What A Mom Can Learn From Squash Guts and John The Baptist 5.17.2013

"I just feel hollow," a dear one confessed to me this week.

"Like every part of me is being shaved away."

The words hung heavy between us as we sat quiet on the couch together.

I understand hollowness.

I know what it's like to be emptied of me, to be poured out day by day until I wonder if there's anything left of who I am.

Or who I was. 

If it's nothing else, motherhood is a scalpel. 

Right from the start, God uses a seven-pound bundle of drool and coos to whittle away at a mama's heart. 

Selfishness? It's excavated piece by piece every time that newborn cry pierces the silence at 2 A.M. and at 4, and 6...

Vanity? It's shaved sliver by sliver as spit-up decorates our favorite dresses; as our stomach muscles refuse to slide back in place, and as we throw that baseball hat on again and hope that nobody at the grocery store notices that we haven't had a shower in two days.

Perfectionism? It can't survive the mess of potty training or the thrill of finger-paint fun.

I never knew what lurked in my soul until God used a toddler to call it out.

I didn't realize the depths of impatience; wasn't aware of the pride, didn't recognize the selfish ambition until I walked through motherhood's fire. And mess. And monotony.

I stared at my dear friend and felt the emptiness. Knew the emptiness.

And then I remembered this crazy little activity that the kids and I had done one Sunday morning when  blizzard winds and icy roads had kept us home from church.

And as I recalled the mess at my kitchen table, I realized that the simple object lesson had really been for me.

Maybe for the one next to me on the couch, too.

That impromptu lesson could have been titled "Hope for the Hollow."

The mighty forerunner of Jesus said it first-
He must become greater; I must become less (John 3:30).

And I'd wanted my children to get that, to understand that we must empty to be filled. 

So we'd taken a squash and cut it wide open.

And I'd asked the kids how much water they thought that veggie could hold just as it was.

We'd guessed, poured, and tried to estimate how much water pooled around the seeds.

We'd guessed far too high.

When we'd poured the water back out and measured the collected drips and drops, the accumulation seemed insignificant, less than two ounces.

A squash full of itself can't hold much else.

(Neither can a person).
So, we'd decided to dig a little, to reach into the guts of that squash and excavate some gunk. 

Hannah had gotten her hands all gooey carving out the middle.  And Maggie had tried to eat a stringy seed, only to promptly spit it out on her brother's open palm. 

I'd nearly given up then, as squash glop splattered all over the table and the littlest big brother screamed angry at the spitter. 

But I'd needed that lesson.  
So, we'd pressed on.  

And the next time we'd filled the scooped-out squash with water, that shell held a puddle worth measuring. 


But we weren't finished yet.

Becoming an empty vessel doesn't happen all at once. A forty-year-old mama longing to be filled full knows that well.

So, I tried not to think about how we were going to have to clean up that mushy muddle dotting the kitchen table; instead I posed a simple question.

  How could this squash could hold even MORE water? 

Josh had studied the shell and then raced with gusto to the silverware drawer.

He'd returned to the table with a butter knife and a determined gleam in his green eyes.

"We need to cut out all the guts!" he'd declared as he applied silver blade to veggie.

Big sisters had watched his dangerous excavation and had jumped in to help.

Soon that squash was completely carved, its mushy innards scattered all across the table.

We'd stared at the shell that remained.

The squash was hollow.

All of our scooping and scraping and digging had turned that veggie into a water-holding goblet.

Lizzy had grabbed the measuring cup once more, and we'd watched amazed as she'd tipped over the squash and poured out an entire cup of water.  

I'd asked Hannah for an explanation, and my third-grader had kept it simple.
Less squash=more water.

And this mama who's never been stellar at math added her own quiet equation.
Less of me= more of Him.


I'd brushed seeds off of my hands, pulled out the Bible, and read aloud John 3:30.

 Then I'd asked one final question.

How do we get MORE of Jesus in our lives? 

My question had hung over the guts of the chiseled squash, over the slimy seeds and the mess on the table.

The kids had stared at that hallowed vegetable and remained quiet.

And, finally, I'd put voice to the notion that had been brewing within me the whole time I'd watched my clan cut and whittle and scrape.

 "Do you think that if there's less of me, there can somehow be more of Jesus?"

Six-year-old Josh had lifted his head and suddenly connected the dots between our strange kitchen table excavation and John the Baptist's sage words.

"Hey! It's kinda like when we scooped out the squash stuff. Then we had more room for water."

I'd nodded and prayed for truth to stick to our hearts like those squash seeds clinging to the table's edge.

It's hard to offer Living Water to  a thirsty world if we're too full of ourselves to hold it.

That thought makes my breath catch in my throat.  

What if the gunk inside of me is keeping me from receiving all that Jesus wants to give; not just to me but through me?

If Christ is going to become GREATER within me, then something has to go.

Something has to move out of my crammed-with-self soul so that my Savior has room to grow His nature right there in my own flawed heart.

Only then can He somehow use my life to spill Himself across this parched and aching earth. 

It's ridiculous, really, the way I cling to all the pieces of myself that crowd Him out, the way I fight to hang on to myself when the gospel says it so clearly: I need to shrink so that Jesus-in-me can expand.

Still, I complain about all this emptying. 

And I find myself wanting to hang on to the very pieces of me that my patient Savior is trying to extract.

To be honest, I'm not sure that I want to get rid of her; the striving me and the prideful me; the wanting-things-to-go-my-way me and the demanding me.  

Though I'd sound far more holy just to keep this to myself; the truth is, some days, I don't really want Christ to scoop out the what's-in-it-for me-me and the I-deserve-a-break me. 

I'm not sure I want Him to sanctify the loving-with-strings-attached me and the seeking-the-easy-road me. 

After all, what will be left when the carving's finished? 


Surrendering to the Spirit's scalpel is an act of faith.

I think of all of this as I sit silent with my friend on the couch. 
And I pray. For both of us.

Then I whisper these words of hope, wanting to believe them for myself as much as I want to offer them to my friend:

What if you're feeling hollow because Christ's at work in you?

What if He's actually using the mess to extract the stuff that hinders? 

What if, when these trials pass, you can hold more of Him? 

We sit quiet, wondering.

And I picture that silly squash filled with water, and I thank God for the offbeat reminder that hollow can be hallowed if we let Living Water fill our empty spaces.

Linking with all these amazing ones- Ann for multitude mondays,  laura for playdates with God,  Jen for soli deo gloria,  The Mom Initiative, and with Sarah for mom notes. 

Counting as He carves...

2004. The smell of freshly-cut grass

2005. Trees in bold pink blooms outside of my window

2006. An afternoon shared with a friend- sharing hard stories and celebrating God in the mess; the gift of doing life with Jesus chasers.

2007. A text inviting me to pray; the hope that God is working beauty from the pain.

2008. A night of worship with this musician in honor of Blake's life; healing, hope and Heaven all rushing into one place.

2009. A lunch date with Allie- reconnecting and missing her already before she leaves again! Thankful for the way God crossed  our paths when she was just a newlywed and I was an "older-wed" in need of fresh passion and inspiration. Love how God's knit our hearts and our lives!

2010. Telling Bible stories with Josh and Hannah in Maggie's Sunday School class  (Thankful for the idea God gave me on an 11:45pm Walmart run when I walked by the birthday party aisle, spotted the noisemakers and received fresh inspiration for bringing the Word to life in a way that preschoolers could understand. He is faithful!)

Why You Should Save Those Dead Flowers When Mother's Day Is Over 5.15.2013

My firstborn once gave me dead flowers on Mother's Day.

I knew his perfect gift was at risk of being foiled when he'd raced into the kitchen and asked me for a box.

I could see splashes of yellow and purple peeking through his slender fingers on those hands crossed slyly behind his back. 

And even though I was trying not to look at the bouquet of wildflowers my four-year-old had just picked from the field in our backyard, I couldn’t help but notice the drizzle of green leaves dropping to the floor at his heels.

Standing there in the kitchen with a clump of volunteer daisies and a goofy grin stretched from ear to ear, my little man looked like a starry-eyed Romeo ready to drop to his knees.

But his twinkle dissolved when I asked why he needed a box.

"Mom, I can't tell you. It's a surprise." His baby blues bore into mine. "'Cause tomorrow's, ya know... Mother's Day."

I feigned shock and glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall near the refrigerator. "Really? It's Mother's Day tomorrow?"

Luke danced happy and squealed, "Ye-es, don't you 'member anything, Mom?"

My two-year-old toddled into the room with a saggy diaper, and I scooped her up and sniffed her bottom. 

"Oh, my, you need a change." 

Lizzy squirmed out of my arms and waddled away while her brother tapped the table with his knuckles as a reminder of our unfinished business.

"Mom, I really need a box. Could you please get me one?" 

My firstborn didn't smell any better than his diaper-dragging sister. Dirt streaks highlighted his flushed cheeks and threads of prairie grass clung to his filthy knees.  

And though he would have normally just bolted through the house oblivious to the trail he was leaving in his wake, on this Mother's Day Eve, he stood plastered to the rug just inside the kitchen door.

"Mom? Are you gonna get it for me? The box." Luke swayed from side to side, jittery with impatience. 

I could only imagine what those silky petals would look like after they'd slept all night beneath a cardboard lid. 

I was stuck in the perfect quandary. Either I could deflate my son's joy on the spot or let his precious plan be spoiled in the morning.

 I opted for the latter.

"I'll check if we have a box," I said,  "But would you rather have something else?"

I grabbed a glass vase from the cupboard above the counter, filled it with tap water, and set it nonchalantly on the counter between us.

Luke eyed the vase with little interest.

"Like what, Mom?" 

He stomped impatiently on the rainbow-striped rug and waited for me to finish my sentence.

"Umm...maybe..." I scrambled for an idea, but fell short. 

My firstborn shifted his weight from one foot to another. "I really just need a box."  

A golden petal floated to the floor behind him. "And maybe some wrapping paper...."

I eyed my boy and gave him a mock salute, then headed to the basement to secure a shoe box and a shiny piece of left-over Christmas wrap.

Luke smiled gratefully when I returned with the requested supplies, and after shedding his grassy shoes and allowing me to scrub his muddy nose; he raced to his bedroom to do something important.

A few moments later, he scuttled back to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of Scotch tape and scampered to his room once more, humming merrily.

The next morning, when Mother's Day dawned pink with a slit of sunlight, my giddy gift-giver tiptoed into our room with a lumpy, bumpy box.

He climbed into bed beside me and bounced on the mattress to rouse me from sleep.

"Happy Mother's day, Mommy!" he said, poking at my poke-a-dot pajamas. "This is for you." 

He waggled the shoe box in front of my face.

 I propped myself up on a pillow and tried to rub the sleep from my eyes. 

"Wow, look at this beautiful box," I gushed as I tugged at the globs of tape wound methodically around the tinseled red paper.

"I wonder what's in it..." 

I fixed one eye on my firstborn and another on my husband stretching lazily beside me.

Luke sing-songed, "You'll never ever guess; never ever guess."

Finally, I untangled the tape wads, lifted the shoebox lid and peered inside.

There, just as I’d suspected, was a bundle of brittle brown blooms perched atop my big boy's favorite yellow baby blankie.

My son's joy dissolved as he eyed the colorless spray. 

His bouncing slowed and he squatted quiet at my side.

Confused, he stuck his nose in the box and inhaled deeply in search of yesterday's field-fresh scent.

When he lifted his head, Luke flashed his dad a panicked gaze.

I scooped the dead flowers out of the box and thanked my son for his thoughtfulness. 

"Did you pick these beauties all by yourself?" I asked, adding a measure of amazement to my voice in hopes of lifting my preschooler's sagging shoulders. 

 I pressed my lips to his ears and whispered, "How did you know I love flowers?"

Luke shrugged and humbly accepted my gratitude.

He studied the brown blooms in my hand and then, suddenly, his face brightened.

He stood up on the bed and danced around me, making the pillows jump like grasshoppers on a summer's day.

"I knew you'd love them," he bragged as he pointed to the dung-colored petals. "'Cause they're brown, just like your hair!"

While my proud son finished his victory boogie, my husband stared at the dark roots of my she-still-thinks-she's a-blonde hair and tried not to burst into laughter.

Then, as I ran my fingers through my tangled morning mop (my fake-blonde morning mop), my man promptly rolled out of bed, grabbed Luke's hand, and hurried out of the bedroom mumbling something about bringing Mom breakfast in bed to salvage the morning.

I didn't save those brown blooms. But I wish I had.

I wish I'd pressed them in my prayer journal or kept them in the overflowing box of keepsakes under my bed.

photo credit

Because more than the vibrant greenhouse blooms that are sitting on my table this morning (thanks to a husband who uses vases rather than boxes), those brittle petals picked with love long ago remind me of the hard but freeing truth about being a mom.

Though motherhood is certainly filled with moments of dazzling color- smoochy red i- love-yous and royal purple hugs; sky-blue giggles and soft gold cuddles; motherhood is also filled with a whole bunch of brown. 

Motherhood is a get-your-hands-dirty-kind of holy-calling.

It's a marathon of wiping bottoms and noses and floors.

And reading Green Eggs and Ham 1000 times.

And folding superhero underwear when you'd rather be unfolding a new dream.

It's taming toddler tantrums. And teenage tantrums.

And holding puke buckets and clammy bodies wrought with fever. 

Motherhood is sleeping with one ear tuned to a baby's cry. Or a teenager's footsteps.

It's cramming your whole body into the bottom bunk to ward off a little one's nightmares and cramming prayer into all the cracks and crevices of a never-ending day.

It's applauding pot-and-pan band concerts.  And humming lull-a-byes.

And dancing on dirty kitchen floors and singing The Wheels on the Bus over and over in the mini-van until you feel like you may need to be wheeled to the nearest asylum before the day is done.

Hallmark hasn't come close to capturing the true colors of  motherhood.

Because motherhood is a whole lot more brown than those dazzling greeting cards that are still propped up on my kitchen counter. 

And maybe that's why we wonder what's wrong with us when this thing called parenting feels incredibly hard and sometimes just plain ol' boring.

Maybe that's why we carry around invisible knapsacks of guilt and we fear that we'll never be enough.  

Because nobody ever bothered to tell us that there would be days when we'd want to run away. Or at least go back to bed and hide under the covers a little longer.

Nobody told us that motherhood would be so brown.

But what those dried out daisies would remind me, if I'd been wise enough to save them, is this:

There is beauty in the brown.

A sage artist knows that an ordinary patch of brown is made by a blend of vibrant colors. 

Brown is the perfect combination of red and yellow and blue all swirled together to make the color of earth and dirt.

Brown is yellow and purple and orange merged to create the hue of mighty tree trunks and the dark rich soil that holds their roots. 

An artist knows that brown is beautiful.

And a mother knows the same. 

A wise mother knows that if she slows her soul long enough to LOOK through the eyes of the Master Artist, she will spy glory in the grit. 

Sloppy kisses spilling from dirty faces. 

Laugh-out-loud moments in the sticky madness. 

Prayers of faith rising from the bottom of those filthy toes all the way to Heaven's throne.

Hallmark may paint motherhood in strokes of happy pink and streaks of dazzling blue.  But the One who grows joy from sorrow and beauty from ashes may paint motherhood in hues of brown. 

And when we sink our roots deep into the soil of His heart; when we die to ourselves and let Him love those dirty feet right through our feeble hands; we find colors of joy we've never imagined. 

So, go ahead!  Leave that Mother's Day bouquet sitting on your kitchen table long after the color has faded. Collect the brittle leaves like they're going out of style.

And on those days when you're longing for life in brighter hues, shred the Hallmark card and cling to what you know is true.

Motherhood is a gift of dazzling grace wrapped in shades of brown. 

Beautiful brown, kind of like a bouquet of wildflowers hiding in a shoe box.

Linking up with these beautiful women: Emily at Imperfect Prose, Jennifer for Tell His Story, Beth for Wedded Wednesdays, and Jill for Hearts at Home's Third Thursday Thoughts, and Jen for soli deo gloria.