Beautiful Mess

I’m spending each day here in the month of October writing about finding beauty in the everyday mess. Before you think I’m an expert on this topic, let me confess: I’ve likely already lost my temper, prayed that I could have a solo vacation, and held back frustrated tears this morning. I’m far from having this mastered. I’m writing here transparently so that you and I might grow in seeking His daily extravagant beauty. So pull up a chair and get ready to dive into the mess with me, knowing that somewhere in this mess is a beauty that only God can craft.

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It was just past 10 AM and I had ice cream in my coffee mug.

I don’t drink coffee.  I wasn’t using ice cream as a substitute for creamer. I had a mug full of ice cream so my kiddos wouldn’t beg me to share.

It had been that kind of a morning. 

I’d been feeling constant rejection on the business side, stayed up too late the night before, and the toddler boy had both used a crayon on the iPad and wrapped two entire balls of yarn into a knotted mess.  These things had taken quite a toll on my attitude.

So when Tamara texted that they were at the park and would I like to join them?  My immediate response was “Yes!”

Sometimes the only way to get perspective on the mess is to pack up and leave it all for just a little while.

When it’s all pressing in on you and threatening to overwhelm, sometimes it’s best to go to a mountain top and pray.  Well, more like lock yourself in the bathroom and pray. Or do what I did: sit at the park with a dear sister who speaks Christ’s words of encouragement to you.

And who cares if our combined five kids are rolling in the mud.  We sit there and laugh grace as little Lydia claims she’s “So dirty!” And we’re refreshed and then I go home ready to enjoy those kiddos and use a microfiber cloth to get that crayon off my iPad.

How do you take a break?

I’m spending each day here in the month of October writing about finding beauty in the everyday mess. Before you think I’m an expert on this topic, let me confess: I’ve likely already lost my temper, prayed that I could have a solo vacation, and held back frustrated tears this morning. I’m far from having this mastered. I’m writing here transparently so that you and I might grow in seeking His daily extravagant beauty. So pull up a chair and get ready to dive into the mess with me, knowing that somewhere in this mess is a beauty that only God can craft.

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It wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

The baby was on my lap screaming because his nursing had been interrupted again.  I had just locked the twin two year olds in their bedroom.  I can’t remember what mischief they had been into that had interuppted my lightning fast nurser three times already.

But I do remember the condition of my heart.

I was a foul fuming mess.  I sat there crying angry tears, latching on an angry baby, and holding a phone.  The phone I held for a long time– waiting for the courage to make the call.

Finally, I dialed the number of the only friend I had at that time with two kids who were different ages. I managed to choke out a tearful, “How do you do this?!” before erupting into fresh tears.

Sometimes simple confession of the mess creates the real beauty.

The beauty of being told there’s grace to cover your sin.  The beauty of no longer carrying the weight of your sin alone. The beauty of standing just as you are before a friend who loves you anyhow.  And the reflection in that friendship of the unconditional love of Christ.

How do you feel after you confess your mess?

I’m spending each day here in the month of October writing about finding beauty in the everyday mess.  Before you think I’m an expert on this topic, let me confess: I’ve likely already lost my temper, prayed that I could have a solo vacation, and held back frustrated tears this morning.  I’m far from having this mastered.  I’m writing here transparently so that you and I might grow in seeking His daily extravagant beauty.  So pull up a chair and get ready to dive into the mess with me, knowing that somewhere in this mess is a beauty that only God can craft.

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There’s sand all over his legs and he flails as I carry him over the soft sand of the dunes.

He doesn’t want to leave the sand, the waves, or the fun he’s had rolling in the tide pool.

A quarter mile back to the campsite is a long walk with a flailing toddler on your hip so I set him down on the first boardwalk. He wails. Undeterred, I walk on ahead.

“Look!” I say excitedly.  He stops crying and considers what I could be pointing at. “Look,” I say again and he toddles forward.

We make it a game, taking turns finding a new treasure. We discover water, a dragonfly, a rough tree, and a smooth one on our walk.  He giggles delight when a second dragonfly allows him to touch it.

A quarter mile later and I doubt Sedryn remembers the struggle at the dunes.

I can be just like my son during seasons of transitions.  Seasons I might label as waiting.  I can look longingly over my shoulder at the fun season I just left and trudge a slow quarter mile to the next coveted season. That quarter mile could be waiting or a trial or a season of discipline or even another needed object gone missing from my house.

In my haste to get to the next thing or in my mourning over loosing the last season, I ignore the Holy Spirit’s tug.

“Look! Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

Touch the dragonflies, friends, giggle delight over what the Lord has made –> even when you feel like you’re just trudging on to the next season.

I’m spending each day here in the month of October writing about finding beauty in the everyday mess.  Before you think I’m an expert on this topic, let me confess: I’ve likely already lost my temper, prayed that I could have a solo vacation, and held back frustrated tears this morning.  I’m far from having this mastered.  I’m writing here transparently so that you and I might grow in seeking His daily extravagant beauty.  So pull up a chair and get ready to dive into the mess with me, knowing that somewhere in this mess is a beauty that only God can craft.

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When my workout of the day requires running, I get up before the sun comes up. I lace up tennis shoes in the dark because if I turn the lights on, I’m temporarily blinded to the dark-light outside.

I don’t wear my glasses on these runs (and I’ve long since run out of contacts), so I can’t see very well.  I have an astigmatism so the world is all blurry and distorted.  Distances look longer and the hills roll and curve and loom menacingly.

Speaking of the hills, did I mention a mile run in my neighborhood includes 4 hills all at least the height of two cars stacked and some as high as five cars stacked?

Oh, and I’m not a runner.  I’m built for endurance though, so I can usually power through 1.5 miles of hilly terrian or a 5K of flat terrian.  But I hate running.  I hate the pound pound of the pavement on my feet and knees.  I hate the dripping running sweat soaking through everything.  I hate the chaffing of my thighs as I run in shorts because it’s too hot to wear pants even at 6am.

Today, I’m powering up the second hill (after already having climbed the 5+car hill at 45 degrees of doom) and the world is still very fuzzy.  I round the corner at the stop sign for the 5+ stacked car hill that is my first downhill of the whole run.  The world sort of explodes with the light of sunrise; all orange and glowing above the trees.

If I hadn’t have climbed those first two killer hills, I wouldn’t have been high enough to see that beauty.

I think it’s the same way with our daily mess and beauty.  Sometimes we have to climb through the gigantic hills of toddler eating laundry piles.  Or maybe we’re seeing blurry through the lens of a illness passed among family members again.  Or maybe the days are just long and hard with a baby not sleeping through the night and a toddler climbing out of his bed over and over and over at naptime.

Then we round the corner and are startled by the beauty of a moment; startled by the grace in the daily.

Not that laundry piles, sickness, sleeplessness, or discipline battles aren’t grace, but they’re hard grace meant to grow us.  And it’s this hard grace that prepares us to see the beauty.  It’s the hard grace that lets us capture that moment where your independent child holds your hand voluntarily for half an hour.  Or when your busy toddler boy, who no doubt unrolled toilet paper, threw something at you, or stuck his foot in his dirty diaper this morning, falls and then wants nothing more than to rest his head in the curve of your neck.  Or that glorious moment when your strong willed child comes humbly to you and whispers, “I disobeyed.”  Or your husband comes home with a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar unexpectedly after a long day.

Those beautiful sunrise moments, they’re made more beautiful by the hills you had to climb to see them.

So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord,  for we walk by faith, not by sight.  Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord.  So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him. 2 Cor 5:6-9

So let’s climb those hills while we’re here with our fuzzy vision.  While we’re longing so to be home with Him and be through with this race.  And let’s wait for those glimpses of beauty that the Lord Jesus provides, knowing that this is a season to walk by faith.