though we live 700 miles from family and most of our friends, we were truly blessed to have our parents present before and after Corban’s birth to help with household chores and even to give Phil and me a week without a toddler before we traveled home for the holidays. I don’t know how we would have done it without them. We delayed reality for a while, but it was a great help to have so much support during my recovery.

I’ve had lots of time to think, even if I don’t have lots of time to publish those thoughts. One thought I wanted to share came to me while I watched my dad try to fix our strands of Christmas lights as we decorated our tree. Of the two strands, only half of one worked, which would have made for a dimly lit tree. While Phil was out running errands, and picking up two new boxes of lights, my dad set out on a search for the lights that were causing the problem. After a diligent search of both strands, he found the problem on one strand and fixed it so that all the lights worked. The nonworking half of the second strand was beyond repair, so he cut it off and wrapped the exposed wire on the working strand.

The second strand reminds me of the church or what the Bible calls the body of Christ. The purpose of a strand of lights is to shine, as is the purpose of the body. “You are the light of the world,” Jesus tells his disciples. And like the strand of lights, we’re all connected. So, if one member experiences a problem, it affects the rest. Yet, I wonder, how many of us are like the half strand that was working, happily shining our lights, not knowing that the rest of the strand was dark, affecting the overall brightness of our light?

“For the body is not one member, but many. … And if one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it. Now you are Christ’s body, and individually members of it.” — 1 Corinthians 12:14, 26-27

The body of Christ, His church, is only as bright as the weakest member. I can’t effectively show the light of Jesus if other members of the church are struggling to even light in the first place. I’m praying for open eyes to see the unlit lights around me and for wisdom to help them shine again.

True hope

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5-6 (NIV)

I can quote this verse, but I forget, sometimes, to claim its truth and live it out. It’s been a rough couple of weeks with the pregnancy, not because of any problems really, but because of expectations and false hopes.
Last week, at 37 weeks, I was barely dilated, but the doctor was hopeful that something would be happening soon. Other mommy friends told me their stories and I started to get excited that maybe we’d have a baby by the end of the week. On Friday, after timing contractions for an hour between 4 and 5 a.m., I woke Phil up, certain we’d be heading to the hospital. As I sat on the couch, though, just to be sure I was feeling what I was feeling, the contractions stopped. And as the day went on, life resumed to normal. Disappointment set in as I refreshed my memory about the signs of false labor. Then, I got angry. So, I took out my frustrations on the dishes and anything else I thought needed a good cleaning. And I wore myself out.
At my next appointment, I went in with the hope that my cervical dilation would have progressed in the last week only to find out that really nothing had happened. Same dilation, same belly measurement, and now the doctor was talking possible C-section if the baby didn’t drop soon. We did have another ultrasound to measure the baby’s growth, and he or she is not quite 8 lbs. yet, so the news wasn’t all bad.
I left the appointment in tears, with more disappointment and frustration taking control of my attitude. After rejoicing that we made it past the 35-week mark, I’ve convinced myself that this baby is never going to be born, even though I’m still two weeks from my due date. I’ve allowed the doctor appointments, and even other birth experiences, to build my expectations and set me up for false hope. Not that anyone has intended to do that; I’ve just been willing to cling to any kind of hope that the baby will be here sooner than my due date.
Even the doctor this week, though, said he wished he had a crystal ball and could tell me what was going to happen. As I’ve thought more about the past couple of weeks, I’m being reminded that even though the doctor can’t tell me for certain what will happen and my friends’ birth experiences won’t necessarily be mine, I have a Father in Heaven who knows EXACTLY how this pregnancy will end. He knows the time, day, place and circumstances. And though I wish He would let me in on some of that, I have no other option but to trust that His timing is perfect and will be perfect and there’s a reason for all this waiting. I cannot trust in what I know, what my friends know or even 100 percent in what the doctors know because none of us is God Almighty.
And I have to remember that the hope I have in Christ is “an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” (Hebrews 6:19, NIV) When I cling to this hope, I will not be tossed about, emotionally or spiritually, but can wait with confidence for Him.
Easy? No, but neither is freaking out and placing my hope in news that seems to change from week to week. Firm and secure. That’s what I need. That’s what I’ve been lacking.
As the hymn says, “On Christ the Solid Rock, I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.” Amen. And Amen.

Making room

We’ve had an interesting day, but it really begins Tuesday. That was my 35-week doctors’ appointment, at which the doctor discovered that my belly had grown, in a week, bigger than it should be at this point in the pregnancy. So, she scheduled us for an ultrasound, which was this afternoon. Bear in mind that a year and a half ago, at 35 weeks pregnant, I was in the hospital preparing to give birth to our 6 lb., 3 oz. daughter.

As the ultrasound tech took the baby’s measurements, she said, more than once, “Oh, big baby.” Really? I thought. I mean, people have been looking at me like I’m nuts when I tell them I have five weeks to go, even asking me if I’m sure I’ll make it one more day, but I guess I wasn’t totally prepared to hear that the baby is big. I blame the steroids in the shots they’re giving me. 🙂 Anyway, according to her measurements, the baby is 7 lbs., 6 oz. already, which may bump my due date up about two weeks.
So, let’s see, if my math is correct, five minus two is … three. Three? Like, we could have a baby in less than three weeks? But we’re so not ready! I envy those people who have everything in order and who seem to just sit around and wait for the baby to come. That’s not been our experience so far. Heck, when Isabelle was born, our apartment was undergoing electrical work that our landlord had yet to finish and we had, literally, nothing as far as baby gear goes. No car seat, no crib, no diapers, no clothes. I remember telling people, “We have five weeks” like in that span of time, the baby fairy was going to sweep through our apartment and equip us with everything we needed.
Lesson learned. This time, at least, we have gear. We have diapers. We even have a more-than-half-packed hospital bag. Still, we find ourselves with some minor redecorating, shall we say, to make room for the baby, who will sleep in our room for the time being. After hearing today’s baby update, it seems like all of a sudden we’re in high gear to get this stuff done.
All of this makes me think of getting ready for Jesus. The world was mostly unprepared for His arrival the first time; will we make the same mistake the second time around?
I think of the Parable of the Ten Virgins, found in Matthew 25:1-13, and how half of them were ready and half of them weren’t. And even though the bridegroom in the story was delayed, the five who had prepared were ready anyway while the other five were caught by surprise. In the course of my everyday life, I wonder if I’ll be caught by surprise when Jesus returns or if I’ll be ready. It’s certainly no secret that He’s coming again. He talked about it often when He was on earth, as is recorded in the Gospels. So, like with pregnancy, I shouldn’t be surprised that it will happen someday.
Unlike with pregnancy, there’s no due date, though. At the end of the passage in Matthew, Jesus says, “Be on the alert then, for you do not know the day nor the hour.” How, then, should that affect how I live my life?
Anticipating the baby’s arrival, I see my daily activities through a different lens. I look around the house and see better what needs to be cleaned or moved or gotten rid of. How I spend my day also is affected. I rest when I need to, knowing that I have the trial of labor ahead. Or I prioritize baby-related activities, like washing baby clothes or packing the hospital bag, above other things I could be doing like reading or checking Facebook. (OK, so it doesn’t always look like that as I’m 100 percent guilty of being on FB when I should be doing something far more productive.)
If I view my life through the lens that Jesus is returning, and it could be any day, then my priorities should change, too. I should value what He values. I should consider how I spend my time and money. I should have an urgency about my life that reflects the need to be ready for His arrival.
Most days my life doesn’t look anything like that because it’s so easy to get caught up in the daily stuff of life that we, in some ways, have to be concerned with to make life flow from day to day. Still, I desire a more eternal perspective. Will you pray with me for that perspective? Regardless of the day or year of Christ’s return, we, Christians, need to be ready. How will you get ready?

Lean on me

It’s been an overwhelming couple of days, just thinking about what’s to come and what needs to be done. I’ve passed the psychological milestone of 35 weeks in this pregnancy (that’s when Isabelle was born) so I feel like I’m in waiting mode — that any day, our second child could enter our lives.

On top of getting things ready for the baby and the seemingly endless string of doctors’ appointments that go with it, we’ve had additional basic life issues to deal with this week like paperwork for benefits renewal, car inspection and trying to find somewhere, anywhere still offering flu shots. Add those to the daily grind of school, work, housework, child care and it’s no wonder the floodgates opened tonight and I found myself a blubbering mess of tears as a friend and I met for our weekly chat. Yet when she left, life suddenly didn’t seem so overwhelming and just voicing the struggles diminished them somewhat.
The same thing happened yesterday when I was frazzled and frustrated — the ladies of the Bible study I attend threw me a baby shower of sorts, complete with cupcakes, ice cream, baby-themed plates and a generous offer of meals for our family after the baby is born.
Both instances brought to mind a passage from Ecclesiastes. “Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.” (4:9-10, NASB)
Phil and I have and continue to be lifted up by our families — both biological and spiritual — in ways we can never repay. At times, it’s hard to accept so much help when you feel you have nothing to give back, but we’re learning firsthand the principle of passing on to someone else what’s been done for you. Pay it forward, if you will. We’re racking up quite an account for someone or several people in the future, which is indeed a blessing now and to come.
I think it’s safe to say the hardest thing we’ve had to do so far in our married life is leave our hometown, family and friends to move to a state where we knew less than a handful of people. We knew when we got married that it would be that way. So, for our exit song at our reception, we asked that the DJ play “Lean on Me” and that all of our family and friends join us for a sort of group hug/dance. It’s a song that Phil’s camp “kids” made meaningful to a group of Bible campers, but that’s not the main reason we chose the song. Its words hit us where we live, then and now. It really has the same message as the Bible passage quoted above: We need other people to survive in this world, but we can’t get help if we don’t tell people we need it and what a sad state to be in: needing help but having no friends.
Two hours ago, and most of yesterday, I was too stressed to even know where to begin counting my blessings. Now, although it’s somewhat cliche, I can say that I’m too blessed to be stressed. Life’s circumstances and responsibilities haven’t gone away, but I’ve got a better perspective on them, and I’m reminded that I’m not walking through them alone. I just have to be willing to make them known, even if it means crying a mess of tears in the presence of a friend.
Whatever circumstances you find yourself in as you read this, I pray that you have a good friend who can walk with you and lift you up. Life really is better together.

So much love to give

We’re expecting baby No. 2 in seven weeks or less, and I’m beginning to wonder if I will have enough love to give two children. Do you ever wonder if there’s a limit to your love?

As I “practice” raising two children under 2, I find myself at times unable to love someone else’s daughter as much as I love my own. Maybe that’s not required of me, but I can see a difference sometimes in how I treat them. And I worry that my love for Isabelle will grow less when a new baby enters our world or that I’ll find myself struggling to love them both equally.
How do you do it, parents with multiple children? Do I worry for nothing? Does love increase with the number of children in your house and you find yourself with more to give? Is this just pregnancy hormones and third trimester anxiety kicking in?
“For God so loved the world …” I read in John 3:16; how does He do it? I know He’s God, but the world, is well, big, to say the least, and growing bigger every day. I’m in awe of His infinite capacity to love, even those who don’t want anything to do with Him.
So, I pray to be more loving, to be full of God’s love because on my own, I haven’t enough. And I trust I’ll find a way to love my daughter as much as a new baby and vice versa.
Lord, I don’t have it in me to love the world as You do; all I ask is for enough love to give to those You give to me. Amen.

Salty living

“You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men.” (Matthew 5:13, NASB)

I’m consistently amazed by Jesus’ use of the simplest images to convey deep spiritual truths, and his use of salt imagery is one from which I continue to find more and more meaning. Today, as I read this verse, the word “tasteless” practically jumped off the page. I’ve never thought that salt could be tasteless in the sense of having lost its flavor because I have no memory of ever eating salt with no taste. But I thought of another use of the word “tasteless,” the sense of liking or inclination (think tasteless joke or bad taste in friends).
So, I looked up the Greek word for “tasteless” used in this verse (http://www.biblestudytools.com) and besides meaning “salt that has lost its strength or flavor,” it also can be translated as “foolish.” The root word of the Greek word used here means “foolish, impious and godless.”
Have you ever cringed when another Christian opens his or her mouth and presumes to speak for all Christians? Are you ever sad when you see how TV shows or movies portray Christians? We can criticize those depictions all we want, but if we’re honest, there’s probably an element of truth on which they are based.
I wonder if Christians, the Church, have become tasteless to the world. I’m not saying we’re to say what the world wants to hear, i.e. make the Gospel “taste” good while throwing out the truth. I’m just wondering if we’re fulfilling our mission to make the world crave the Gospel. Salty foods make me thirsty; salty Christians should make others thirsty for the Living Water found in Jesus Christ.
In addition to being tasteless, I wonder if our “salty” lives sometimes leave a bad taste in others’ mouths. I remember one time my husband and I made spoonbread (a cornbread-like dish you can eat with a spoon, hence the name) and when we tasted it, we practically spit it out because it didn’t taste like we had remembered it. Turns out, we used a tablespoon of salt instead of a teaspoon. The salt taste was so overpowering it ruined the dish. Maybe, at times, we can come on too strong and leave people wanting to have nothing to do with Christianity.
Somewhere in between is a balance, and I’m still figuring out how to live a life that leads people to crave Jesus without giving Him a bad name.

Failure to launch

So, what if you started a moms group and no one showed up?

This summer, it was on my heart to try to start some sort of weekly moms gathering at our church, even though there aren’t a lot of stay-at-home moms in our church. I’ve just been really burdened for mom company and offering a place where moms can get together for a little while during the day and get to know other moms. Over the summer, I repeatedly heard the message, “Reach out.” If I wanted friends, I needed to take the first step and not wait for someone else to reach out to me. I didn’t have a curriculum or concrete plan in mind; I just thought we could get to know each other to start and go from there, eventually reaching beyond the church walls to our neighbors and moms in need in our community.
The first week, two older moms (whose kids are grown and are grandmas) showed up to support me so I wouldn’t be alone. It was a touching and thoughtful gesture that almost made me cry. (Of course, it doesn’t take much to make me cry these days!) This week, Isabelle and I played in the nursery by ourselves.
I wasn’t too discouraged after the first week; it’s sort of what I expected. And as we walked home after meeting Phil for lunch, I felt God impress on me the words “faithful with a few things.” It comes from the Parable of the Talents, found in Matthew 25. Jesus tells a story of a man who leaves his possessions to servants to care for while he’s gone. The three servants are all given different amounts and do different things with them. The first two servants grow their master’s possessions while he’s gone, and the master says to them, “You were faithful with a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master.” (Matthew 25:21, NASB)
I believe starting small is a good thing, but that also takes time and patience and faithfulness. I know of other moms groups that started with 2 or 3 and have grown multiple times that over years. I know God can do that here, but He also could keep us small or impress on me that maybe this isn’t the right time or place. I know it’s in His hands, so I cling to His encouragement, “faithful with a few things.”
I have a little more marketing to do to get the word out more about the group, but my first priority right now is prayer and looking for opportunities to build relationships with other moms as I meet them. And I’d ask if you have a similar burden where you’re at, or something you’re considering starting, to pray with me, and I’ll pray with you. And maybe a little at a time, we can change the world for Christ.

It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that ring …

For a variety of reasons, I haven’t been wearing my wedding ring much lately. Especially over the summer, it has rarely found its way to my hand, mostly because of the heat. My hands swell and I have trouble getting it off, so most days, I just haven’t bothered. And if I know I’m not going to leave the house, then I usually leave it off.

When I do leave the house, even if it’s just for a walk around the block with Isabelle, though, I like to have it on. Maybe that’s just for appearances’ sake, but I feel like anyone I meet might notice I don’t have it on and assume I’m a single mom, pregnant out of wedlock or something like that. I wonder if that’s because I might mistakenly assume the same thing about someone I see with children who isn’t wearing a wedding band.
I find myself often looking at people’s ring fingers — so I can pass judgment on them or just gather information? I remember after we moved to Pennsylvania last year, we couldn’t determine right away if our pastor was married because he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. We speculated for a few weeks, until we met his wife, and later learned he’d lost his ring on a mission trip to Brazil. I think he got a new one for their anniversary a few months later. (If I’ve got the story wrong, correct me!)
Wearing my ring or not wearing it doesn’t make me any less married, and I know there are some cultures where rings aren’t part of a wedding ceremony at all. And even though I know a ring or no ring won’t change my actions or the fact that I’m married, I still feel the need to wear it out in public.
This makes me think about Christianity and how we know people are Christians or not. Does it depend upon some outward indication, like that they’re wearing a cross necklace or a Christian-themed T-shirt, they go to church or carry a Bible? Is it more like a state of mind, like when I’m not wearing my wedding ring, I still know and act like I’m married, so similarly, whether anything in my appearance says it or not, I still know and act on the truth of my relationship with Christ?
The Bible gives some ways we can tell. One that comes to mind is found in John 13:35: “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Our youth group will be discussing this issue in the next couple of weeks, so I’ll be studying it more during that time. I’m just beginning to believe that telling someone you’re a Christian isn’t enough anymore because it has sort of lost its meaning, or it has a different meaning to different people. But maybe like the wedding ring thing, I’m just making dangerous assumptions without knowing the truth.
How do you tell people about what you believe, and what does “Christian” mean to you?

Bravery’s price

Someone told me today I was brave. My feat? Standing in front of a room full (maybe 50 or so) of writers, mostly Christian, I assume, and sharing for a few minutes what God had put on my heart about the need to write His stories. It’s only the second time I can clearly remember someone calling me brave. (The other was on a New Year’s Eve date disaster. My date, my friend, her boyfriend and I went to a dance club/bar in Iowa that allowed minors. My friend and her boyfriend got in a fight on the way there, and my date would have been more comfortable in a line-dancing type of club. Tired of sitting at the table doing nothing, I got up and joined a group of strangers on the dance floor. When I returned to my table, my date said, “Boy, you sure are brave.”)


Most of the time, “brave” is not a word I would use to describe myself. Shoot, tonight I was even slightly afraid to take laundry to the basement by myself. And I usually think that if I was ever in a situation that required bravery, I would be the one cowering in the corner, praying for it to be over without incident.

The “brave” comment brought to mind a Sara Groves song that almost always makes me cry when I hear it. In “When the Saints,” she sings of how the courage of other saints, past and present, drives her to keep up the good fight. Here’s an excerpt:

‘”I think of Paul and Silas in the prison yard
I hear their song of freedom rising to the stars

I see the shepherd Moses in the Pharaoh’s court
I hear his call for freedom for the people of the Lord

And when the Saints go marching in
I want to be one of them
And when the Saints go marching in

I want to be one of them

I see the long quiet walk along the Underground Railroad
I see the slave awakening to the value of her soul

I see the young missionary and the angry spear
I see his family returning with no trace of fear

I see the long hard shadows of Calcutta nights
I see the sister standing by the dying man’s side

I see the young girl huddled on the brothel floor
I see the man with a passion come and kicking down the door

I see the man of sorrows and his long troubled road
I see the world on his shoulders and my easy load

And when the Saints go marching in
I want to be one of them
and when the Saints go marching in
I want to be one of them”


It’s that last part that always gets me … “the world on his shoulders and my easy load.” I’m humbled and challenged by all of these scenarios, and I know my faith is weak in comparison. I have no fear that I won’t go to heaven, but I long to join this band of saints who weren’t and aren’t afraid to do the hard things in the name of the Lord.

Brave? Hardly. But I’m learning to cling to the promise: “For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.” (2 Timothy 1:7, NASB)

And what follows that promise is a challenge. Because God has given us power, love and discipline, “Therefore, do not be ashamed of the testimony of our Lord or of me (Paul) His prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel according to the power of God, who has saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works, but according to His own purpose and grace which was granted us in Christ Jesus from all eternity.” (vv. 8-9, NASB)

To be brave comes with a price, and I know I haven’t come close to paying it yet.