Category Archives: sacrifice
What’s the right price for faith?
It’s been almost two years since we bought this house. It’s a beautiful house. Spacious. Traditional. Inviting. It enchanted us then and charms us still. And yet we watch as other homes enter the ever-dropping market. Bigger homes with sprawling properties, all now listed at much lower prices, seem to shine a light on the flaws of our place. Our eyes wander and we wonder if we made the right choice. Should we have waited? Should we have offered less? How much could we get for how little?
Everybody loves a bargain. We want to get as much as we can for as little as possible. Faith seems no exception. As I sat in church on Sunday reading through John 12, I questioned my stinginess.
We often glaze over the first eight verses of this chapter. Being all caught up in Holy Week and looking forward to the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord, we diminish Mary’s offering.
James Pauls • photographer
Yeah, she poured out perfume on Jesus’ feet and his head. Yup, the disciples complained that it was a waste of resources, especially Judas, but everyone knew he was a thief anyway. Yadda, yadda, we know, we know.
One little bit of this passage, however, caught me this week and refuses to let go. Judas says that the pure nard — Think the “real” stuff, no imitations here. This was Grade A, imported, expensive product. — could have been sold for three hundred denarii. Okay. So what?
Well, that’s equal to a year’s wages.
When was the last time you poured out a year’s wages for Christ?
I can’t think of a single time in my twenty years as a believer that I have made such a sacrifice.
Some may protest claiming that, well, that was a day-laborer’s wages and so it really didn’t account for that much. Perhaps. Today that might translate to $26K, more or less. To some that’s not a lot. To others, it’s a trove of riches! Regardless, it was a lot to her. It was a lot to the disciples witnessing its “waste.” By attempting to quantify the value, we’re once again trying to see how much we can get for how little. If we know the exact amount, we can make sure we’re not giving too much – right? What’s the best bargain we can get for full faith?
I don’t want to skimp on my devotion to God. I want to give Him all that I have.
Worship is never a waste. We can never give too much. And we can never give too early.
Another part of this story hit me this week. Mary had saved this for Jesus’ burial. In Sunday’s sermon our pastor questioned why she didn’t use it for her brother’s burial just prior. She clearly loved Lazarus, but she saved her best for Jesus. The plan was to honor Him at His death, but that night she chose not to wait any longer. A week later would have poured out her treasure on a corpse. That night she was able to pour it out on Life.
I don’t want to wait to until the “right time” to give everything to God. By doing so, I might miss my chance and forfeit even greater treasure.
Your Turn: What are you pouring out for God? It doesn’t have to be a year’s worth of time or money, but it should be your best. How do you offer Him pure, top-notch, Grade-A worship?
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Sunday Morning Leftovers: More of You
Spaghettipie regularly offers Sunday Morning Leftovers. These posts, usually done on Monday mornings, reiterate something from Sunday’s worship that stuck around for further meditation. Sometimes just one phrase the pastor says or one verse read can linger in your consciousness refusing to be neglected. You let it percolate until another, newer morsel of God’s truth demands attention. This is my bit for this week.
“It’s never a matter of getting more of the Spirit; it’s about giving more of ourselves to Him.”
I’ll never understand God, at least not this side of eternity. As hard as I try and as much as I study, He is and always will be a wonderous mystery to me. This week our pastor spoke about the Holy Spirit. He said this (what I quoted above) while talking about how the Holy Spirit dwells in believers. He lives in us, so we can’t get away from Him. But how much reign do we allow Him? Does He have access Read the rest of this entry
Growing up girly
During our search as first-time homebuyers we discovered an unwritten New Jersey law: every house must have at least one pink room. When we purchased this house, it had two and a half pink rooms, a mild selection compared to our other choices. The bathroom has pink tile (Granted: a subdued pink, but pink nonetheless). It also had some paint-splattered pinkish wallpaper above the tile. Yum! One of the bedrooms had pink diagonally-striped wallpaper (this has since been eliminated), and the kitchen had pink countertops (also now eliminated).
I hate pink. Okay, maybe that’s a little strong. I don’t hate pink; I just really would prefer to limit its reach to my daughter’s clothing and live flowers. Even within those realms, I like to keep pink minimal.
Lately our house has been in a bit of turmoil. The roof started leaking in Zach’s room. Our contractor fixed it from the outside, but that turned out to be a temporary solution, so he had to go through the ceiling to really fix it. Before he could do that, we had to move Zach and all of his things upstairs. That’s when the turmoil really started.
Ellie has the biggest room on the second floor. She’s been in that room for three years, but as soon as Zach moved into the glorified closet across the hall, she grew discontent. She wanted the small room! We toyed with swapping, but she has more stuff than he does and switching would just be too much work. Cut through all the drama and tears to this week. We persuaded (bribed) Ellie to stay in the big room by offering to redecorate it. She confessed she wanted the small room so she could make it “girly.”
Five years ago I spent a lot of time choosing the bedding for our firstborn. I wanted something feminine, but not too over-the-top girly. I did NOT want pink. I chose a lovely vintage floral quilt of delicious cranberry, sage and butter colors. Her crib converted to a full-size bed and, miraculously, I found the same floral fabric to make her a matching full-size quilt. When we moved here we painted the room a subtle cottage stone color (aka taupe). It was a beautiful room!
Now, after Ellie’s makeover, it looks like this:
Yup. A Pepto Bismol explosion. I have no idea how I got such a girly girl! She really wants to paint the walls, too, but I just don’t think I could handle that. The pink curtains already make the walls glow a little too pink for me. I also stopped shy of the “fairy canopy” she wanted suspended over her bed. As it is, the pink quilt, shams, pillowcases and curtains are added to the other confectionary items already cluttering her room. Like this.
And this.
And this. (Notice: even her polar bear is wearing a pink fairy dress.)
Oh, and this, which appears larger than actual size.
And here is her most favored possession, since it contains a bundle of pink jewelry. (Notice again, the fairy princess theme.)
But then she took the pink a bit too far.
The sacrifices parents make. I may *gulp* have a pink room in my house for the next five to fifteen years. *Deep breath* But look at that smile. It’s worth every color-cringing moment.
For more non-scrapbook worthy blog posts, visit We Are That Family and ‘Fro Me to You Carnival.
A call to pray
Once again I’m overwhelmed by the need to pray. So many people are hurting! Marriages are falling apart; friends who desperately want to have children continue to suffer miscarriages, or can’t conceive at all. Other friends don’t understand the treasures they have and contemplate throwing it all away through abortion. Neighbors don’t know Christ and are not yet ready to hear. There are health issues, job issues, financial issues, relationship issues and none of this even touches what’s happening around the world. This is all just in my little circle of friends and family. Outside that circle the reasons to pray multiply exponentialy. Millions of people are lost and haven’t a clue where to find salvation; some don’t even know where to find food. People are dying of disease, starvation, lonliness, genocide … Who can help them? Who will defend them?
I am ashamed of myself. Last week I told you about the journey our church is taking of fasting and feasting. I’ve been fasting, but forgetting to attend the feast. Sure, I’m not wasting time on TV reruns or playing mind-numbing games on Facebook; I’m not spending all that time socializing. But I’m not spending the found time with God. I’ve cleaned my house and read some new books. I’ve even done a little papercrafting. I’ve hung new curtains and planned ways to reorganize furniture. I’m caught up on laundry. All of these are fine things to do, but none of it helps me know God, does it? None of it draws me closer to His heart. And here I am staring at an enormous mountain of needs. I am overwhelmed and ashamed at my pathetic waste of time.
Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! Just like Isaiah I cry “Woe is me!” and then just as quickly ask God to use me. I may not be able to do anything. I can’t rescue orphans in Tanzania or feed the starving in Ethiopia; I can’t save marriages or make wombs fruitful, but I can pray. Prayer, even though it seems minimal and certainly inactive, is often the very best thing to do.
Here am I, Lord! Send me, use me, change me. Open my eyes that I may see what I can do and then motivate my hands and feet to obey. Until then, make me steadfast in prayer for those whose feet are already on the move and those to whom You have sent them.
A Call to Die
Yesterday our church started a corporate journey, forty days of “fasting from the world and feasting on God.” This is the book we’re using: A Call to Die by David Nasser. I invite you to join us. I won’t be writing about it each day, but I’m sure some of it may seep into this blog. It might be nice to go through this together.
Today is Day 2 and I’m already struggling. Here’s the deal. For this forty-day-period, we’re supposed to fast from something, kind of like Lent. My problem is I can’t think of what to fast from.
I can’t cut out the internet or email because, well, it’s just impractical. It’s the only way I communicate with too many of my friends and family.
I could cut out TV, but I don’t want to punish the whole family with a sacrifice I intend only for myself. Besides, I have waited MONTHS for The Office to come back. I know, I know – fasting should be wholehearted, but it’s really our date night. Rick and I look forward to our time together in front of the tube all week. We can’t afford a babysitter every week, so Thursday TV must be upheld in order to maintain a good healthy marriage. Such is my reasoning anyway.
I’ve considered cutting the phone, makeup (which I don’t wear everyday anyway), books and extended hot showers. My problem is I can think of reasons why I need all of these things! As a mom, I am sacrificing myself every single day for hours at a time. I don’t know which of these little, trivial luxuries of mine I could honestly live without and still maintain sanity. Granted, I lived without makeup and hot showers in Bosnia, but that was before I had kids, before I had two little beings completely dependant upon me for everything.
Before I get any more letters about my negative attitude toward motherhood, I AM NOT COMPLAINING ABOUT BEING A MOM!! I LOVE being a mother; I love my children more than life itself and I would do anything for them. But I also know that when I have a few little luxuries for myself — some time to write, an extra long shower, a half hour of TV once a week — when I have these tiny moments of revitalization, I am a better mom. If I don’t get them, I become resentful and bitter. I hate being a bitter mom. And I’m not the only one who feels this way. Just today I spoke with two separate women who were really excited about an upcoming day when their husbands and kids were going away. They couldn’t wait! Both were planning, through sparkling eyes, how they would spend their time of solitude.
So, what do I do? Do I risk becoming grumpy and resentful for the sake of a self-imposed challenge? Do I trust God to somehow change the pattern I’ve learned is consistent? Or do I just skip this part of the journey?
The book recommends we fast “from certain everyday things that occupy your time, so that it clears you to feast on God.” What takes up so much of my time that I can’t worship God more completely? I’ve got it! LAUNDRY!! No, wait, cleaning the house. Dishes? It’s perfect! If I get a maid for the next forty days, I’ll be a happy mother, a contented wife, and a servant wonderfully free to be gluttonous over God.
Two approaches to sleep
I read recently (and I really wish I could remember where) that sleep deprivation is a part of motherhood. (Well, duh!) This caught my memory because the next sentence referenced the Proverbs 31 woman:
“She rises while it is yet night and gets food for her household
and assigns her maids their tasks.”
Proverbs 31:15 (NIV)
So, sleeplessness is a Biblical precedent?
Ellie’s school starts earlier this year. They moved the whole schedule up by half an hour to accomodate sports schedules for the high school. So, instead of having her there at 8:30, we now need to get her there by 8:05. Add to this my new school-year goal of never dropping her off without a shower (Yes, I did that several times last year, and, no, I wasn’t the only one. Several of us who looked much better at pick-up than at drop-off.) and my morning are a little crazy.
So, I’ve been trying to get up before the sun. It’s really hard!! I can’t turn on the bedroom light because, well, that would just be rude to my still-sleeping husband. I’ve discovered I can’t take a shower before the rest of the family wakes-up because Zach (a light sleeper and a screamer) is in the room right next to the bathroom and wakes up everyone else almost as soon as I turn on the water. Lately, I’ve been tiptoeing through the maze of creaky floor boards to “assign my maids” (a.k.a. “me”; I make my daily to-do list and check my calendar). Today (with yesterday) I combined my early-riser goal with a meal-related goal. I’ve been trying to make meals ahead of time (when possible) to reduce the stress of “happy hour” (the hour between 4 and 6 when the kids go crazy with energy waiting for Daddy to get home while I try to tidy the house and make dinner without losing my mind). (Heather, today I seem to love parenthesis almost as much as you!) I found a recipe in my make-ahead recipe cookbook to try for breakfast. I made it all last night and set it in the fridge so this morning I would only need to pop it in the oven. Unfortunately, the screech of moving oven racks woke my daughter and the “ready beep” of the thermostat woke my son. So now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just stay in bed and enjoy my sleep. But then I think of this verse:
“Don’t be too fond of sleep; you’ll end up in the poorhouse.
Wake up and get up; then there’ll be food on the table.”
Proverbs 10:13 (Message)
For those of you who are interested, here’s a picture of my completed French Toast Casserole.
It’s like a breakfast-y bread pudding, all warm and gooey with a maple pecan crunchy top. Yummmm!!
Setting my treasure
Every once in a while Rick has the day off and he gives it to me. He takes the kids and lets me lock myself in a room all day to write. Or better yet I get to go off to Barnes & Noble or Starbucks or wherever. It’s a true day of rest for any mom. I love it! Today was one of those days. Rather, it was supposed to be.
I was in the zone. I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the end of my Labor Day and started dreaming about a grande white chocolate mocha. Aaaah …
Rick and the kids were outside playing baseball. Rick had drawn the three bases, home plate and a batters box with sidewalk chalk on the driveway. I could hear them laughing and learning all about Daddy’s favorite pasttime. A smile lit my face, then a wail shattered our serenity. I heard Rick burst through the front door as the indistinct sobs turned into “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!! I want MOMMY!!!!” Isabel was folded in his arms. She had a scraped knee, a cut finger, a split lip and a nasty scrape from her nose to her chin. Poor girl tripped on her way to third.
After we stopped the bleeding and the tears, Rick wondered if he should just never play sports with her. Or maybe only do it on soft grassy areas and with ample body armor. She always seems to get hurt. I responded: “Well, she’s not the most coordinated child.” Rick grinned with a knowing twinkle that reminded me of my recent post. Okay, so maybe she gets it from me.
My wildly productive day of literary genius has turned into a cuddle-fest with favorite blankies, icepops (to stop the swelling), Cinderella and The Sound of Music. Rick keeps apologizing to me; he wanted me to have my day just as badly as I wanted to have it. But I really don’t mind. Some things are just more important – aren’t they?
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
Matthew 6:20-21 (NIV)
Happy with the way it is
Last night Rick and I watched the All-Star game as long as we could keep our eyes open. We finally surrendered around 10pm. To some of you this is a pathetic bedtime, but after a full day of swimming and playing with the kids and Rick’s crazy day at work, this was actually pretty good for us. Anywho, I got less than an hour’s sleep before Zach woke me. Poor guy had lost all his blankets and was curled in the fetal position on his pillow trying to avoid cold blasts of air conditioning. He wasn’t totally awake, but he was crying. Tucked in and secure, he quickly fell back into a peaceful sleep. I was minutes behind him. Unfortunately, my slumber lasted only thirty minutes more. I leaped from my bed at the first blood-curdling scream to find Ellie at the top of the stairs. I must have taken four steps at at time. Through sobs and fever, she told me of a black figure who was watching her sleep. My first reaction, of course, was to pray, during which she vomited all over me and herself. After two changes of clothes and an hour of prodding and pleading with her to take some Tylenol, we finally crawled back into bed, Rick to ours and me and Ellie to hers.
Earlier that day I had talked with a friend about our boys and their sleep problems. Her son recently completed a couple sleep studies and was diagnosed with sleep apnea which led to a minor surgery. Since then he and she have slept beautifully. I shared how, with a handful of exceptions, I haven’t slept through the night in over three years. We concluded there must be something wrong with Zach because it’s not supposed to be like this.
But while I lay in bed last night, Ellie slowly stroking my arm to make sure I hadn’t left her, I thought of sacrifices. Sure, I haven’t slept in almost four years; I’m tired and, at that moment, smelled very much like vomit in spite of the clean clothes. I was in a small bed void of my husband and other favorite sleep props. I thought of all this and was still completely happy.
There is a story in 1 Chronicles 21 that seldom gets much attention. David went against God’s command by taking a census of his military. It may not sound like a big deal, but God knew that David was counting his men to make sure they could defeat their enemies. Rather than trusting in God, David was trusting in numbers. God corrected David’s focus by sending a plague on Israel. He also sent an angel to tell David how to make amends: he was to build an alter on Araunah’s threshing floor. When Araunah saw King David coming toward his property, he bowed low, his face to the ground. David told him God’s request and asked to buy the property. Araunah refused the money and even offered his own oxen for the sacrifices David must make. David insisted saying “I will not take what is yours or sacrifice a burnt offering that costs me nothing.”
What does this have to do with parenting? We think it’s not supposed to be like this. Life should be easier than it is, right? Who said that? And when we resign to the fact that this is the way life is — sleepless nights and far too much bodily excrement — then we tend to look at parenting as a job. Stay-at-home moms are especially guilty of this. We feel like our husbands are out working so hard and we’re not bringing in any money and so our kids are our jobs. We work to produce good kids, sweet, moral, intelligent and happy; clean homes, the kind that put Martha Stewart to shame; happy husbands, the envy of all their friends, and look like we’ve done it all without breaking a sweat. We’ve “professionalized motherhood” to the extent that we no longer see parenting as service. It’s our career. We see our kids as work and when things don’t go easily for us, we get frustrated and angry and try to find an easier path. Forget parenting, we do this with regular jobs too!
But what if we consider parenting as an offering to God? Will we give Him what has cost us nothing? And our jobs. Must we complain at every trial or can we consider our discomfort evidence of a sacrifice made to bring Him glory?
Let’s take the parallel back one step. David lost sight of what made his kingdom great. It wasn’t their numbers, their skills or even his excellent leadership abilities. It was the God they served. We cannot be great parents by anything that we do or any skills we possess. We can read all the books we want, but the wisdom gained will never be enough. Our families will never be great because of our appearances, our behavior, our skills or our efforts. Our families can only be great when we serve God wholeheartedly, without looking to the left or to the right. He is what makes us great.
What sacrifices have you made for which you can thank God today?
What’s your signature dish?
On my better days I fantasize about becoming a world famous chef. I love to cook! Truly it’s not a love of cooking as much as a love of people loving my cooking. There is something wonderfully delicious in watching friends ooh and aah over my culinary creations. Somewhere in my subconscious are the plans for my Food Network kitchen. I wouldn’t be a Rachel Ray whose current ambitions include world domination. No, I would be more like Ina Garten with the enviable home and understated class. Throw in the camera men from Everyday Italian and the palate of Giada de Laurentiis and that would be my show. Sigh … Back to reality.
Death to a 3-year-old
No one likes to talk about death. It’s certainly not on the list of hot topics for toddlers. But sometimes we have to do what we don’t like to do. Sometimes we have to talk about less than pleasant things. This has been our case.
Windsor, the beloved family pet, has passed. He joined my in-laws’ family long before I did. He was a wonderful dog; a beautiful golden retriever with the sweetest temperament. Sure, he drove us crazy at times with hair everywhere, loud barking and drool, but we all loved him, whether we admitted it or not. The kids, of course, grew attached to him. They have never known Grandma and Grandpa’s house without Windsor. Isabel rarely went near him, but she always looked forward to seeing him … from a distance.
Grandma and Grandpa live more than an hour away and so the kids still haven’t experienced their house without Windsor. Regardless, we have tried to explain his death. It seems to keep coming up in conversation. How do you explain death to a toddler? We don’t want to scare them or provide negative connotations. We also don’t want to lie to them. I decided long ago I would never (intentionally) lie to the kids. I hated being told silly stories as a kid. I just wanted to know the truth! So … on to explaining death to a three-year-old.
I tried using a timeline. There is a beginning and an end to life. The beginning is when we are born, and the end is when we die. Windsor came to the end. That didn’t seem to sink in much because Isabel kept asking if his eye was better. (He had been having troubles with a droopy eye last time we saw him.)
Then I tried the old and sick trick. He was very, very old and very, very sick. I was concerned this might tumble into another ‘old bubbles’ type conversation, but it didn’t. She just insisted we take him to the doctor because “doctors make everyone feel better!”
I decided to simply say he was “gone.” Our ever-inquisitive Ellie asked about Grandma and Grandpa. They must be so sad and lonely. “When is he coming back?”
Eventually, I gave up. She’ll figure it out when we visit them again and he’s not there.
As we were driving to church, a definitive voice from the back seat proclaimed: “Mom, Windsor is dead.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She seemed so unemotional and matter-of-fact about it. “Yes, honey, he is.”
Isabel continued. “But he didn’t die on a cross. Jesus died on a cross.”
“Yup, that’s right.” Could the death of a dog lead a toddler to understanding salvation?
“But Jesus isn’t on a cross anymore!” She conversed a bit more about Windsor being dead and Jesus not and then sang “Jesus Loves Me” in a wonderfully loud rendition. Who would think explaining something so difficult could result in such a beautiful understanding? We’re all going to miss that dog. I thank God for the time we had him, but I thank Him more for allowing Windsor’s death which helped a little girl understand His life.
