Give me a field of wildflowers, a bit of blue sky, and a skirt to twirl–freedom and breath, breathing and freedom.

We’ll take our blanket on the ground and pick wishes to blow in the wind. I’ve grown tired, my frame weak and feeble, weary from the raising and the carrying and the wiping brows and bottoms of little people. But this is holy work. And sometimes holy work needs a breath of fresh air and a barefoot dance.

There is glory in the slow passing of time. Patience runs quick and shallow under the hollow earth; flowing swift, then at once colliding!—the roots of necessity. Fervor for efficiency and perfection give way to soul shaping, the weight of eternity’s calling careening waters. We meet at this slow place.

The wind blows and we name shapes in the clouds. I twist flowers into a crown…fingers remembering the long lost art. She wears it like a daughter should. Laughing. Proud. Free. I make a mental note to write her a letter to remind her to always be this way. Peaceful. Content. A grace.

These days I bottle. Saving graces and glimpses of beauty, discovery, joy. I save them for days when breath is fleeting and chaos reigns and all my failures evident.

The wildflowers, the wind whistling through the trees, the great expanse of blue. Quiet, simple joys. Butterfly kisses and laughing grins.

I’ll return the bottle to the shelf safe for another day. And I’ll trust. In this moment. Life is still here. Holy work, though painful, still good. Joy waiting. The air…still freeing.

What is tragic is so many turn an eye to slavery, particularly sex trafficking. It’s not their problem. It’s not in their neighborhood. It’s not a real problem, just runaways who need money. No. It’s much bigger and more complex.

But even if sex trafficking isn’t on your street or you can’t see it in your city, wouldn’t you want to help fight for the helpless, the imprisoned, the desolate? What if 150 years from now your great-great-great-grandchildren could look back and say, “My grandparents helped to abolish sex trafficking.”

Don’t let the largeness of the issue keep you from action. These aren’t numbers and statistics. They are people with faces…daughters, sisters, mothers.

There is something you can do.

{This  video contains images not suitable for children.}

150 years ago, Lincoln freed the slaves. Today, however, there are more slaves on our watch than at any other time in human history. Let’s be the Lincoln to our generation.

Check out the producers of this video, MadeinaFreeWorld, and their campaign to take slavery issues to congress or visit The Exodus Road today. Consider subscribing to the newsletters from these two organizations, so you can stay informed of the issue and can be given action steps for becoming a modern day abolitionist.

I’m with Lincoln. You?

***

Interested in helping the fight against trafficking? Visit I’m with Lincoln and send an email to your senator requesting to double funds to fight human trafficking. They make it easy. Click your state and your senator’s name pops up and then even have a prepared letter. In just a few clicks you can help make a difference.

Keep up with the fight with The Exodus Road on Facebook (like their page & spread the word!). A team is gearing up this week for a large scale raid in India, covering 7-8 brothels with 30+ victims, please pray for the team that all would go smoothly and for those to be rescued.

…what does the Lord require of you?

But to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.

Micah 6:8

Then the truth passed by, if all of life is worship, then writing and Jesus are friends.

Even if I’m crafting a story in which Jesus isn’t mentioned, not even once, he’s there. In the writing, in the process, in the living, in the worship.

So what of Ann?

The first time I met Ann it was through her words. They kindled my heart toward Jesus. As I met her at conferences and a retreat her words mirrored her writing.

1. It’s not about me.

I’ve heard it said all truth belongs to God. if you look across the pages of literary history you’ll scarce find a work that isn’t tangled in the cords of grace and redemption. The praise of a good writing work isn’t mine. If truth and life and freedom is reflected it’s Jesus’ doing, not mine. My creation points to the Creator. I am a tool in the story of God.

There is a humble grace in being a writer. When I wear the badge ‘Christian’ and walk under His banner, ultimately, my words don’t belong to me. I represent and reflect something, someone greater than myself.

{it is a holy and heavy privilege}

I am an ambassador of grace and mercy, truth and righteousness. No matter my story or the way the words fall, if I am in Christ and He is in me, the words will fall on kingdom ground. There is a freedom here. There is also responsibility. What I write reflects my King. It’s a delicate line to walk–aiming to balance the truth of resurrection living with the hard places in life.

2. I am a citizen of the Upside Down Kingdom.

This world is not my home. I am a kingdom writer. My heart and mind, thus my words, should operate in opposition to the way of this word. The greatest struggle for a writer {or maybe just for me} is to be known. But my greatest discontentment comes from reaching to be known–I want praise and adoration and it doesn’t always come when or how I want it or at all.

But I am known. I am known by the One who matters most.

Jesus Himself had only 12 followers.

And He lost one.

So if Jesus had only 12 followers… how many followers do we really need? If God Himself had only 12 followers and He lost one — would you blog for even one follower?

It matters to serve One. In the upside down kingdom, One is the one you serve, not the readers.

When service is unto people, the bones can grow weary, the frustration deep. {Why don’t they comment? Why don’t they subscribe? Why don’t they link?} Dorothy Sayers agrees, “whenever man is made the centre of things, he becomes the storm center of trouble. The moment you think of serving people, you begin to have a notion that other people owe you something for your pains . . . You will begin to bargain for reward, to angle for applause.”

When [blogging is to serve people, we think we] are due some appreciation. So comes a storm of trouble and lightning strikes joy. But when Christ is at the centre, when dishes, laundry, blogging, is my song of thanks to Him, joy rains.

Passionately serving Christ alone, makes us the loving servant to all.” Ann Voskamp (full post)

3. Embrace the Heart of a Servant

I lay my words down before the altar. {come to the altar and leave it all bare} And you know what I’ve found? The further I find myself in Jesus, the truer my words become, the further I see their impact (not always, this isn’t a formula), and I find contentment whether my words reap or sow. A servant seeks to serve whether they ever lay eyes on the party.

Your vocation is always and only this: to be a servant of God.

Our vocation is always serving. You are always a success when you are serving because in the upside down kingdom the way to be great is not to climb higher but lower. Ann Voskamp (full post)

4. Beauty in Brokenness

One of the reasons Ann has found “success” is because she was brave enough to share her brokenness. We see a friend, a companion, an empathizer, because she has allowed us to see her broken–struggles, doubts, fears. And in it we recognize our own {take a deep breath} and realize we are not forgotten.

“If what I make is going to have any power of the cross, it is in my brokenness. It’s the broken that lead us to Christ.” (In the Image of the Maker Retreat)

Don’t fear brokenness. Don’t fear speaking about your brokenness. We can only be fully healed when we are fully broken.

***

As I finish writing this one thing stands out. I could omit Ann altogether for all that I’ve learned from Ann I can see in Jesus. So why not? I think it shows the power of story–our own story–and how, as Ann says, our words heal two people–the writer and the reader.

Is there a writer or mentor in your field that has kindled your heart toward God?

(I highly encourage you to read Ann’s posts on Being an Upside Down Blogger - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and A Blogger’s Prayer. It’s long, but it’s worth it.)

I’m a hoarder of writing magazines. And writing manuals. It’s true. After my first (and only) writer’s conference I went straight to Barnes & Noble and dropped $150 on books and magazines on writing, the current Writer’s Market, and Robert McKee’s masterpiece Story. And I picked up my first Flannery O’Connor anthology too.

But much like hoarding wedding magazines before I ever set eye on my husband, I had stacks of writing magazines telling me how to write and the in’s and out’s of the publishing world. I let myself be intimidated by the plethora of material on writing, when the truth was I just needed to write.

{You can read every good book on writing, but if you don’t write it won’t happen.}

I got to the point where I realized my magazine stack was growing, but my writing wasn’t. I began to throw away the magazines and Writer’s Market and devoted time to actually writing.

In the last two years I’ve renewed my interest (and subscriptions) in writing magazines. With a healthier balance of information and {actual} pen to paper, I’ve learned, been encouraged, and feel more confident as a writer.

What Writing Magazines Taught Me

1. There are endless books.

It’s obvious. Just walk into any bookstore or library and the fact stares you in the face. It’s intimidating. What can I say, what story can I contrive that one of these authors, bond and printed, hasn’t already said? It takes a concentrated effort to not remain timid.

If the word is calling your name, then write. Craft your own vision. Amid the sea of authors and writers you are still you. Bring your own passion and perspective. Get over the masses and write.

2. “No excuses, just write” is bad advice.

Sitting on the beach, sweat rolling down my back, the latest issue of Poets & Writers resting against my pregnant belly, I restrained myself from fist punching the air when I read the editor’s note,

“The truth is, if we’re doing good work there is no need to justify it. No matter how long it takes; no matter how many revisions have been scrapped or how many agents and editors have rejected us, we shouldn’t have to offer excuses for how we get here.

Living a life (with its attendant mortgage payments, pediatrician appointments, and flat tires) and writing a great poem or story or essay or book are not mutually exclusive. Quite the opposite. The writing life is messy, and there’s no secret to success.”

Kevin Larimer, Poets & Writer Editor, July/August 2012

3. There’s no age requirement on published.

I use to think if I didn’t have a novel and at least two screenplays published by the time I was 25, I had failed. {this is the part where I remind you I’m a recovering perfectionist} I’m slowly getting rid of that ridiculous deadline. I’m also five years past 25, so that helps too.

In the same issue of P&W as quoted above, a round-up of debut authors range decades. It took Anna Keesey 10 years to write her debut novel, Little Century, she admitted, “If something takes you that long to write, it had better be Middlemarch or Gravity’s Rainbow to justify the time. So it’s embarassing to discuss.” Later she continues,

“I just turned fifty. Do I wish I’d finished my first novel earlier, before I got fifty-year-old-lady neck, and when I had the potential to be fabulous? Devoutly. But I’m glad I persisted, in my fluttery, distracted, dorky way. [...]

A novel is an enormous pain, but it’s worth it. If you want to do it, you don’t feel complete until it’s done.”

Author Christopher Paolini started writing Eragon, the first book in the Inheritance Cycle, when he was 15. A few years later it was published and later turned into a movie. Paolini and I are the same age.

It’s easy to let stories like that send you into a whirlwind of “I’ve wasted my life!” and “Oh well…my time’s past.” But in writing there is no such thing as too old or too young. Write because you love it. Pursue and grow in the craft. Work toward publication if you desire. But as one insightful letter to the editor asserted,

“Let’s hope we can keep celebrating the indomitable forces that drive us to creation, rather than acknowledging the critical voices that insist we are unworthy of our work.”

4. There is no author stereotype.

If there’s anything writing magazines have taught me is you can’t name a writer by looks. I use to have this vision of a writer as one adorned in horn-rimmed glasses, touted messy hair, and a funky-yet-understated wardrobe. They had read all the classics and the moderns too. They wrote late into the night, every night, and sipped coffee on the apartment floor reviewing last night’s work (or reading another classic) while the mid-morning sun streamed through the loft window.

With that image what kind of writer could I be? But no, real writers still have jobs and kids and dishes to wash. Life still happens. Thank goodness.

What have writing magazines taught me?

There’s room for me and you. And all our quirks, years, and seasons.

***

What are your favorite writing or literary magazines? What have they taught you?

{Poets & Writers is mine.}

I had grand plans this week of scribbling down stories of the passion and sharing them here. {I always have grand plans.}

Of thinking of what it was like to be there, of what was running through Mary’s head, and grief of Peter’s denying words. Even Judas in his remorse…what if he had waited just one more day before he hung myself…what would the resurrection have been like for him?

But instead of keeping my nose to the grindstone, I’ve chosen to actually write that to do list and cross things off, to jump pajama clad in the van to Chick-fil-A for a picnic breakfast with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, to cuddle and make library runs, to plan our Easter weekend–a simple meal, no new clothes, not even an empty tomb craft.

And I’m okay with that.

In a culture that applies pomp and circumstance to every little occasion and holiday, I’m okay with celebrating in a meek and humble way. That’s not to say I’m taking Easter lightly, of all the occasions to celebrate the Risen Lord and the life and hope he brings is the utmost.

But here, right there…the Risen Lord—Jesus? Today, the day we remember his death and the vicious way in which our sins were paid, He is alive. And in that I will celebrate.

I will not wallow in my sin. I will not mourn the activities I haven’t planned. I will not feel guilt that I haven’t redeemed every aspect of a pagan holiday turned Christian turned pagan once again.

{Guilt is counter-productive to the work of the cross.}

Yes, we should remember. Yes, all too often we take the cross for granted. Yes, there is reason to celebrate. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But remember this, every Sunday is the Lord’s day. Every Sunday is a celebration of the resurrection. Every Sunday is Easter.

And all the days in between? Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.

He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.

He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.

He is risen indeed.

Continue your celebrations, your memorials, raise your Ebenezer’s,  good friend! Hail Him, our one true gladdening Light!

Sing our anthem loud,

“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain,
to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength
and honor and glory and praise!”

Death has been trampled today. There is no better day than today to walk in freedom. Don’t wait until Sunday to breathe free.

Rise up from the grave and proclaim,

O death, where is your sting? O hell, where is your victory? O church, come stand in the light. The glory of God has defeated the night!

Be the dead walking. Run laughing and singing into kingdom come.

Jerusalem swelled with pilgrims and worshipers coming for Passover. The group of men fought their way through the crowds, pushing up toward the temple’s steps. As they approached its entrance, a small crowd still following the man Jesus, the house of the Lord rang with the smell of a pasture and the clamor of greedy men.

Walking into the stoa, he stopped. Rows of tables lined the temple, people shopped, sold, and exchanged their currency to pay the temple tax

He walked past the first few tables. A loose lamb bleated at his feet.

A pilgrim in a tattered cloak with hands open, with a few coins resting in his open palm, pleaded with a moneychanger, “But this is all that I have! The temple tax was no more than this just the year past.” “Oh, friend,” said the opulent man, “is that all you have for the good Lord? You would do well to repent of your sins and perhaps He will bless you next year.”

Shaking his head, the Man muttered, “Would you have known…”

“Master?” one of his friends spoke hesitantly.

Jesus bent low over a table, coming nose to nose with the occupant, and with a quick swoop of his right hand knocked the stacks of coins to the floor. They trickled to the floor, clicking and clashing with one another on their way down. Few noticed the disturbance through the bargaining and bleating of creatures.

“Excuse me!” yelled the moneychanger, but before he could stand up Jesus had already turned away. He scrambled to pick up the money.

“You!” the Man shouted, his close friends quietly following him. “You! Do you not know whose house this is?” pointing to a man selling pigeons. His table cluttered in feather and feces. Jesus flipped the table to its side knocking opening cages and scattering pigeons. Moving with a fierce determination, he ripped the cloaks off the next table throwing them to the ground.

“And you!” he yelled pointing to another money changer, who upon seeing him coming gathered his coins close to his chest. The man scampered to stand up as he did his table met the floor as well.

“Jesus…Lord, what are you doing?” one of his men asked in disbelief. Jesus looked back toward him with compassion and a quiet smile.

Standing in the middle of the stoa, sellers and moneychangers scrambling to protect their goods while pilgrims and worshipers stood in shock, Jesus raised his arms to his side as if to beckon heaven down.

“You!” he yelled, circling the put-together market, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.”

Jesus marched through the temple terrifying man and beast alike with his proclaimed determination. Sellers and money changers began to flee, taking what they could with them. Jesus’ disciples stood apart from the crowd–slightly embarrassed and cautious  unsure of what to do.

“This is my Father’s house!” the Man proclaimed, overturning table after table.

With a nervous determination, one of the disciples stepped out from the pack. Looking to the two men still exchanging currency to his left, he slapped their hands down sending  the money to the floor, “Get out!” he yelled at them as he flipped the table. The men scurried away.

Two more of Jesus’ followers broke away and began to knock tables and push people out of the temple. One grabbed bag of money and dumped it on the floor.

“Peter! John! Stop! What are you doing?”

“We are following the Master, Judas!” Peter shouted as he turned over another table and pushed the seller toward the door. “We are to be about his work, are we not?” John shouted as he shoved a table to the floor.

“But this is a place of worship!” Judas exclaimed, dumbfounded at their giddy deliberate destruction. “And so we must make it a place of worship!” Andrew proclaimed pushing stools and tables aside as he followed Jesus.

A group of priests and scribes began to gather, “What is this!?” one cried. “The man called Jesus…it is his doing!” answered a moneychanger as he scrambled to gather his belongings, “He’s forcing us out. Saying we’ve made this place a den of robbers!”

“A den of robbers?!” a priest cried indignantly.

Plummage, feces, and broken wood scattered the walk. The mayhem continued until Jesus was satisfied with his work.

And when he was finished,

…the blind and the lame came to him in the temple, and he healed them. But when the chief priests and the scribes saw the wonderful things that he did, and the children crying out in the temple, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” they were indignant, and they said to him, “Do you hear what these are saying?” And Jesus said to them, “Yes; have you never read,

” ‘Out of the mouth of infants and nursing babies you have prepared praise’?”

And leaving them, he went out of the city to Bethany and lodged there.

Matthew 21:12-17, Mark 11:15-19, Luke 19:45-48

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I love Jesus. I love writing. I love writing stories of the faith. I think all too often we read the Bible and it’s like an episode of our favorite show we’ve seen 15 times over. We watch without really seeing. We hear the stories of miracles and resurrections and prophecy and we see it all. We understand it.

But do we really? I think, more often than not, we skip by and assume we know. We’ve heard this story played over a million times in sermons, books, poetry, and film. We know.

But in our knowing we forget. We forget that these stories aren’t just a chronology. They aren’t just facts. They are of people and lives and are filled with emotion. Sometimes I can’t help read the Bible and wonder what was it like to be there. To be in the crowd. To witness the miracles. To be in the inner circle.

What emotions and thoughts did they feel? Did they have moments of doubt-=-times when they wondered if they were following a crazy man?

The Bible is so much more than a one-dimensional story. That’s why I share these stories from the week of passion. It’s my own way to engage in the reality of this humble grace beyond the age old Sunday School lesson. My hope is that you would too.

* * * * * * * *

 The Man They Call Jesus

{the triumphal entry}

The sun is warm. Sitting on the steps, I wait for my brother to finish his errands. There seems always a fervor during the Passover preparations. Still captive, I think to myself, we prepare to remember our release from Egypt and here we sit captive in our own land. The Lord will deliver us again. But how long, O Lord, how long? When will your kingdom draw near?

I hear whispers among the crowd…someone is coming.

“Who?” “Is it him!? Really!?”

“I’ve heard of the works of his hand!”

“Sure. But is he a prophet or a charlatan?”

I stand, coming out from the shade of the buildings. Excitement fills the air.

Children gesturing friends to “Come, come quick!” Women carrying baskets ladened for the Passover meal huddle together with fingers pointing toward the road. Men stop their work. Soldiers notice the crowd’s fervor, nervously surveying the growing throng.

Caleb should be here by now. The crowd is growing strong. I hope the lamb doesn’t get lost.

“There he is!” someone shouts. A boy, maybe. The people have grown thick and I can’t quite see the voice in the crowd. I look up, but see nothing.

“Who is this that is coming?” I ask a young boy as he runs down the stairs. “Jesus! It’s Jesus of Nazareth!”

“Nazareth?” I mumble to myself, “What good could come out of Nazareth?”

The woman next to be grabs my arm, “Oh, child!” her arms wave in satisfied relief, “He’s made the blind see and even raised a man from the dead!”

“From the dead!?! What man can raise the dead, but the Lord alone?! Surely this is some act?”

“I tell the truth! My sister…she lives in Bethany and she saw him call a dead man–the man Lazarus, four days dead…and he called him out of the tomb. And he walked straight out!”

Each of her hands cup my face, eyes radiant, “We shall see the glory of God today!”

This man…a man from nowhere. Could he be the Messiah?

“Rebekah…Rebekah!” I hear my name called out. The crowd pushes against the buildings parting to leave room for whatever procession this is. I see my brother fighting his way through the crowd. “Caleb!”  I reach out my hand to grasp his. “Rebekah, what’s going on?”

“Do you have the lamb?” “Yes, yes,” pointing to the small creature soft with its bleating. “I think the crowd is making him nervous. What is happening?”

“I’m not sure. They say a prophet is coming. The man they call Jesus.”

“Jesus!?”

“You’ve heard of him?” The crowd shifts as some fight their way to carry on, tossing the two. Caleb puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer, “Yes, my friend has told me of him. He spent a whole day just listening to him talk. They call him teacher, say he is a prophet and a healer.”

“But, Caleb, people are whispering saying…saying he is the Messiah. This woman,” I point to the woman pushing her way to the front of the crowd, “she said he has raised the dead.” Standing on his toes, Caleb stretches his long body over the crowd, craning for a better look. “Caleb, do you think…do you think he could really be the Messiah?”

The crowd grows louder, he can’t hear me over the clamor. But the voices of the procession grows louder. They sing, “Hosanna! Hosanna!

“Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”

Caleb begins to inch further into the crowd. I follow clinging to his robe. The lamb is hesitant, but goes where he is lead. They are here. Cloaks thrown on the ground, some even lay palm branches.

I hear the sound of hooves beating along the path and there he is. The woman who’s sister is from Bethany let’s out an exuberant exclaimation. The man Jesus. He rides a donkey. A man who heals and raises the dead on an ass? Men run into the streets quickly laying their cloaks on the ground, their exaltation loud, their joy high,

“Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest!”

Throughout the crowd I hear the ringing of his praises,

“Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!”

A woman places her hand on my shoulder to balance and shouts, “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”

He’s coming closer. He looks like any ordinary man…their is nothing remarkable. He’s quite homely. I see a pharisee step out from the crowd, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples,” he demands.

In a joyous, most confident voice the man on the donkey speaks, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.”

Stones crying out?

I can already hear the shouts of the crowd following him,

“Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel!”

Is this man a prophet of Elohim? His followers call him son of David, is he the Messiah? Is he the one to sit on the throne of David forever? Could this man–only a man–be our deliverance? Him?

No, no. It can’t be. I look at Caleb. He’s enthralled. He hopes, I can tell he hopes.

I watch, carefully, as he passes. There must be something, I search his face, his body, his clothes. Something to give him away as king and Messiah. Looking into his face, I am met with the eyes of the One who sees me.

Out of the depths of my perplexed soul, the words roll off my tongue, barely a whisper, “Who is this?”

Next to me I hear the contented sigh of a disciple, “This is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee.”

The woman who cupped my face cries, “Tremble, O earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob!”

(The Triumphal Entry: Mt. 21:1-11; Mk. 11:1-14; Lk. 19:28-40; Jn. 12:9-19 )

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We waited. Hoped. Believed. Even in the darkness, we looked for a sign. Anything to tell us there was still a chance that hope was possible. A kindling in our hearts said, “Rescue is coming.”

Rescue did come.

And we ran to the open tomb amazed, leaving in a myriad of shock and disbelief of the mysterious, wondrous gift of grace. Our redemption is here.

And now we wait, we advent, for the Christ King who will come again to right all wrongs, dry every tear, and administer justice with his mighty, righteous right hand.

Oh, friends, our ransom is paid. Our rescue has come. We wait for the trumpet to sound and bring us home.

But there is still a rescue.

There are many, too many, 27 million many, waiting to be set freed. They’ve been lied to, stolen, sold, drugged, beat and treated like garbage day after day, night after night. They hope {oh, I hope they hope!} waiting in physical bondage to hear, “You are free!”

You are freed by the price of His blood. All is His. All is grace. May I encourage you to freely give what was freely given to you and join the fight against sexual slavery?

What Can You Do?

GIVE. The Exodus Road team works to gather enough evidence to encourage local authorities to raid brothels, free girls, and prosecute their captors. Unfortunately, rescue and the undercover equipment needed to gather evidence isn’t free. {Read more about how The Exodus Road works.}

• Sponsor an Investigator
• Fund a Mission
• Make a One-Time or Monthly Donation
• Buy Investigators Equipment, like a Covert Camera

SUPPORT. Help spread the word that rescue is coming by becoming an Exodus Road Blogger. Or become a Church Ambassador and represent The Exodus Road in your local community through awareness and fundraising events.

SHOP. Shop Exodus Auctions and tell friends how your purchase empowers rescue.

PRAY. Get on your knees and pray for their emancipation  Pray for the investigators leading brothel raids. Pray for convictions. Pray for communities to change. Pray for the broken hearts of these women and children that they may meet the Healer and be made whole.

Rescue is coming…and am I ever glad for that. But until the trumpet sounds and Jesus comes to take home His Bride, we must never forget, nor neglect, those still waiting to be rescued.

***

He has told you, O man, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?

Micah 6:8

‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

Matthew 25:40

Christmas morning I opened a canvas tote my brother had given me emblazed with the traditional “Keep Calm and Carry On.” {if you didn’t already know this about me, I’m an honoary British citizen. or at least I like to think so}

“Ah, thanks, Brandon,” I said, turning the bag over and imagining how I’d fill it with books and pens and journals. I opened it and found a half sheet of paper with a note from my brother. {there’s a picture somewhere}

His gift to me wasn’t just a bag with an English war motto, but a trip to England for me and a friend. I was shocked and the tears immediately flowed.

Going to England was a lifelong dream. All my favorite authors and stories and poetry and must-see places are found in the British Isles. And that year…just a few months prior, I had given up on ever stepping on Britain’s shore.

I was a mom with 2 little kids hoping to be pregnant again soon, when would I find the time or be able to go without my children? I was the wife of a seminarian who went to school and worked full-time, schedules and finances couldn’t afford a trip across the pond. Years ago, at the height of my scrapbooking days, I had bought London stickers sure of the day I would use them. Just a few months before I threw the stickers out believing it’d never happen. I even crossed visiting England off my 30 before 30 list.

My brother gave me a gift I never expected, a gift I wouldn’t be able to repay. I was overwhelmed that Christmas morning, my dream had become a reality.

And as any good blogger would do, I share my trip with you. Even if it is a year late.

The most adorable little town in the English countryside. Jane Austen died here, John Keats walked here, Winchester Cathedral stands here, and the Round Table sits here.

We tried not to look like tourists. Really.

Between running to Starbucks to get our wi-fi fix and striking a pose in front of Kensington Palace, I don’t think we quite blended in as Londoners.

Oh, yes…I went there. It was surreal and awesome and a house all the same.

{I may or may not have touched it. Sshh…don’t tell.}

There’s many stories to tell (but I won’t) like the many floors of Top Shop or how my brother got left behind in Winchester or eating in a 500 (600?) year old pub or walking through Hyde Park with suitcases at night or figuring out which way is which on the Tube or how English breakfast is disgusting.

Some many little magical moments and memories.

What’s your dream trip? Have you made it there yet?

Yes, my brother is very generous. I’m grateful. And a very talented graphic designer. No seriously, the new Google+ profile? That was my brother. (Hush about the huge cover photo…think of it as an opportunity for a better picture.)

…

I’m ready to bang my head against this keyboard and cry. I feel like lamenting like Solomon in Ecclesiastes, except instead of “It’s all meaningless! Meaningless!” my cry would be “I’m so messed up! I’m the worst mom! I can’t do anything right!”

{what is with my life lately that this is, once again, a reoccurring theme?}

Motherhood is breaking me. Small house living is breaking me. Thwarted plans are breaking me.

My kids are watching TV again. I said today was going to be a TV-free day and 2 1/2 hours into the day I caved. Olivia was crying and crying for a nap, but with the volume and intensity they play {seriously it’s they’re like lost boys on steroids} she just couldn’t get to sleep. Quick fix? Disney Jr.

The boys quieted down and Olivia fell asleep in a matter of minutes. Oh, but it hurts. (The amount of television my kids watch has become the measure of my worth/quality as a mother.) I was the young mom who said my kids weren’t going to watch TV (or rarely watch). My oldest didn’t watch TV until he was 18 months old.

This morning he told me, “Mom, I learn so much from Disney Jr! I learn how to build a birdhouse and be a pretend doctor and how to be a pirate. And Octonauts teach me all about animals under the water.” Ouch. Aren’t I supposed to be their teacher?

He just said it again, “Disney Jr. really teaches me stuff. But not how to read.”

The past three mornings, I’ve still been in bed (or attempting to roll out) as my husband left for work. At 7:30. I didn’t even make him breakfast. We usually eat breakfast as a family. I’ve failed on the Good Christian Wife checklist. It’s a good thing my husband thinks the checklist is stupid. (I really should burn those ‘How to Be a Good Christian Wife’ books.)

My writing is stagnant and rare. I have plenty ideas raging and manage to jot them down here and there, but good quality time? It’s not happening. My plan to go to bed early and get up early? Umm…no. {thanks a lot Lizzie Bennet Diaries}

I lack discipline and the desire to change. So often I look at my day and see how all has not gone as planned and I give up. I sit in my chair and scroll Pinterest like life is going to change.

I just want to cry for all the ways my life didn’t turn out the way I planned and how my ideals have been blown away.

I am being broken. My sin exposed. And I am fighting it. I don’t want to give in. It hurts to be molded and pruned. Cling, cling to the Vine. This I know. But pruning is an ugly process.

I try to remember grace and Jesus and to just do the next thing. I step a little further into this brokenness and when it tightens I pull back. Some days are better than others.

Maybe you’re feeling the same way? Maybe you need a pick-me-up for unplanned, “Woe is me!,” head-spinning, “I give up!,” the breaking hurts kind of days?

Me too.

Breathe in these words of grace, truth, and encouragement:

I’m both teaching and learning grace among the scattering of too many toys and laundry that is never finished. The school work piles up, and there are meals to be planned and made and dresses to be repaired.

The weight of all this can crack a girl right up the middle.

And through all this we’re called to holiness.

It’s a weighty calling at least. We are called to lay down our lives–and mothers, we understand sacrifice.

- Kris Camely, Always Alleluia

Sometimes I think that the image of motherhood gets a bit muddled between being Martha Stewart and the Proverbs 31 woman and the woman that we read about in the 11394 books on motherhood at the store and it’s easy to forget that being a mother often never gets this gold star moment of recognition.

Or at least, not certainly while one is in the midst of motherhood. And then we’re hard on ourselves, way too hard on ourselves, for not being what we think the perfect mother should actually be like.

- Rachel Martin, Finding Joy

This is my heart and struggle lately…being made to create and not having enough time:

I don’t have the practical answer for you and your specific situation, but I have enough experience to say:

You can’t do EVERYTHING but you can do SOMETHING and that SOMETHING feels so small and insignificant that it can’t possibly matter, but it CAN and it ABSOLUTELY DOES.

You think if the WHOLE WORLD doesn’t see it or hear it, then it doesn’t really COUNT, but that’s a LIE.

- Christa Wells, This One’s for the Mothers

And, this. From my friend Teri Lynne, When What You Really Want Is Space,

I wish I could bring you all to my house and give you a hug and let you sit and share with me about the dreams God has placed in your hearts. I’d love to listen to all the ways God is at work in you. And I’d love to pour you each a cup of tea and pray for your hearts and minds, for wisdom as you seek to live not in balance but in obedience. You are precious, each one of you, and I am praying for you even now.

I treasure Teri Lynne’s perspective and words, even when it’s not a quick fix or what I want to hear (like how to do it all well right now). Go read the rest of her post (psst…I’m the younger friend).

And lastly, friends, grace.

Remember you have a choice. Remember to let peace rule. Remember to believe God’s truth even when it doesn’t feel true. Remember that your life is hidden with Christ in God, you no longer have to manufacture your own safe places. And when we forget to remember? We don’t have to travel over mountains and rough terrain to get back to God. Simply receive and believe that the truth is still true, and purpose to stay safely inside him.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen. (Eph. 3:20-21).

- Emily Freeman, Grace for the Good Girl