When We See His Glory in all of our Grit 4.02.2012

 "If God is not in the muck of our daily existence,  then He is nowhere…" 

-Tony Woodlief, Somewhere More Holy

I read those words at dawn and later scribble this proclamation of hope in my journal as the sun sets low and my children bake mud pies. 


I  should be setting the table and serving up supper, but I linger long in my thoughts as my heart seeks His glory in all this grit.

Humbly,  I write...

There is laundry scattered all over the house.

 Muddy mountains in the laundry room because the kids have been embracing the wonder of spring and the gooey brown that comes with it.  

Piles of clean-but-not-folded towering on my couch in the middle of the living room. And heaps of clean-and-folded-but-not-yet-put-away teetering high on my bed.

And there are finger paints strewn across the craft room floor. Some with lids and others without. 

Paintbrushes long abandoned and left to dry all sticky and orange because my little Picassos were inspired by the tulip blooms beside our front steps and decided to paint their own on some old cereal boxes they’d pulled from the recycling bin in the garage. 

So now a week's worth of old milk cartons and aluminum cans, kleenex boxes and peanut butter jars dot the garage floor, flowing like a steady stream from the recycling bin empty and upturned.  

But one beautiful painting hangs on my fridge, a three-year-old's version of a tulip splattered happily in bright blue, not quite covering the wordsGolden Grahams over which it was painted.  

Every bed in the house is missing its pillows. But the basement floor is covered with them, because an hour ago Josh and Maggie were frogs hopping on lily pads from wall to couch.

Though the air wafting through my windows is pungent with the aroma of fresh blooms and new life, the scent of rotting something hovers quietly over my kitchen, an offensive aroma that  reminds me just how long its been since I’ve cleaned that refrigerator dotted with finger-paintings and preschool papers. 

And speaking of papers, there are plenty of those piled high on my kitchen counter- field trip forms from school that need my signature and bills to pay and belated birthday cards to send. 

And someone's book is lying right on top of it all, stretched out accordian style to mark the spot for later. Then there are the Bibles scattered across the kitchen counter, too.  Each one still opened to the story of Samuel that began our day. 

Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening. 

If I look closely I can see a fine layer of dust on all of my baseboards, fingerprints on nearly every window pane and an artistic splattering of stains across the carpet. 

On some days this mess I call my home overwhelms me.

No matter what hour I rise there’s never enough time in any day to tackle all the grit.  

But lately I’ve been thinking about Hannah at the beach and that dirty little shell that grew luminious in the light.  

And if I turn the eyes of my heart toward the Son, this mess I call home becomes a multitude of immeasurable beauty. 

If I look past the shambles to the shimmers, this ordinary place of life and love turns into an extraordinary gift of grace crammed with pillows reminding me of my children’s healthy legs for hopping and finger paint that screams of creativity growing grand and books that sing of minds being shaped. 

And if I listen for His still small voice, I hear Him whisper of how He loves these mess-makers, even me. 

And when the aroma of Christ lingers long in this mess, I see a dirty refrigerator that is not empty but filled with all we need to nourish the seven bodies beneath this roof and carpet stains that proclaim this house is lived in and played in and loved in. 


And dusty baseboards that prove this mom is spending her time seeking first rather than scouting dust bunnies... 

My scribbles wane and the clock pushes seven as the sun soundlessly sinks. The soup on the stove has simmered long, and I know I should call my little ones in for dinner. 

But first, I press my nose to the dirty window and watch my girls sprinkle clover over the mud pies spread across the backyard patio. 

I listen to the dog barking loud as he competes with the squeak of the swing set.

And for just a moment, through the smudges and the fingerprints, I see it clearly... how the glory of now can shimmer bright in the light of gratitude.

If only I turn this mess just a little bit and praise Him in all of this grit.  

Praising Him for all of these gifts...won't you join me?

Still counting 1000 Gifts

939. More mud pies

940. The creak of the swingset merging with the kids' melody of laughter

941. Bright pink blooms caught on the wind and sailing through the air- God's spring confetti scattered across our yard.

942. A shared slice of cheesecake on the couch with my man.

943. Honest words spoken at the start of the day. The gift of struggling through the hard stuff and a husband who loves me DESPITE...

944. Front yard soccer and grass stained socks

and linking with these beautiful ones... ann for 1000 gifts, l.l. for on, in, and around mondays,
jen for soli deo gloria  and laura for playdates with god.


And last, but not least... what can a mom learn about intentional living from a morning spent catching butterflies? Hop on over to my friend's beautiful blog, Heavenly Glimpses, and join me there as I answer that very question and wrap-up Theresa's marvelous series on intentional living! (Of course, you'll want to stay and read all of Theresa's insightful words. Enjoy her sweet spirit and radiant love for the Lord! She's one of those friends you'll just want to savor over a cup of hot coffee.)