You just never know.

Ever since the house blessing, I have shifted the way I see life. Instead of going through life assuming God only shows up when something good happens, I now feel God in every space, muscle, move, step, dialogue, breath, and moment. He's in it all. It's all His. And I look back on the last couple of years and feel as if I have experienced an awakening to this Truth. I type this as my two-year-old sits doe-eyed across from the television while she gnaws on her toenail, half her foot shoved contortionist-style in her mouth. Even in this what-is-wrong-with-her moment, God is here. And though I know that - I know He's everywhere, I often forget that. I find myself tra-la-la-ing or bah-humbugging through my day and then wham-o, I smack heavy and hard, face first into the take-your-breath-away God who was there all along.

And you just never know. You just never know when it's going to hit you or how or why.

For instance, a couple of months ago my parents upgraded their kitchen stove. I offered to put the old, and still very much working, stove on craigslist. I received a few leads, one of which has changed me forever.

Tasha recently moved with her young children from a women's shelter into a low-income apartment complex. The apartment management is less than managing, and Tasha has been without a stove since she moved in. She cooks all her family meals in the microwave. She found my stove post on craigslist and contacted me. I told her I would hold the stove for her, she would just have to pick it up. Except Tasha doesn't have a car, let alone a vehicle big enough to transport a stove. She said she'd ride the bus just to give me the money so that I would continue to hold the stove for her. I explained to her that the nearest bus stop is five miles away, and even if she could get here with the money, she would still need to get the stove to her apartment, eventually. That wasn't going to stop her. She was desperate. At one point she text me, "I would do anything - walk anywhere - to provide for my family. And we need this."

As you can imagine, at this point I had no intention of selling the stove to her. The stove was hers, a gift - God's provision, but we still had the issue of getting the stove to her.

I talked with Matt and we worked out a plan, thinking we could get the stove into my van, and deliver it to her over the upcoming weekend.

But before I could communicate that with her, she text me again, "Nevermind. My brother found us a stove. He is connecting it. Thank you anyway."

I text her back, praising God for the provision, and that was that. Or so I thought.

Within a day, she text me again. Except this time, it wasn't about the stove. She wanted to pray for me.

A STRANGER ON CRAIGSLIST, A NEAR HOMELESS WOMAN I HAVE NEVER MET, WANTED TO PRAY FOR ME - FOR ME?!

I didn't know what to do with that. Like really? Me? But. But. But you are the one who just left the shelter. You are the one living in some dump. You are the one willing to walk across the city for a stove you can't even carry home.

And you want to pray for me?

As my eyes filled with tears, I text her back. "You can pray for me. Some days I lose my temper with my kids. And I want to be more patient. Thank you. How can I pray for you?"

And that was the beginning of our friendship - our prayer-ship. Right there. Because of some stupid stove and craigslist.

You just never know.

It's been a couple of months since I met Tasha. We've still never really met, but we text often. This morning I woke to a text from her - one of my favorites so far. "Today is a day that the Lord has blessed us with so rejoice in it and give thanks to Him. Jesus loves you and so do I. Amen."

I will cherish that text. And I cherish Tasha. I've even wondered if she's real or if she's actually an angel.

Because God's in it all. Even craigslist and hand-me-down stoves.

I need a moment.

I need a moment.

I need a God come down and smack me sideways, leaving me to catch breath, moment.

I need a moment.

The days are long, the winter longer, and the darkness, well, I need a moment.

A moment of light. A moment of encouragement. A moment of hope. A moment of end of the tunnel grace.

I need a moment.

I’m wrapped and wound tight spun tense and somebody, God, please, somebody, show me another way. Wake me up to Truth or the first praise-filled chirp of the day or moonlight full glow through the weight of this night.

I need a moment.

God, please, I need a moment.

Before the depth of this stone lump pulls me heavy through the cold wet and leaves me gasping without air.

I need a moment.

Just one moment.

A prayer. And a laugh.

Sometimes it’s the littlest things that test our faith in the biggest ways.

I received a text today from Peter, the Pakistani man who is living in our condo with his family. The text said that the condo is not heating nor is there any hot water. He was asking for help (understandably so - Central Ohio is facing another 20 degree snowy day).

I was ice-skating with Harper when I got the text, and knowing that I would need to deal with this overwhelming heat issue sent me from calm, patient momma to raging, irritable grump.

As our time ice-skating ended, my daughter was becoming tired, hungry, cold and perfectly temperamental for a four-year-old. Instead of handling her with the mature grace of a grown woman, I reacted with annoyance to her every whine, complaint, and tear. It was unpleasant, and that’s putting it pleasantly. In the back of my mind was lingering the reality that my Saturday was now going to be consumed with condo repairs and the associated time and money. Tension was building and my innocent daughter felt the weight of it.

As we drove home from the skate rink, I started in on my self pity party. Who am I going to find to help on a Saturday? I don’t even know where to start with water heater issues. And how much is this going to cost? We simply can’t afford the repairs. If this winter hadn’t been so brutal, this would never have happened. And winter isn’t even over yet. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the money for this. And I certainly don’t have the patience for this.

Internally I was on a tirade, contemplating a vow to never help another person ever again because it always leads to more work for me.

It wasn’t long before all my self-pity turned into God-blame. Surely this was all His fault.

As I shifted from self pity to God blame, the dialogue in my head began to evolve. I found my hard heart warming, a bit of the crustiness breaking away.

Okay, God, fine, so I need to deal with this heat issue at the condo. And every other time that I have encountered an issue like this, you have been there. Not always in the way I wanted or expected, but in the end, you were there. And the result was always blessing. So maybe I’m going to have to deal with this unexpected inconvenience this weekend. But for good reason. Help me to have faith in that.

As the stiffening of my heart began to release, another dialogue emerged. The shrinking tension became apparent as I near laughed out loud realizing I hadn’t even yet prayed that God would fix the heat issues that were plaguing the condo. All the time I had spent stressing (and shaving years off my life in the process), I could have been praying.

Harper and I arrived home, and I walked into the house feeling lighter than I had felt only minutes earlier. Though I still needed to deal with the issues at the condo, my irritability and frustration was lifting. If anything, God took my prayer for the condo and used it to soften my heart.

As I was relaying to Matt the text from Peter, my phone alerted me of another text. There was no holding back the laughter as I read Peter’s words: “Sister, for half the day, no hot water or heat, but thank God, hot water and heat is coming now. It’s ok.”

I looked away from my husband, fighting back tears, as I realized how surly and sour my heart had initially reacted to this measly first-world problem. I was even more overwhelmed with emotion realizing that God had this entire situation under His control the entire time. He was there. He is there. He is here. A flush of humility warmed my face as I processed His faithfulness and my lack of it. Why does He continue to love me unconditionally? The emotion was too much, and all I could do was smile. And laugh.

The condo on a mission, continued.

So what was God's answer to our question, "What should we do about the condo?" And if you don't know what the bleepity-bleep I'm talking about, start here.

After God made it all too clear that selling was not the answer, we started praying about renting. It wasn't even one week into that prayer when God answered in a way we never expected. Back to my journal entry from December:

Meanwhile, I was catching up on some bloggy blogs, and I came across a post that my Pastor published.

Here’s what he wrote:

I met a man yesterday who was left with no alternative but to flee for his life from his home country and his own countrymen. Yes, this happens.

This man is a Pakistani pastor, which itself is not life-threatening, unless you proselytize (share about your faith to nonbelievers in an effort to convert them). If you stay in your “holy huddle” as most churches do there (and here??), then you are “free” to worship. But if you move to the Gospel’s Edge seeking to reach others for Christ’s sake, as he did, then you will initiate your own death sentence. As a result of sharing his faith, he was threatened death six times while close associates lost their lives. He escaped by the grace of God and arrived here just days ago.

Now, he and his wife, along with their three children are in Columbus. But they’re without a home, transportation, funds or a job.

This pastor and his family have a few specific needs, in addition to financial support:

Place to stay (apartment, mother-in-law suite, hotel, etc.)

Um, WHAT?! How about AN EMPTY CONDO??? Could they use that?!

You bet your bottom dollar that I was all up in this precious family’s business, trying to determine if they still needed a place to live, and guess what, THEY DID!

And in less than a week, they had moved in.

I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe that God is going to use the condo, once again, for the sake of His Kingdom, for His glory, in a way that I would never choose but in a way that is so much better than whatever measly idea I could conjure up on my own.

I am in awe.

And I just don’t know what to say. What to do. How to be. Because I am a measly girl who serves a mighty God. And wow. Just wow. Wow. Wow.

As I look back over the last few month, I see the evidence that God was movin’ and shakin’ and jivin’ all along - just not in the ways that I thought. Too often I seek God through my finite perspective, and when He shows up in totally different ways, I miss Him. Because I’m too focused on my way, not His. But God has graciously given me retrospect, allowing me to look back and see what He was doing. How He was working. And it’s beautiful. Because so much of His work is in the small nooks and crannies of my hard heart. His work is a too soft blanket over my messy life. He loves me and prepares me and guides me, even when I’m bitchin’ and moanin’ for some grandiose laser light show.

He’s always jivin’. It’s just that sometimes we need to thirst before we can be quenched. What we perceive as a dry spell is just as much for our good as the moments when we feel God’s presence overwhelming.

And so the condo stands full. Full of a family and life and Jesus. And I am beyond thankful. Because ONLY GOD. Only He can direct the steps of my puny plans into a majestic and eternal journey.

Only God.

The condo on a mission.

If you've never heard the story of our condo, start here. Only God can take a few measly walls, some splintered souls and dried up intentions and make eternal masterpiece. Only God.

Only He can take what I thought was a story with a beginning, middle, end, and slap me open with His relentless, "It ain't over, baby!"

And oh baby, it sure ain't over.

I suppose it makes most sense for me to let you see what I wrote at the beginning of December. Yes, let's start there:

My fingers shake with jitters – thin bones itchin’ like fleas to jump skin.

But this is too good not to type.

Oh God. I thought you had moved on from the mess I offer. And here you are, knocking open the door of my heart, draining me empty, filling me whole with your will.

Your Kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

It’s been a year and a half since I received that phone call from my friend, Jess, asking my family to live in her house. And shortly after we were invited to live in someone else’s house (RENT FREE), we were given the opportunity to allow someone to live in our condo.

Between us and God, mountains were a movin’.

At least that’s how it felt. Over the course of the next several months, we were jivin’. It was as if God tossed us into the front cart of the Matterhorn and together we sped through the majesty of His creation, touching lives with each twist and turn. It was exhilarating.

Except it wasn’t us at all. It had nothing to do with us. It never did.

God was movin’ mountains and homes and lives and for a moment, He gave us a peek.

But then a few months ago, sometime over the summer, everything slowed down. It was as if we pulled into the loading dock, got out of the car, and the amusement park had vanished. And God, He felt distant. And I was bitter. I had this inner conversation (prayer) that went something like this, “Dude, God, yo, remember me? {Sometimes I pray in jive.} Remember us? We had something and it was real. Don’t you remember? Things were happening, man. You and me, God, we were legit. So what’s up? Where you at? Because I thought we could get back together and start rockin’ again. You in?”

Cue crickets.

In fact, not only did I feel silence from God, but Sharon, the one who had been living in our condo, moved out. And so now we had this home – this condo – sitting empty. Leaving us with a decision – what should we do with the condo? After everything God had already done, it just felt wrong for it to sit empty.

And so we prayed – God, what should we do? Sell it? Rent it? Allow someone to live there? God, please show us. Direct us. Lead us.

Cue more crickets.

We got nothing. Nothing. We felt zero peace about any of those options. Yes, we would love to sell it and be able to save money for a future home (the Browns, the family who is allowing us to live in their home rent-free, will return to their home some time in the next year.). Or we could rent it, so as not to lose money on a sale, and still be able to save money. Or we could allow someone to live there who needs a home – but who?

And still nothing. Nothing. To be honest, I was frustrated. Because now this condo, this condo with a story and a history and quite frankly, this condo on mission, was empty. And it didn’t make sense.

So we went with our flesh. And we put it on the market. Because we would love to sell it and save.

But the answer to that decision became obvious almost quicker than it took us to put it on the market. Within a week of listing it, we lowered the price because of the surrounding market, and within a month, we received an offer so offensively low that we knew we needed to reconsider our decision.

And so just last week we started talking again, maybe it’s time to put it on craigslist and find a renter. Maybe that’s what God wants. Because clearly selling it isn’t the answer.

And clearly, it wasn't.

But what was the answer?

Only God.

Stay tuned for the answer . . . tomorrow.

When mercy saves a broken momma.

Half listening to her list off dates, I squeeze the phone between shoulder and ear while my hands wave harshly at the two screaming. They use pencils as swords to poke the other, and I raise my voice over their screams so that my friend can hear me tell her that I have to call her back.

I near break the phone, slamming it down, my fury at the two whose sibling screams deafen. Five minutes of peace to make a phone call, can’t I even get that?

I barrel over, lips pierced, my rage burning my tongue so my hands do the talking. There’s no holding back, no prayer, no deep breath, no count to five. I’m a raging ball of fire and with the very pencils they held, I strike each on their hand, the sting rebounding past my flesh piercing through my heart.

They both wail tears and the lump leaps from my heart to my throat and I can’t swallow because I know that His ways speak love, gentleness and self-control. I’m a rancid piece of worm-infested rotten fruit.

My son’s eyes clear, his hand still pulsing pink from my strike, and I fall to his level, rage swallowed by guilt and the only words I can muster, “I’m so sorry.”

He collapses in my arms, his resilience resting in the safety of a broken momma, and his whisper sinks me to my knees, “I forgive you, Mommy.”

My eyes well up, the one who has only known five years of life teaching the one in her fourth decade the ways of the Cross.

My daughter, still holding her hand protectively, melts into our embrace, my babies overtaking my lap as my tears dampen their foreheads. I sigh deep as I drop heavy into the nail-pierced arms of a Savior, my desperation a prayer, forever enveloped in His mercy.

All the single mommas

Once a year, for one week, my husband's job demands a week of solid travel away from home. It's always in the dead drear of winter, and it's often met with January's culprits: weak immune systems, frozen temps, and a momma who needs Vitamin D or a cigarette. Except I don't smoke.

And so for one solid week a year, I fly solo without even the weather on my side.

And it's hard. Way harder than my ego would like to admit.

I usually spend a couple of days throwing myself a pity party, justifying more babysitters and fast food dinners than usual. And then somewhere around day three, a shift occurs. Amidst my desperation and exhaustion, I remember, THERE ARE WOMEN WHO LIVE THIS WAY ALL THE TIME.

Everyday. Every week. Every year.

They are the single moms. And they are my heroes.

As much as I struggle this week every year, I need it. Without this week to slap me in the face with all the support I miss when my husband is gone, I begin to think that I got this gig all on my own. And lemme tell ya, per evidenced by these last few measly mercy-laden days, I don't. (Not to mention, I have help! There are no words to express how graciously supportive our family is.)

And so I find myself in awe of the millions of women who parent day in and day out standing on their own two feet and their own two feet alone.

The women who coax their babies from bed before sunrise and cradle them to sleep after sundown.

The women who pour cereal, pack lunches, and cook dinner for mouths that rarely speak appreciation.

The women who rush to bus stops, work, daycare, and back home, and still never make ends meet.

The women who have been abandoned, forgotten, overlooked, and betrayed by men who offered false intimacy but never offered to share their last name.

The women who spend their midnights soothing nightmares, laundering sheets, and sharing their already lumpy pillow while never knowing a full night's rest for their own always exhausted heads.

And I know, there are men who are flying solo too - good men who value family and fatherhood even though the mother of their children don't. And there are men who are doing everything they can not to let another child live fatherless. So many of you men are the heroes of your families, and what's most endearing about you men is that what we see as heroic, you see simply as love.

But somewhere along the way, the cycle of single mothers became pandemic. Entire communities of women are carrying the weight of what was never meant to be carried alone. But they carry on anyway, because without them, we'd be a world full of orphans.

And so because my brain is dangerously fogged up and sleep deprived, I find myself doing all I know to do for these hero women - pray. As I ask God to give me the grace to get through another still dark morning coaching small bodies to get dressed and finish breakfast and why-is-there-toothpaste-on-the-wall, I ask God to send grace showers over the mommas who are doing what I'm doing - flying solo - except for one major difference.

Solo is all they've ever known.

Tall sister

Tall sister sprints pink across the crunch-leaf grass, no emergency of tears across her cheeks but surely something important demands her legs to spin that fast.

I brace myself for something four-year-old tragic requiring a jolt of attention and superhero action from this momma.

Tall sister hip pops the door, announcing her entrance.

My eyebrows wake-up, “What is it?”

“Mommy, mommy! I can touch my nose with my tongue!”

Relief deflates my chest, thankful that this time only life discovery brings her sprinting. I crane my neck, my eyebrows still do the talking, “Show me.”

And with dirt under jagged chipped polished fingernails she takes her young hand to her tongue, pushing it belly up toward the button of her nose, proud as proud can be that indeed, she can touch her nose with her tongue.

At that I give my eyebrows a break, momma pride beam my cheeks wide, “Awesome!”

Tall sister swings the door closed, legs already half sprinting back toward her friends, and I hear the delight filled glory of her voice as the now shut door muffles the words that my heart never stops dreaming, “Love ya!”

A winter's one-sided brawl.

Though sun stops beating, my pulse does not. Air turned steam from my breath taunts Autumn mums that some of us will survive this season.

And some of us will not.

Bitter cold sears my soul and I should probably feel sorry for the dead family of once-golden petals,

but I don't.

I laugh remembering why I bought them, their color burst first to greet passerby, and last to bid farewell.

And now the freeze caught them squatting, forever stuck fat and happy except, well, it's peculiar really, their smiles must have thawed.

I only yank them from their misery because their rigor mortis corpses stare ugly. Shallow energy exerted masks my vanity with compassion. I simply don't want to look at them anymore.

But it's they who have the last laugh. They aren't the only ones dead frozen. Their roots stick solid to the once life-giving soil that now sits heavy in frigid clay pot.

And now the only ugly to greet passerby is my steaming and huffing and tugging, the crazy lady having a knock-down drag-out with some pathetic dead plants who refuse to leave their post.

A tired hallelujah.

I'm tired.

I’m tired of putting shoes on tiny feet that tiny hands peel off the second I turn to grab my purse.

I’m tired of layering bread with peanut butter and nutella only to have it fed to the dog. Why don’t I buy the cheap stuff?

I’m tired of greeting my husband collapsed in relief instead of with an open heart of blessing.

I’m tired of the whines, the tears, the screams, the fits, the tantrums, most of them theirs, some of them mine.

I’m tired of consoling the wounds of opposing children, both injured and at fault.

I’m tired of the dead-night jolt from a small strong voice screeching awake post nightmare.

I’m tired of showerless morning breath that seeps pungent into the next day.

I’m tired of midnight laundry, two a.m. cries for water, four a.m. out-of-bed falls, and six a.m. demands for breakfast.

I’m tired of time-outs, slammed doors, utensils turned weapons, and the inconsolable overtired.

I’m tired of passionate sibling blows and forced apologies.

I’m tired of fevers jumping from babe to babe, pediatrician trips accumulate in a single week.

I’m tired of hot dinners shoveled and cold dinners staled.

I'm tired of grocery aisle discipline while gawkers deliver judgmental glares.

I'm tired of all the toys. Oh mercy, the toys. And the socks divorced and the laundry laughing in my face and the half-eaten cracker crumbed into the carpet. It's all conspiring to destroy me.

I’m tired.

I’ve been tired. I don’t remember when I haven’t been tired. I’m too tired to remember.

This isn’t a pity plea, a help rally, a smoke signal. If anything, it’s a battle cry for us mommas who know exhaustion better than we know our last names. Our heads spin mom and mommy and MAAAAA!!!!! ringing tired ears. Remember those first congratulatory cards greeting the Mr. and Mrs. in your mailbox, the pride of your new last name applauding you from postmarked envelopes? Yeah, me neither. All I can remember is that the boy needs shoes that fit and the girl doesn’t like the way I cut off the tops of the strawberries and the baby’s bottle hasn’t been found since yesterday morning.

And I know. I know you whose tears stain your bedside, the unanswered prayers for life in your barren womb. You are tired, willing to max out every credit card the banks will grant just so you can have a chance at carrying life.

You would do anything to be tired like me.

And I would do anything for you to be able to relate. Because motherhood really is magical. It’s beautiful. It’s precious. It’s life-giving and life-loving. And it's exhausting.

This life. Where grace breathes with each exhale, salty grace pooled tears, life draining life. What one needs to thrive another loses to love. And it breaks a momma and a wannabe momma. And we’re tired. We’re all just so tired.