honor the space

The privilege of carrying life is new to me. For 22 weeks, our little one has been growing and developing, taking daily steps toward the milestone of birth. And for 22 weeks, I have been amazed, discouraged, delighted, and plain worn out by the plethora of changes miraculously taking place in my body to accommodate our little hitchhiker. For every beautiful moment (hello little baby kicks!), there seems to be an accompanying uncomfortable one (hello muscle pains and an extraordinarily small bladder!).

Two years ago, in the difficult months surrounding my early departure from the mission field, I came across a quote from Nancy Levin and immediately wrote it down in my journal:

Honor the space between no longer and not yet.

How poignant that reminder–that not all transitions move immediately from one thing to the next; some involve a time of in-between that can’t be skipped, rushed, or ignored. And my goodness, pregnancy is quite the in-between.

These are the “no longer” days to planning for two, having a budget without baby expenses, and keeping the guest room fully guest-ready rather than baby-ready. No longer to certain beverages, excess caffeine, particular activities, and clothes without extra tummy room. And really, the moments that these changes bother me are few and far between–more often there’s an intense excitement surrounding all the preparations for this tiny human we’ll soon be welcoming.

But not yet–these “not yet” days include plenty of visits to the doctor, frustrations with hospitals and insurance providers, a nursery full of things to be re-arranged and organized, and still many more weeks of waiting before our space between “no longer” and “not yet” runs its course.

So honor the space. Sweet baby Shiloh, your momma is learning to slow down, breathe deeply, not rush. Your most beautiful Creator established these days for our in-between, and so much is happening that we cannot see. Keep growing, keep kicking, keep waiting. This space is full of wonder.

whole30 homemade basil pesto

It’s been a long week, between exciting (crazy? intense?) work events and housesitting for friends and still feeling a little behind from our family vacation a week and a half ago. There’s nothing quite as therapeutic as having a little down-time to invest in something good for the soul–reading or writing or spending a few minutes pruning our out-of-control basil plant.

Basil Pesto

Cameron and I are also a third of the way into the Whole30, a much needed reset for the eating habits we’d let slide! It’s been a great ten days, actually. We’ve enjoyed spending a little more time planning our meals, shopping the produce section, and cooking meals that are really truly tasty. Cutting out sugar and butter (among plenty of other things) has made us so much more aware and appreciative of the flavors our food already has. Here’s to 20 more days of real-food adventures!

Combining both the ridiculous growth of our basil and our search for Whole30-approved meals, I decided to give modified pesto a try. I’m a huge fan of pesto, but I was a little uncertain about removing the dairy (parmesan) and substituting roasted pecans. Turns out I shouldn’t have worried—this stuff pretty much rocks my socks off.

Basil Pesto

Whole30 Homemade Basil Pesto: Ingredients

  • Two cups of fresh basil leaves, packed
  • 4 cloves of garlic
  • 1/2 cup of roasted* pecans (unsalted)
  • 1/2 tsp. salt
  • 1/2 tsp. pepper
  • 1/2 cup (+ extra to desired consistency) of olive oil

Add the pecans, basil, garlic, salt & pepper into a food processor, and pulse until everything is very finely chopped (this might involve a lot of pausing to push down the basil leaves). Add in the olive oil, and pulse till combined. Store your pesto in an airtight jar in the fridge.

*If your pecans are raw, not roasted, you can easily toss them in a heated skillet till they begin to darken ever so slightly. Keep stirring them–they’ll roast in just a few minutes!

Basil Pesto

Done!

I can’t wait to try some new pesto dishes. I’m thinking grilled salmon…zucchini noodles with chicken…yeah, definitely getting hungry. Any other ideas for a Whole30 pesto meal? I’m all ears!



those who mourn

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. [Matthew 5:4]

There are days here on earth that make the thought of heaven much sweeter—even seasons of time that seem so dark and twisted and muddled that only the promised future holds hope. Come, Lord Jesus!

But here we are, in the interim, wading through the worst the world has to offer and only the shortsightedness of our humanity to leap quickly to form a defense. We will think our way through. We will rationalize, explain, and call to mind the politics involved. Let tragedy be the means to showcase the stance we have taken. Let our collective horror at what has unfolded be weaponized against the perceived offenders. And the offenders accused stand in a circle of pointed fingers, always another party who deserves the bulk of the criticism. Be careful what you speak; your words will undoubtedly give not enough blame here, not enough love there, too much stepping on toes over here. The scene is heartbreaking and messy, and fueled more often by anger and offense than love and mercy.

In these times especially, my heart aches to feel more fully the things that are dear to the heart of God. There is a rich narrative in the Old Testament prophets—the Old Testament, where we are first introduced to Yahweh, the Creator, the Father. And Yahweh makes Himself clear: He is a God who rises up to defend the oppressed, who desires justice and pours out mercy. Over and over He calls for His people to carry out this mission of mercy toward the downtrodden. This matters:

“‘Wash and make yourselves clean. Take your evil deeds out of my sight; stop doing wrong. Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.'” [Isaiah 1:16-17]

“‘Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke; to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?‘” [Isaiah 58:6]

“This is what the Lord Almighty said: ‘Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another. Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the foreigner or the poor. Do not plot evil against each other.’ But they refused to pay attention; stubbornly they turned their backs and covered their ears. … This is how they made the pleasant land desolate.” [Zechariah 7:9-11, 14]

There is much, much more. It’s impossible to read the words of God spoken through the prophets without seeing this piece of His heart revealed: God is the defender of those who have no defense, and calls to account the ones who fail to show compassion.

When we observe an event that highlights the unjust killing of a person or group of people, the appropriate response is always compassion.

That’s true of the black lives lost in recent events, and the police deaths following. It’s also true of the refugees flooding Europe, and true of the 49 people killed in Orlando. It’s true of the Christians ISIS slaughters in Syria. True of every casualty in Paris, San Bernardino, Istanbul, Bangladesh. True of the persecuted Muslims in Myanmar. True of the lives lost as collateral damage in the Middle East. It’s heartbreaking how long the list could run.

This ministry of mercy in response to violence is a vulnerable one. In the New Testament, it is summed up in Christ’s command to “love your neighbor as yourself.” Even then, as now, people of good intention will seek to clarify: whom should we love? When, exactly, is this sort of compassion merited? Is there room to exclude from our compassion those with whom we disagree, or perhaps those individuals who have some sin in their lives? Who is our neighbor?

Jesus replies:

‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’ Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?’ The expert in the law replied, ‘The one who had mercy on him.’ Jesus told him, ‘Go and do likewise.’ [Luke 10:30-37]

Now go, and do likewise.

Father God, give us the grace to fixate upon Your character, not our myopic crusades or political filters. Show us what it means to live in love, for “whoever lives in love lives in God.” [1 John 4:16]

Today, our brothers and sisters of color are mourning. Our brothers and sisters of the police force are mourning. It is appropriate to mourn with them. There is no option to pick one, to pick sides. We are called into exactly this place of vulnerable grief—to seek justice from a heart of deep compassion, to speak words of life and not death, to point always to the gracious mercy of our God, who does not feed hatred, but binds up the brokenhearted and blesses those who mourn.

Today, and every day, may we be people of mercy.

loving the unlikeable

Love

I did not particularly love Wednesday.

It started a little earlier than normal, picking up a still-sleepy middle schooler for her last day of final exams. I put a smile on my face, said a cheerful good morning, and was met with all the grouchiness of an eleven-year-old forced to be up early for a day of tests she would much rather have skipped (that’s a lot of grouchiness). And just like that, I was fighting to hang on to a good attitude and a little bit of joy at facing the day ahead.

I was still on edge that afternoon, taking the eight-year-old for a swim at the pool. Really all I wanted was to sit with my glass of ice water and read my book while monitoring her in the water, but that wasn’t in the cards. “Beth, look at this handstand!” “Beth, were you watching?” “Beth, throw these toys in the water and time how fast I can get them all!” “Beth! You didn’t see my flip!” After looking down and back up again as my name was called out every few seconds over the course of two hours, I felt frazzled. In addition, my phone had been ringing at regular (and very short) intervals all day—same kid from youth group, same non-lifethreatening situation, and same ceaseless dedication to hitting “redial.”

By the end of the day, I wanted to be either a) surrounded exclusively by mellow, kind, adult human beings, or b) home by myself with a tub of ice cream. But this was Wednesday—hooray for heading from work to youth group, and fifty to sixty kids that my incredible husband gets to wrangle into some semblance of order every week (although occasionally it’s more like thinly-veiled chaos).

I hedged. I drove from work to Sonic. Sat in my car drinking a limeade and thinking of how wonderful it would be to drive past church and straight home. Contemplated the likelihood of snapping at the first kid who picked a fight, didn’t listen when asked, or insisted on sitting on the stacked chairs when he’d already been told not to. I sipped my limeade in silence and wished it could just be Thursday already.

All things considered, there was really nothing catastrophic about the day—just imperfect kids doing normal imperfect kid things, while my patience and grace slowly chipped away. I have always known a deep love for ministering to children, but on this day (like others) I just wasn’t feeling it. I wasn’t particularly enjoying the company of the kids I’d spent my day with, or the idea of walking into a room of fifty more.

I’m beginning to learn that God doesn’t let days like these go to waste. I finished my drink and headed to youth group—late, but still present. I sat in the back while the kids listened to Cameron’s lesson, and joined in for the crazy games that followed. Finally, the evening was over, the building was locked, and we were home. As we talked about the time we’d just had with the kids, Cameron made a comment.

“You know,” he said, “God really gave me so much love for those kids tonight.”

It was a simple statement, but after this particularly frustrating day, it was exactly the reminder I needed.

There’s a truth about loving people that I easily overlook: the love that I am able to give to another person is not something that I generate within myself. After the easy love that flows from favorable circumstances, I enter a wasteland of striving and straining and  feeling frustrated at just how quickly my responses to imperfect people turn sour, ugly, and unlovely. When my small, meager love encounters the unlikeable, it withers and pulls back and wants to hide away with solitude and a bowl of ice cream.

That’s why I need His love—the God who is Love, and who gives of Himself so freely when we ask. If He has poured into my heart the gifts and the passion to minister to kids, He will also give me the love with which to respond to them. If He has brought Cameron to this youth group and given him the role of leading it, He will also fill up my husband’s heart with unexplainable love in the midst of chaos. If you struggle with loving in the face of the unlikeable, He will give you love. 

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. … We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:7,19)

Love comes from God…the kind of love that remains firm, steadfast, and unfailing, even when people don’t  seem very loveable. The next unlikeable circumstance is probably not far off on the horizon. But I am so incredibly thankful to know the One who is love, and promises to be my source. What an immeasurable well of grace, compassion, and patience we have been given in Christ!