My mornings have found a (much needed) consistent routine lately.

Wake up. Time in my room actually waking up to the point that I am ready to interact with people. Get dressed. Head into the kitchen. Start breakfast. Start a load of laundry. Breakfast and Bible with the girls. Then head outside to hang the laundry.

This rhythm in my morning has been so nice. By the time I am actually starting in on the “work” of the day, one of the most essential chores on my list is already checked off. I’ve found that if I do a single load of laundry every morning, this keeps the laundry in a perfectly comfortable caught up state at all times.

I love my clothesline. I love the peacefulness of those few minutes hanging out the laundry every day. The chance to soak up fresh air and the sun’s rays as I have the cool, clean touch and smell of just washed clothes in my hands. It’s a precious little intermission of time to breathe in my day.

A normal and frequent interjection in these moments of mine is a little girl voice….calling through the window screen or poking a head out the back door. Asking for this or that. Or tattling on one of the other little girls in the house.

I often wonder what the people that live around us think if they can hear our little dialogues. Can they hear the little girl voices, or do they just hear my voice? Have they decided I’m the crazy lady who talks to herself?

One morning last week as I was blissfully pinning clothes to the line, I heard a request from a small little voice.

Only this time it wasn’t one of my girls.

Carried on the breeze came the calls from the little boy next door to his mother.

I glanced the direction of their yard. Just above the top of our solid wood fence, I could see the top of a clothesline, much like my own.  And I could see the hands of a woman, much like my own, pinning clothes to the line, just like me.

I know her. We’ve had brief moments of conversation. We exchanged casual hellos for months. I really met her the day she showed up at my front door, in pajamas and a bathrobe, messy hair and eyes flooded with tears as she held her small new baby out to me and said “She won’t breathe. Please help me!”

The baby (thank you Jesus) ended up being fine….just a too little infant struggling with the effects of a nasty cold.

But this woman has had a marked out little spot in my heart ever since.

Unfortunately, life is so busy and when I’m free she’s not and vice versa.

And as I stood outside listening to the voices of her and her little one carry back and forth in the same kind of conversation that I have had a hundred times myself from the clothesline in my backyard, I was just kind of sad.

Here we are. Right next to each other. Side by side as we do our laundry and raise our babies.  In the same season of life. Why aren’t we sharing it?

Is it just time? Or just laziness? Or just that we’re not quite cut out to be that kind of friends.

I really don’t know the answer. As I contemplated I was reminded of something I read once. A story pointing to the advent of the privacy fence as the time when neighbors stopped being friends. And I found myself wondering if that was the answer. Or at least a part of it.

Mostly I found myself wishing that big tall dark fence that I wanted so badly was just not there. I found myself lost in a dream of two mothers living side by side, who meet at the clothesline every morning and share a bit of their day, a bit of their hearts.

And I found myself reminded that getting what I want isn’t always the best thing. Because sometimes it might mean I’m missing out on something better.

I’ve read that when you breathe deep, there’s a place way down in your lungs that is rushed with the air and it releases a calming effect in your body.

This would probably explain why I always feel like I’m tied up in knots.

I often forget to breath.

I know that sounds ridiculous, and that breathing is automatic, but my body is bad at it.

Waiting in line at the store when I’m running late, rushing while driving through traffic, trying to make it through anything remotely stressful….I quit breathing.

I’m sure there’s some shallow intake of air still going on or obviously I’d be doing a lot of fainting.

But seriously, I feel the tension rising, and once I recognize it there’s this moment where I stop and go “Okay, deep breath”. And I feel like I’m breathing for the first time. The rush of calm is so freeing.

There are things in my life that help me breath.

My girls. I smell them, and it makes me want to breath deeper. And the deeper I breathe their scent in the more peaceful life feels.

My husband. He comes and sits next to me after a long day and all of the sudden I’m reminded to breathe. That I can breathe.

Jesus. When I’ve been holding my breath too long everything starts to feel out of control. Then I look at Him. I remember to be still. And all of the sudden I am breathing again and everything is as it should be.

For more visit the Gypsy Mama.

You will find an introduction to Mother Thoughts here.

Well, it’s time again for our little discussion around The Mission of Motherhood. If you haven’t been able to read the book please don’t feel that this excludes you from participating. I would still love to hear your thoughts on the topic!

So, chapter 4: The Servant Mother.

I underlined about half of this chapter, so I won’t be sharing every single quote that I loved because that could get a little long. But here is a brief summary of what I really took away from this chapter:

He (Jesus) reached the minds, hearts, and lives of his disciples not just by telling them what to do but by serving them in love—an example that contrasts starkly to the common view of what leadership is all about.
(pg.65)

The above statement is referencing specifically John 13, when Jesus washed His disciples feet the night before He was crucified.

Here to me is the pivotal point of this chapter. Love through service. Leadership in humility. Relationship formed by sacrifice.

I’ve found that sometimes in the pursuit of “biblical” parenting, authority (of the parent) and obedience (of the child) can become an idol to be pursued above all else. One part of the parent-child relationship is revered so extremely above the rest that it leaves no room for the consideration that there are other parts.

I was very blessed and encouraged by this chapter’s focus on a more balanced (and I personally feel more correct) view of parenting.

Another section from the book:

It is certainly important to grasp the great calling of motherhood and respond to a vision for what a family can be. But it’s the way I respond to my children in everyday moments that gives me the best chance of winning their hearts. If I have integrity and patience in the small moments of life that are so important to my children, and if I approach them with a servant’s heart, then I have a far better chance of influencing them in the larger and more critical issues of life.
(pg.63)

Speaking as an adult looking back on my own childhood, I know that this statement is absolutely true. And yet often in my walking around in the fog of my own agenda, I lose sight of the importance of these day to day moments in the lives of my children.

The other part that really caught my attention:

…children, by definition, take up our time. They’re supposed to do that; it’s the way God made them. But if we don’t recognize or accept that fact… we’re bound to make things difficult for ourselves and our children.
(pg.69)

Again I was struck by weighty conviction. I often respond to my children with an attitude of interruption. They are intruding on my plans, taking up my time and making more work for me. Until I saw this attitude written into words I never considered how ingrained in me it is. Something to pray about.

Of course there has to be a balance. If I run weary and ragged to the point of exhaustion in the name of service, then I am no good to them. But I’ve found that I can tell quite easily if my care for myself is about doing what I want, or doing what I need to be the best that I can for my family.

Practically speaking, how do I go about being a servant mother?

When we choose to graciously overlook our children’s messes and accidents, we are teaching them to be patient and forgiving with the mistakes of others. When we react sensitively, thoughtfully, and patiently to them, we are helping to instill these qualities in their lives. As they benefit from our unconditional love, they learn to extend it to others as well. As they watch us extend hospitality, care for others, and pray for them, they learn to make service a part of life. And as they observe us searching Scripture, spending time with the Lord, and making faith-based decisions, they learn these things well. Modeling loving service to our children gives them something to emulate in their own lives.
(pg.66)

My conclusion by the end of this chapter: the need for training our children is absolutely vital, but equally vital is the need for love and grace to pour out of and cover all of that training. I read this paragraph and I think “Sure, I will graciously overlook their messes, until I can’t stand it anymore and then I will blow up at them”. Clearly this is not the goal.

To me it seems that the goal is loving our children as we love ourselves. That can be the only firm rule in my mind.  Considering their feelings, their needs, their desires, and really trying to relate, understand, and respond accordingly while being the mature adult in the situation.

As far as the reflections at the end of the chapter, I’ve decided that everyone in our house needs to wear a sign with Philippians 2:14-15 printed on it so every time we look at each other we will be reminded of it. Seriously, I do want to work on memorizing these verses as a family and holding each other accountable to living them out.

A final piece of inspiration:

When we are joyful and see each minute with our children as an opportunity to worship God through our service of him, our children sense our joy and feel secure and happy.
(pg. 72)

Next month’s assignment: Chapter 5  The Discipling Mother.

I started my first diary when I was seven. It was bright red with a little lock and key of course.

I’ve kept some kind of journal ever since.

If you stack them all up on each other they probably stand at least three feet high.

Journals of childhood, teenage drama, young romance, beginnings of marriage, new baby….

Writing has always been a part of me.

I wrote a “novel” when I was eleven or twelve.

I have more than one book full of poems. Some melancholy and dramatic, others silly and pointless.

A three ring binder filled with the creative writing of my junior high days. High school and college research papers. Being consumed by topics like the Great Depression one paper; the next making a case for why a movie like Clueless is pertinent to life.

I spent two semesters of my college career in creative writing classes. Honestly it was a little unsettling discovering whose company I would be placing myself in if I wanted to label myself as a “writer”.

Then marriage and babies….life happened and I found myself reverting back to where I had begun. The pages of my journal. That’s where all of my writing happened for several years.

Then came the discovery of the blog.

And all of a sudden my five minutes of writing here and there didn’t have to only be for me. It could be shared.

It didn’t have to flow like a book. It could be in the tone of a conversation. The rules of grammar need not apply.  Instant feedback was available without leaving my house.

I had found my niche.

And I’ve been quite comfortable in it ever since.

But lately, there’s been this pull. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I find myself a bit uneasy with my willingness to write lazy chatter most days. It is fun, and I know it’s fun to read because I love reading other people’s chatter.

But I know I’m capable of more than that. My mind is constantly overflowing with heavy, huge things that I know I should sit down and try to put into words. But I don’t. Because it would be work. And I just don’t really want to try that hard.

When I think of writing, really writing, in a way that is my best and not just what pours out with little to no effort, I always think of these words:

There's nothing to writing. 
All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. 
~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

That is what really writing can be like to me. And I’ve found that I just don’t want to go there.

Yet I am feeling pulled to go there.

I’ve been reading through the Old Testament the last few months. Slowly, trying to really pay attention and not just cover ground.

Recently this is the verse that caught my eye:

He (God) has filled them with skill to do all manner of work of the engraver and the designer and the tapestry maker, in blue, purple, and scarlet thread, and fine linen, and of the weaver—those who do every work and those who design artistic works.
Exodus 35:35

This verse is talking about the craftsmen whom God has equipped with the skills needed to build the Tabernacle according to His specifications.

The thing that got me was this: these are not “holy” gifts. They are creative and beautiful gifts, but not what I, in my know it all judgment, would consider “spiritual” gifts.

But these are the gifts that God had given these people to do His work for His glory.

What if they had put off using them because it would be too much work?

Within days of reading that verse I read this.

And it spoke exactly of where I have been. Talking myself out of art. Deciding that I don’t have what it takes. Not even considering that it might be more than just my idea.

After that I read this.

And had to say yes to every. single. one.

I have believed all of these things. The ones that echoed my thoughts the loudest:

People might not like it.
I might look like a fool.
Someone else can do it better.
I have nothing to offer.
It’s too much work.

And now here I sit, with all of my excuses exposed. The truth of my laziness being about more than me revealed.

And I still don’t really want to try.

Because it still sounds like opening up a vein.

But I thought maybe, if I put this confession out there, it might be the beginning of something.