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 ask 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.

He must become greater; I must become less (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.

And the kids had stared at that hallowed vegetable.

And, finally, I'd shared that convicting truth that had been brewing within me all along as I'd watched my clan cut and whittle and scrape.

 "If there's less of me, there can be more of Jesus."

Josh 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 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 a thirsty world the Living Water of Jesus Christ 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 He wants to give? 

If Christ is going to become GREATER in 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 in me and then spill Himself across this parched 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 the striving me and the prideful me; the wanting-things-to-go-my-way me and the demanding me; the what's-in-it-for me-me and the I-deserve-a-break me.

I don't want Christ to scoop out the loving-with-strings-attached me and the seeking-the-easy-road me.

After all, what will be left of me when the carving is done?


I think of all this as I sit silent with my friend on the couch.

And then I whisper these words of hope, wanting to believe them for both of us:

What if you're feeling hallow 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 again with Rachel for Friday Favorites.

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.

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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. 

Why I Don't Cry Over Burnt Bread Anymore (Or the Simple Secret to Surrendering those Mommy Measures!) 5.08.2013

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I was squashed knee-to-chin between kindergarteners in the school cafeteria when he said it. 

Honest words that made me laugh. 

Words that may have spawned tears years ago.

I was joining Josh for lunch when the little boy next to me pulled a sandwich out of his bright blue lunch box that garnered my son's full attention.

“That sandwich is huge!” Josh exclaimed as he poked at the lukewarm carrots on his cafeteria tray and gazed longingly at his classmate’s lunch.

I glanced at the mile-high sandwich-- the oversized slice of cheese dangling off the edges, the wispy green sprigs and sprouts poking out the sides, and the fresh fluffy bread that held it all together. 

And I wondered how much cash it would take to talk that little guy into a trade. 

One soggy school-made sloppy joe for one fluffy fresh sandwich.

Can you even get that big thing in your mouth? I teased as Cold-lunch Boy freed his sandwich from Saran Wrap and lifted the masterpiece to his lips.

”I’m used to big bread,” he replied with a grin. And then added proudly, “It’s my mom’s specialty.” 

Josh raised an eyebrow, slowly catching on. “You mean your mom makes the bread at your house?”

His classmate nodded happily, mouth full of food.

Josh looked at me and shrugged his slender shoulders; then chirped. “Oh, my mom’s specialty is burnt bread.”

My kindergartener threw his arms around me like he’d just announced that I’d won the presidency. “Right, Mom?”

I nearly choked on my swig of chocolate milk as the laughter rose from my toes.

“Right!” I concurred. 

I winked at Cold Lunch Boy and confessed in sing-song: “If the crust’s not charred, the bread’s not ours.” 

The sweet boy beside me didn't even blink at my corny rhyme. I had, after all, just spent the morning in the kindergarten room conducting a poetry workshop prior to lunch. (I may not bake bread, but I can cook up a poem in a flash!)

The cafeteria monitor rang a small bell to indicate the lunch hour's end, and the kids quickly inhaled their final bites. 

Josh gave me a one armed hug; then joined his classmates lining up for recess, and left me alone with my speckled pink lunch tray and a small mound of lukewarm carrots.

I cleared my tray just like I'd done a thousand times as a three-foot elementary student in that same lunch room.

And I laughed my way to the van as the innocent lunchtime conversation echoed through my mind. 

With gratitude, I realized just how far I’ve come in dropping those crazy measuring tapes. 

A decade ago my young son’s honesty would have left me feeling second-rate. 

But recently, I've been learning that a good mom isn’t good at every thing.

She’s just really good at this one thing:

A good mom is good at being who God has created her to be.

On any given day, I could list a few things I do well.

But maybe, more importantly, I can list the things I don’t do at all.

I’ve learned the hard way that I miss all sorts of sacred and significant moments when I live with a frantic insistence that I can do it all. 

When I'm striving to be good at all things, I miss the joy of the small things. 

The truth is: I wasn’t created to do it all. 

I was created to play one small role in a gigantic Kingdom tale. 

And if I spend my life trying to be like every mom I admire; if I exhaust myself racing to do it all; then I may miss that one thing I was put in this world to do.

If I weary myself trying to copy every grand idea that’s ever been pinned; if I breed stress trying to implement every marvelous suggestion that’s ever been posted, if I grow crabby trying to replicate all the good things other great women in my midst have accomplished; then I set myself up to fail at the one unique thing God earmarked just for me.  

God is less concerned with how I measure up against other moms and more concerned with how I measure my days. 

He doesn't need me to be Martha Stewart. He needs me to steward my time. And my gifts. And my passions.

One day I’ll stand before the Lord and give an account of what I did with this life. 

And I hope that when I finally see Him face to face, I will be able to  say, "I did my best to count each moment as a gift.  And by Your grace, I completed the good work you created me to do." 

There are things that are only mine to do in this world. A script written just for me.

Five children to raise, one husband to serve, the least of these to love, and a Savior to pursue in my own unique way.

In the words of one wise mother: "It’s not hard to decide what you want your life to be about. What’s hard is figuring out what you're willing to give up in order to do the things you really care about." 

So here’s a small tip that has changed my life; my secret to surrendering the measuring tapes-- 

“Prayerfully figure out what you don’t do.  Make a list. Post it where you see it. Stick to it and watch your life grow deep and rich." (Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet)

If you're ready to be set free, make that list. Write it down.
And refuse to feel guilty for being you.

As I tell my kids, "I would never ask you to do something I'm not willing to do..."

So, here’s my list. For now.

 It was first scribbled on a coffee-stained page of my journal, but today I'm posting it for all to see. Because sometimes it's just good to know that you're not the only one who lives with don'ts.

I'm guessing my list will change as the kids grow, and I do, too. But for today, this simple little list keeps this mom from being harnessed with guilt when an  unassuming five-year-old pulls a gourmet sandwich out of his lunch box.

things i don’t do (right now)

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*I don’t make bread from scratch (but I do shave off the burnt bottoms of the heat-and-eat dinner rolls I always manage to char!)

*I don’t wander malls for fun (Maybe this one will change when I don’t have little shoppers in tow)

*I don’t make fancy birthday cakes (a box is fine for me)

*I don’t scrapbook (all my photos are either in a shoe box or are dangling out there somewhere in cyberspace)

*I don’t belong to a gym (I’d prefer to climb on the treadmill in my pajamas each morning)

*I don’t spend more time working out than I spend in the Word. (I need a spiritually fit soul far more than I need a firm backside and rock-hard abs)

*I don’t watch TV  (I'm still a fan of good books and a comfy couch).

*I don’t grow things (besides children)- no plants, gardens, or gorgeous landscaping.

*I don’t sew or mend (Praise God for grandmas who do!)

*I don’t collect things (umm... except for all those books on my shelves and in baskets and cupboards....).

*I don’t do hair (My poor girls know I can barely pull up a pony tail without leaving large bubbles on their heads. Thank heavens for headbands and barrettes!)

*I don’t spend much time or effort decorating my house (although I will be quick to appreciate your gorgeous color scheme and darling decorations if I visit you).

*I rarely clean my refrigerator (unless something STINKS in there!)

And by the way, don't you dare pull out your mommy measures and compare your don'ts to mine!  Here’s the ultimate gift in this little exercise...

Yours list won’t look like mine. And that’s how it’s supposed to be. 

You might be that mama who bakes bread from scratch and feeds your family fresh from the garden.

You might be the woman who blesses her family with a beautifully decorated home and captures your favorite memories in a stunning scrapbook.

You might be the mom who shines the light of Christ at the gym or at the mall or at the office.

And, if that’s what God has created you to do, then that’s exactly what you should do.  

One secret to discovering joy in these bottomless trenches of motherhood is to learn to celebrate the women in the trenches beside us. 

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Instead of comparing our similarities, we're wise to extol our differences. 

Your gifts don’t diminish mine. And my do’s don’t invalidate your don’ts.

Your small part to play in this forever and ever story of God’s amazing grace is different than mine.  But it is equally important and just as special.

And it would be no small shame to miss it.

So, friends, if you were made to bake bread, by all means bake it.

If you were created to serve up laughs. Please do.

And if you were made to sing, start filling this earth with music.

But whatever you do, don’t try to do it all. 

Or you just might miss the one thing this world desperately need you to do.

This spinning globe doesn't need more moms with measuring sticks, but it sure could use an army of women willing to measure their days and play their part with grace.

 No matter how BIG or small their role.

Playing my small part in these link-ups: Emily at Imperfect Prose, Jennifer for Tell His Story, Beth for Wedded Wednesdays, and Jill for Hearts at Home's Third Thursday Thoughts.