Abe Lincoln and little caesars.

I’ve posted less lately because I’ve found myself in a whole new lifestyle–city to farm–and juggling the newness of school and a work at home daddy.
Everything has changed, and I mean everything.

When things like this happen, you let a few things go until you regain momentum. 

Plus, there always seems to be plenty of people talking, and I hate to join the noise just to be noisy. So many opinions these days… it’s overwhelming to sift through the chaff and distill an idea to the essence of what it means. I’m satisfied to do some pondering instead of postulating. (And there’s ample time to do it while riding the Bad Boy mower or picking hornworms off of tomatoes.)

Abraham Lincoln made a statement that hits close to home for me:

“I remember how, when a mere child, I used to get irritated when anybody talked to me in a way I could not understand. I do not think I ever got angry at anything else in my life; but that always disturbed my temper, and has ever since. I can remember going to my little bedroom, after hearing the neighbors talk of an evening with my father, and spending no small part of the night walking up and down and trying to make out what was the exact meaning of some of their, to me, dark sayings. I could not sleep, although I tried to, when I got on such a hunt for an idea, until I had caught it; and when I thought I had got it, I was not satisfied until I had repeated it over and over; until I had put it in language plain enough, as I thought, for any boy I knew to comprehend. This was a kind of passion with me, and it has stuck by me; for I am never easy now, when I am handling a thought, till I have bounded it north, and bounded it south, and bounded it east, and bounded it west.”

Thanks, Abe, for putting it into words, the sleepless hunt for the unbounded thought. The search for common ground for the plebeians and thinkers alike.
I, too, fall asleep trying to box in an idea until my own kids can understand it in plain words.
For a person like myself, it is reassuring to know a fellow like Lincoln also valued wisdom and succinctness born of deep examination. It’s really okay to think things out for a long time before making a dogmatic statement–highly undervalued these days, if you know what I mean.

One of the remarkable things that has happened in the last month, is that my kids are back in a public school system (praise be to Jesus), a year and a half after being let out on a Friday in March with the promise of returning after spring break.
We were dismissed from a Title I city school in a district of 85,000 students and now we have entered a district 800 miles away with 650 students.
I have a Venn diagram in my mind of the commonalities and disparities, and this is just in the school system–not to mention the culture. The differences are so stark, I cannot even attempt to piece it all together, let alone make a blanket statement. When you hear a rant going on about vaccines, face masks, critical race theory, or common core math (just threw that one in there for fun–remember when life was simple?!), I’d like to remind you that some people like their watermelon with salt. It is really a matter of taste.
But then if someone yanks away the watermelon, well…then there ain’t gonna be much fussing over whether it’s salted. Choice is crucial to freedom, isn’t it?

How to explain the weirdness of our world to my own kids? Let me say it: they are figuring it out pretty quick on their own.
We have raised them worldly, and by that, I mean aware of the world. I’m returning their precious souls to the classroom for the purpose of continuing their very important, limited exposure to the world. I’m certainly not sending them on a wish and a whim (though the afternoon school bus ride is a bit of a fingers-crossed situation). I do not honestly expect them to get a robust or comprehensive education, specifically in the areas of history, science, art, or music. Are you kidding? This is why we read books at home, why we teach them to sing hymns at church, why we buy oil pastels and risk a messy living room. It’s why we have instruments hanging on the walls and there are junk drawers filled with clothespins, rubber bands, popsicle sticks, and every random bit and bob a kid might need to use for a “project”.
We turn the television off and look each other in the eye when we eat supper.

Then they get up in the morning and go to school, where they see what people are like and how to deal properly with them.

They return with stories, and it is always interesting to me that most of their tales end with a conclusion they’ve made–an opinion born of experience–and very frequently one that holds truth (BBQ sandwiches have too much sauce, so-and-so shouldn’t interrupt the teacher when he’s talking, don’t open your water bottle on the bus). Then they resume eating their cup of pudding, or they pick up the guitar or book or coloring project and are on their merry way, learning and happy.

I bring up Abraham Lincoln because I found a book on him in our old farmhouse, published exactly 111 years ago. It would have been 44 years after his death, which is the same as our current 2021 viewpoint of the year 1977. I think it’s helpful to remember this as I dive into my nerdy mini-exposition. This little, crumbly, stained with age book wasn’t covering ancient history when it was published. They were writing from the same perspective I have now when I look back on the original Star Wars movies. As in, wow! Can you believe what a big deal that was and how much the world changed because of it? 

Of Abraham Lincoln, the little book said,

He had heard the word “demonstrate” as one of the things that were done in geometry. He made up his mind, as he had in his boyhood, that he would learn how to demonstrate his points, that is, make them so clear that men could not help accepting them. He got himself a copy of Euclid’s geometry and, as he rode the circuit, he committed to memory many of Euclid’s demonstrations. He was still learning how to bound his thoughts on all sides. His speech became so crystal clear that men said, “If Lincoln is in the case, there will be no trouble in understanding what it is all about.”

(From Moores’ Abraham Lincoln for Boys and Girls, Riverside Literature Series. Houghton Mifflin Co. c. 1909)

This is so very relevant to our day in age: we must be people who have bounded our thoughts on all sides before attempting to demonstrate we are right (instead of just airing our opinions). We must learn lessons by observing history, people, and the cause-and-effect nature of a person’s actions.

It makes me think of when Jesus was put on the spot by religious leaders and he, being well-bounded in his apologetics (of course, he had the advantage of being God), had the perfect answers. For them, and for us today. I’d like to take note–there are a couple nuggets of wisdom Jesus worked into his speech when he addressed listeners regarding the hypocritical Pharisees of his day. They occurred right before he slapped the leaders with woes harsh enough to bring a sailor to tears. Jesus said,

 “The teachers of the Law and the Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat. So you must be careful to do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach.” (Matt. 23:2-3)

In other words, these were the folks in charge, and the common people did well to respect the laws of the land. But Jesus warned them not to be like them in the way they walked around, clean on the outside but filthy in their intentions. You see, we are all still expected to “rend to Caesar what is Caesar’s” (Matt. 22:21). Jesus expects us to honor our own “caesars” (our country, our parents, our heritage, etc.), but he won’t permit us to hold them in as high of honor nor anywhere near the honor we are to give Him.

There are two extremes to which we are prone to lean:

One is pretending there is no caesar. I’d even suggest some people think you can take America out of America, or pretend things aren’t complicated or nuanced, or disrespect other cultures. For some Christians, it might even be rejecting the logistics of being in the world but not living like it. We think we can maintain a clean outside and a clean inside simply by remaining unaffected. I would argue: living in this world as a believer doesn’t nullify all purpose in participating. And it certainly doesn’t honor Jesus if your trust in him is limited to activities that avoid getting your feet dirty.

The second extreme is assuming it is your duty to uphold the law of such “caesars” for other people. This might look like stirring up contention, or challenging others to toe an invisible line, or bullying a person into denying their own personal little caesars (pizza, pizza!). This is a common trend among unbelievers, who aren’t opposed to incentivizing governmental overreach, as long as it benefits them. But it is also common among believers who do not elevate Jesus to his proper position of authority, and instead think of themselves as social justice saviors on the front lines. Do not do what they do, Jesus said, for they do not practice what they preach!

Here’s what sticks: Jesus acknowledged there are Caesars who are owed something, and this is entirely helpful to think about amid culture wars. But our primary affection must be for Him who loved us enough to give His life for us. Sorry to say it, little caesars, but that dethrones you to second fiddle.

It doesn’t erase our opinions or best intentions, but it does help bound our thoughts, don’t you think?
And hopefully it helps us hold our tongue when we get the urge to wag it.

 

poop in the poppies.

Do you see a person who is wise in their own eyes? There is more hope for a fool than for them.
Proverbs 26:12

Have you ever met a person who is pure snark? Pure reaction, quick-witted, dripping with sarcasm? The first to throw verbal dynamite, quip in mouth, ready to detonate?

I’ve got a few in my house, I’m afraid. It only takes a couple of big boys to egg each other on and turn teasing into a downright fight. It is always a fine line between saying something that evokes laughter or rage. A wise guy loves to toe such a line.

Between me, the screen, and you, I’ll tell you a secret: kids aren’t nice. 

One of the strongest warnings my dad had for us as kids was
Don’t be a smart aleck. 

The words carried enough threat. We knew what dad did to smart alecks.
We deserved it. 

And now I know why.
I’ve met many a person ruined by his mouth. I’ve seen plenty of poop in the poppies. People who discredit everything they stand for by sliding in a snarky comment.

Oh, what a powerful little rudder is the tongue!

There is an amount of shame that accompanies this terrible habit, that is, if you are a follower of Jesus. But usually in the moment a smart aleck is rewarded by their quick-wittedness, not unlike a sugar or adrenaline rush. The reaction of the crowd garners enough attention to make it worth the jab.
It is very hard to convince the world that you love Jesus when your mouth is tossing grenades.
It is very hard to stop tossing grenades when you’ve been practicing since you were a kid.

I’m no expert on child rearing. I’m hardly an expert on myself (and I feel like I should probably be by now). I know that immediately after I say something idiotic or smart alecky, I usually feel a stormy cloud shadow my conscience. Stop! The sky rumbles. Repent! It thunders. Good news, the cloud arrives less and less, probably because there’s been quite a bit of pruning, and therefore quite a bit of gentleness and self-control fruit growing on my tree over the years.

[It helped that my dad tried to beat it out of us as kids. That’s the early pruning, I suppose. I read a great parenting quote from Jonathan Edwards recently, “don’t be like old Eli, who reproved his sons but never restrained them.” I’m thankful for the restraints my parents offered us kids. The Bible also backs this up as a worthy child rearing technique: “Discipline your child, for in it there is hope; do not be party to their death”–Proverbs 22:15]

I know this for certain: our tongues will get us in big trouble unless we let Jesus hold the reins, and kids are not too young to begin learning about tossing grenades.

Do you know what Jesus said was just as bad as murder? Anger that produces enough hate to call your brother a fool. He said that calling your brother a fool would put you in danger of hell fire. This comes from the same guy who told the wise man/foolish man story (so we know fools are a real thing, and something we can avoid).
But thinking you aren’t a fool sometimes is even worse than being one. Fools are a bad deal, but actually being wise in your own eyes, being a smart aleck is worse. 

And the quickest way to prove you are one is by opening your mouth, as Mark Twain says, “and removing all doubt.”

When I put my kids to bed at night, we often talk about this very matter: what comes into your mind and heart is what you have put into it. Controlling the in-flow helps control the out-flow.
This is a tough thing out in the world, to act the way Jesus wants us to act and say what he wants us to say. It’s especially hard in a world that values clever memes and 280 character limits, one that prefers small doses of truth bubble-wrapped in satire (have you heard of Babylon Bee?). Smart aleck-ness is rewarded to an extent, and it’s a tough pill to swallow, this being wise about what is good and being innocent of evil (Romans 16:19).

How? My seven year old asks. How do I keep bad things from coming in and bad things coming out?
Actually, I tell them, there’s no hope of you ever being able to do it on your own. Only Jesus, I say. Only Jesus can grow good spirit fruit in you. 

Then we pray and beg God to come abide with us.

If you’ve been tossing grenades far too long, it’s not too late to ask Jesus to help you, too.
In Ephesians, Paul assures his friends (and us) that believers are, themselves, the dwelling place in which God lives by his Spirit (Eph.2:22). 

You! Do you know He lives in you?


He reminds them (and us) that believers are to grow up and out of childish, immature behavior (Eph. 4:14-15). 

You! Are you becoming more mature?


He exhorts them (and us) to “not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up” (Eph. 4:29).

You! Do your words build people up?

Beg Jesus to come help prune your tree.
Let’s pray for less poop in the poppies.

vinegar on soda: moving, pests, and staying humble.

There are people who can do all fine and heroic things but one: keep from telling their happiness to the unhappy.
Mark Twain

Like taking away a garment in winter, or like vinegar on soda is someone who sings songs to a heavy heart.
Proverbs 25:20

We moved, which is why I’ve been so absent from writing here. I would tell you how wonderful it has been, except for the above sayings (one a true proverb, the other a loose Twainian translation). After being sealed in Denver for over a year–apparently the safest and best-educated, but also loneliest and most isolating, surrounded by unhappy, judgmental, politically-driven elitists–we have busted out and into our country life.

Back to Missouri. We’ve brought our four native Colorado kids back to the homeland, where salt cured ham is for breakfast and Show-Me is a way of life.

I’m afraid there is still, in mid-July, plenty of flesh on my body for the chiggers and ticks and mosquitos to consume.
There’s still bountiful opportunity to holler at kids to “shut the door, you’re letting flies in!” as an hourly call to action.
The bugs and critters we avoided by living in high desert mountains with drought and wildfire conditions are paying us back heartily for moving back into their territory.

I’ve often wondered why invasive, dreadful things like poison ivy haven’t taken over the whole world by now. I think they would, except God Himself holds them back. Just like He told the seas, “you can come here and no farther” (Job 38:11), perhaps He told poison ivy it could spread as far as Wichita and that’s it. One might come to the conclusion, then, that it is Colorado who is blessed with majestic views and a temperate, lovely, pest-less, poison ivy-less climate.

But there was never a summer free of the fear of mountain lions and bears or a roaring wildfire followed by spring mudslides. And I reckon some blessings, like rain, are being stripped from that land. We popped many a bicycle tire on goat heads there, and my withering, sandy garden was regularly demolished by hungry mule deer. 

So maybe here in Missouri the nasty buggars that crawl up my neck and legs when I pick blackberries are doing exactly what the Lord designed them to do. It’s up to me to apply the DEET or stay out of the woods in summer.

I suspect God hid his best blessing in the hardship of casting Adam and Eve out of the garden and sentenced them to a life of toil by working the land to yield its fruit. The gratification in studying, experimenting, planting, protecting, and producing is astounding. It’s a human marvel that wards off diseases of the body and mind. It tires out the flesh so there is less room for dispute and ill-will. Those folks a hundred years ago and before fell into bed too exhausted to Netflix and chill, too worn out to post a rant on Facebook. Their greatest temptation was rest, and if they rested too much, they starved.

Yes, “only God makes things grow” (1 Cor. 3:6) but having a part in the sowing and watering–for it to be your life sentence, your daily bread–it isn’t such a bad partnership. We water, He gives the increase, and we still get to eat the watermelon.

Maybe the pesky parts just keep us humble, keep us working hard. Keep us buying bug spray and calamine. And maybe it makes the vinegar on soda not quite as fizzy, if I’m inclined to talk about how happy it makes me.
I’ll just be too busy itching to bubble over.

 

Check out On Honey Creek if you’d like to read about our move.

 

Homeschool: Looking Back

I’ve been incredibly torn over the last year when I think about my kids. My mom, who is the smartest person I know, tells me that every single kid is an experiment of its own. No amount of experience makes a person more prepared to raise them.

I was cracking an egg into the skillet this morning for my little boy’s breakfast, and he told me the skillet was too hot.
“I don’t need advice from a six year old,” I informed him as the grease sizzled and popped and I cranked down the heat.
“Seven,” he corrected. 

Blast.

I think we’re always looking for a foolproof way to raise them, but the problem is we parents are a bunch of fools. For some reason, God intended it to be this way. It befuddles me. I resent being a fool.

We were all sent home from school in March with the hope we’d have a nice ten-day Spring break. When we didn’t return and things got wacky and weird, I decided the worst thing possible would be for my kids to do online work with a school-appointed device. That ball and chain called an iPad grated on me, and we had more problems than a penguin in Florida. Every time there was a glitch, every time we couldn’t access the teacher’s video class, each online research assignment waylaid by furtive visits to poki-dot-com, all the endless zoom meetings where I hissed at kids to be quiet and stop flopping about on the floor…The combination I most despised (scheduled, mandatory screen time+hyperenergetic boys) was my nightmare coming to life. I resented every bit of it.

Homeschool mocked me–see, Pearl? I told you the grass was greener over here. You could be hiking and discussing Thoreau. You could be teaching them gouache and practicing Bach’s cello suites. Remember how much the boys love science experiments?
The weather just so happened to be gorgeous during the first eight months of the pandemic. Since school in person wasn’t going to happen, I might as well…homeschool?

Fools will be fools. I didn’t feel like I had any other options. But there were many highlights, and we ended up traveling more last year than I have in the last decade. We camped in the desert, we kayaked Lake Powell. We played with friends in the mountains and made a handful of cross-country road trips. We flew to the beach and brushed up our Spanish. In the cracks of our adventures we did Greg Tang math worksheets and picked up new instruments. We discovered Mark Rober on youtube. We read a thousand books. We wrote silly stories. We perfected our dog treat recipe.

All maskless. All fearless.

I would recommend this lifestyle change, except it has come at a great cost. Many of my friends were able to return to in-school learning before Christmas. I couldn’t believe their luck. In fact, just tonight I got an email from our district informing us parents that kids under 11 will be welcomed back to school as if all is normal, but ages 12 and up are required to prove they are vaccinated or must wear a mask. This seems like a recipe for a brutal seventh grade year. Let’s talk about peer pressure, hm?

Yes, our inclusive school thinks it is doing humanity a favor by weeding out the idiots, or at least humiliating them in the public square.

But this isn’t every school–it’s just where the piranhas feed. The woke (how I’m beginning to hate the word) who have awakened to give hell to everyone who disagrees with them–they tell us how our money ought to be spent. It usually funnels to less and less academia and more and more pockets, followed by self-actualization.
I don’t miss my second grader coming home from music class and asking me if I could explain the Taylor Swift song, You Need to Calm Down because his teacher called it her “anthem” and blasted it on repeat.
I don’t miss my fourth grader’s assigned reading, CNN, or writing a persuasive essay on climate change and green energy–no choice in the matter. I don’t miss the election year class banter that usually turned into a teacher’s right-of-way to propagate new voters. I don’t miss emailing the teacher and explaining why I disagree with a bring-your-device-to-school party (I’d gladly donate pizza, if we need to celebrate).
Obviously, I don’t miss screen-time busywork.

But I could see past all of it to a point, because it made it necessary for me to put my big girl pants on and speak up. It forced me to be an example for my kids; it smacked reality right in my face and made me answer the questions, how are you going to handle this? How are your kids going to watch you react?

And that is exactly what I’m after. I want real life engagement with my people. I want them to look around, then look at me for confirmation or disapproval. They are training for what will someday be an all-out moral war.

It’s unfortunate, but it’s also beneficial, as are the numerous beautiful encounters we have on a daily basis in public school. I mention them here on the blog often, but there is nothing, nothing! Like having an awesome teacher in your life. It’s a kind affirmation over your shoulder, it’s a red pen note at the bottom– “needs work, but getting there”. It’s relief to the parent who actually didn’t pay attention to trigonometry or physics the first time around. Or like me, the parent with terrible penmanship who cannot figure out how to teach penmanship to a first grader. It’s hope that there is room for improvement, and it is accountability to get there.
It’s a sealed envelope from the school nurse, the first to find your child is nearsighted. It’s notes from the kitchen manager, your kid is blowing all his cash on hot Takis for his friends. It’s the administration, giggling with excitement because you’ve brought in fresh donuts. It’s showing up for parent-teacher conferences and surprising staff with salads from Panera because they haven’t eaten in six hours.
This is what we’ve been missing while we picked flowers and painted pictures. We’ve been missing having real life relationships with people.

We are moving out of our school district. Once again, I feel like I’ve failed; this fool parent can’t get a hang of things. But everything truly is an experiment, and I am grateful each time for a new beginning.

I’m so glad we can always start over, and that we can switch gears when one situation is no longer working.

I’m so glad kids are resilient, and I pray they look back and see I was trying to do what I thought best, even if it wasn’t always on target.

I flicked my wrist and flipped the fried egg; no spatula. “Whoa, did you see that?!” I exclaimed to my boy. “That’s the first time I’ve ever done that! Did you see me? Wasn’t it awesome?”

“Kinda,” he said. “On a scale from 1 to ten, I’d give it a three. I mean, it’s not exactly a magic trick.”

I shoot him a cool look. He shrugs.
“You should be grateful I gave it a number higher than one.”

I’m still just his mom, and that’s fine by me.
Dang it, they’re going to really miss me next fall.

Memorial Day vs Pride Month

I’m going to be real honest: I can’t for the life of me understand how Memorial Day gets a blink of a weekend–a day, actually–of barbecues and appliance sales, yet Pride gets a whole month. They don’t mention veterans, but the email from our school district (school’s out for the summer, peeps) asks me to click on a link to explore Pride history with my kids. (I don’t, and I’m not sure how sexual content somehow gets a pass for kindergartners.) My phone and my computer both make sure I’m aware of Pride: I get an unsolicited rainbow flag screen saver and a daily calendar reminder. Around Memorial Day, I used to get paper poppies outside of the grocery store; but not anymore. Those sweet VFW men and women are hardly safe in the King Sooper’s parking lot.

Memorial Day: We are talking about people who died for our right to pursue happiness, put our kids in school, defend our homes, remain silent in a sticky situation, have a fair trial, hire a lawyer. We can drive to McDonalds and order a burger and a shake any time of day or night. We can sue said McDonald’s for making coffee too hot. We’re allowed to camp and play in a nation that claims 200,000,000 acres of national forests (we citizens own it). We can dream up a job, apply to any college, worship in any temple, mosque, church, or Applebees. We can spend all night playing Pokemon, we can refuse to floss our teeth. We are free to start up hippie communes or become professional cage fighters. We can give all our money to the Sierra Club or spend it all on cigarettes. We can have twenty kids and forty cats and star on a show on TLC. Just about nothing is off limits: We can adopt shelter pets and slap the perfect bumper sticker on our car. We can apply for unemployment. We can get abortions. Yes, we can even decide we don’t like how God made us and make up new realities where we aren’t hes or shes, but theys. Men can dress like women and women can misrepresent men. 

This is all because of what Memorial Day represents, for better or worse. So I’m unclear on Pride Month. What is everyone so proud of? You being you and me being me? Living exactly how we want? Excuse me for saying it, but that is straight up America. Lean into your roots.

Pride actually collapses on itself in the face of scrutiny. It is pure humanism–man becomes its own savior, its own god–and then destroys itself with its ever-shifting reasoning (ahem, wokeness). Exactly how much do we all need to know about each other before we are more accepting, or more acceptable? I’m being sarcastic, of course, because looking at the news today, I’m pretty sure the more we know, the more we hate. The more we dig into history, the more reproach we bear. The more I find out about you, and vice-versa, the more us-versus-them it becomes.

But I keep seeing more and more layers being added, more confessional-style posts, more politically-bent discussions, more say-this-and-say-it-right-the-first-time. The initial mild disagreement morphs into a heated, blood-boiling hate for everyone who opposes your self-appointed worldview.
The humanistic mentality–“Pride”–tricks you into thinking you are the judge and jury, a demi-god of goodness and acceptance. Meanwhile, you’re actually burning the whole world to the ground.
Trust me, you bastions of progressive freedom: your children will despise you someday for your moral ambiguity. May we never get the hang of using pronouns, lest we destroy the precious soul who demands we use them. 

I’ve had a coming out of my own.
It took me a solid three and a half decades before I came out in public as an unconventional Jesus-follower. Most of it was a fear of unacceptance, but also I was scared pretty early on by the door knocking scene of the 1990s and the scream it from the rooftops evangelicals. The pressure put on an eleven year old at church camp to lead someone else to Christ via dogeared Bible pages (verses highlighted) or a nifty folding cube with pictures of a chasm and a cross–well, it’s safe to say that felt like a warm hell of its own to my timid, pre-pubescent self. I might as well get used to the flames if that was what it took to follow Jesus. I didn’t even know what I’d say to God if I died that very night in a car crash, which was the most probable end-of-life scenario according to the pastor who urged us to close our eyes and raise our hands if we needed prayer on the matter.
Many years of trying to figure out the good girl Christianity only ever led me to one conclusion: God saves sinners, of which I am foremost.

But now I am–as they say–out and proud. You’ll probably never catch me door knocking and passing out tracts, but my life has been hidden in Christ with God–which is why you will see Jesus in me. You’ll hear me talk about Him, unashamed. You’ll see me following His rules, because I am taking heed when he says, “what a man sows so also he shall reap”. Day by day I trust Him–in my health, my marriage, my family, my parenting, my work, my relationships, my dreams.
You who are experts at slapping on labels–I will take your Pride pass, and I’ll celebrate my own becoming.
I wish it were half as accepted as identifying as a queer person. It won’t be, but that’s ok. I don’t get just a day or month–I get every day, every month, every year of my life to identify as a believer by turning things over to Jesus. 

I don’t need a flag or a screen saver. I don’t need hugs from a random mom at a parade.
I don’t need the approval or acceptance of the multitudes. But I do rely on freedom of speech to write this on the internet, and so I am grateful for the folks who have risked their lives to keep my beloved country free.
I have decided to leave the excessive and flamboyant up to God. What if I give all I have to gain what He gives? How could I not be satisfied with His over the top attention? It is enough to write novels about, enough to light up the sky.

A friend let us clip some peonies from his yard to add to our flower vase. I sat at the kitchen table, and stared as the bud for two days as it opened into flower. It really is something, as if God made a fist like a magician and poked petals inside until he couldn’t hold anymore. Enough petals that when a peony blooms, God opens his fist and the flower bends over, its full weight laboring until a million soft, fragrant petals are born.

In my mason jar are stalks of lavender, their purple jewels majestically leaning over the peony. Starry columbines tilt their heads down to look on the showy scene. Bright bachelor’s buttons and massive fuschia poppies burst like fireworks around the full-tutu pink peony.
It’s kind of silly to say, but I want it for every single person–to see what rainbows are in a handful of flowers. The Creator of colors, textures, scents, feelings, and every human expression–He wants to know you–YOU. His power in changing you into a new person is profound and spectacular. We don’t have to dig up dirt or drag old sins into the spotlight. We don’t have to dress up and create a new version of ourselves, one that is more inclusive or culturally aware. We just have to ask Jesus to take over.
Looking at a fistful of blossoms, I can attest there is a God that puts on a parade every day in my front yard. He’s a Divine show-off. 

Maybe I’m biased, but I think it is kind of American, too.