Elizabeth’s

What To Do About Women’s Roles {Velvet Ashes}

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Elizabeth is over at Velvet Ashes today for their discussion on Roles.

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I’ve sat around the table and been told – on more than one occasion and on both sides of the ocean – that what I’m doing is not Enough. That I am not working Hard Enough. That what I’m doing with my children is Too Small. That I’m not Properly Serving the needs around me. And all the while, I’d been following, to the best of my ability, what I thought God had for me in that season of my life.

There have been times I’ve been beyond frustrated at the state of church culture. A culture that seems to honor and esteem men above women. A culture that grants men more options in where and how to serve God than it grants women. A culture that judges women for the few options they do have, no matter which ones they choose. You stay at home with your children? You should be working all day. You work all day? You should be staying at home with your children.

Sometimes I wonder why men are privileged to choose their ministry emphasis, but wives are pigeon-holed into their husband’s jobs. Is there no difference between the way God fashioned the two parts of a couple, that they might possibly be able to serve in different capacities?

I have cried so many tears over this.

I’d love to see a Christian culture that places fewer unattainable expectations on women. I’d love to see a Christian culture that ties up fewer heavy burdens on women’s shoulders. I’d love to see a Christian culture that lifts a finger — or five — to ease those unbearable demands.

The reality is, we may not be able to bring cultural change across all of Christendom. We may not be able to exert organization- or church-wide influence. But we can attend to the one thing we do have influence over: our relationship with God.

Click here to read the hopeful conclusion.

How a Night Owl Woke Up to Mornings

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by Elizabeth

I have NEVER been a morning person. I have therefore never had a morning quiet time. I’ve tried afternoon, evening, and not-at-all, none of which worked long-term. About 6 months ago, something stirred inside me and I wanted more time with God.

My husband was already getting up an hour before everyone else while I stayed in bed, sometimes not even getting up in enough time to eat breakfast with the kids. (I told you I wasn’t a morning person!)

I knew I had to start small. I started with 10 minutes. Yes you read that right. 10 minutes before the kids are allowed out of bed. (Yes there is a rule about their wake time, and thankfully my kids are old enough to understand and obey it.) Even that was hard. I kept pushing back the alarm 5 or 10 minutes, and eventually got to 30 minutes with God. Yes, I would like more, and no, I haven’t been able to move it back any earlier. Yet.

Something that really helped me stick with an earlier wake time was not beating myself up if I missed a day. (That’s Grace, applied to time with God.) I know I can start again the next day. So I don’t let myself feel guilty if I miss a day. But if I miss a few days, I know I have to evaluate, because something’s off that needs tending.

And before, when I’ve tried Bible reading plans, if I missed a day, I would try to double up in order to catch up. I decided that wasn’t going to work long-term, so I don’t do catch up days. I either let myself skip, or stay behind. And I don’t let myself feel guilty if I land somewhere else in Scripture and detour from The Plan. Why should I? I’m still in God’s Word! (Yes, I used to feel guilty about detours — oh, the perfectionism that kills.)

Getting up earlier requires discipline in going to bed earlier, and let me tell you, I am STILL not great at this. I still stay up too late sometimes and have a hard time getting out of bed. My introvert self really needs quiet time with God in the morning. Ironically, when my introvert self has been “socialed out,” I’m too exhausted to get up in the morning, thereby thwarting the very healing I need. Too much social interaction interferes with my ability to hear from God, and I just have to accept that fact.

I think the surprising thing has been what has happened inside me since I made this commitment. Sometimes it doesn’t feel fruitful. But if I look back over the last several months, the fruit of peace and intimacy with God is clear to me. I’ve had lots of spiritual breakthroughs. I’ve fallen more in love with God and His Word. I’ve discovered I like reading it; it’s not just a duty anymore.

I remember taking teenagers in America to Acquire the Fire conference several years ago. Phil Joel, former bass player for the band Newsboys, was talking about dedicating his mornings to time with God. After several months of this, he remembers sitting across the breakfast table from his wife, realizing the changes God had made in him, his marriage, and his parenting, and saying, “It’s working, isn’t?”

I think that’s how I feel about my morning times with God. I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I skip and stay in bed. Sometimes I don’t get much out of it. Sometimes I read more than I pray. Sometimes I pray more than I read. Sometimes I sit and stew and worry. Other times I receive visions from God that impart deep, deep healing. All I know is that after several months of this, I have been changed, and getting up early is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

And then, recently, I came across these tips for night owls like me. I had implemented several of them myself in attempting to get up earlier and was excited to know other people thought they worked too. And I LOVE the title “Hello Mornings.” For someone who’s not a morning person, it’s hopeful and helpful to look at mornings through such a warm and friendly lens. I especially like tips #3, #4, #10, #11, and #13. I’m sharing the link in the hope it can help someone who’s struggling to get up in the morning with God.

*photo credit

The Church: Hungry for Community

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by Elizabeth

Last week I posted this on my Facebook wall:

This morning at church we sang “We welcome You with praise” (from Chris Tomlin’s song “Here For You”). Sometimes it’s easy to welcome Him with praise. Other times, not so much.

I remember in early 2006 when we learned that Jonathan’s dad had brain cancer. A dear friend dropped everything to come sit with me. I couldn’t pray; she prayed for me. She told God that we bring a sacrifice of praise to Him, for today, it is exactly that, a SACRIFICE. She welcomed God with praise when I couldn’t do it myself.

I love the story in Exodus where Moses holds up his staff, and the Israelites gain the advantage over the Amalekites. Soon Moses’ arms are so tired he can’t hold them up, and Aaron and Hur find a stone for him to sit on. Then they stand on either side of him, holding up his hands. And his hands hold steady.

I remember when Jonathan’s mom was dying of cancer. It was Jonathan’s turn to lead singing, and his mom was in the congregation. As he was leading “God Moves in a Mysterious Way,” he got to a point where he couldn’t continue. An elder took over the song leading, and two men came and stood on either side of him and literally held his arms up as we sang.

May we be people who band together, holding each other’s arms up in the battle. May we be people who join with the tired, the weary, and the hurting, and welcome God with praise even when some in our midst cannot.

He is still with us.

The next day I wondered why I’d felt so compelled to share that. Then I realized that it was because I was writing about the Church, and I love the Church. In fact, I get irrationally happy talking about the Church. I’m captivated by God’s great idea. His magnificent idea.

I didn’t expect my Facebook post to resonate with so many people, but it did. That tells me that we are hungry for the kind of community God designed, even as we sustain damage from His people through unhealthy or abusive church environments.

A couple years ago I wrote about all the reasons I love the Church. But it felt incomplete. There’s so much more to say, so much more to flesh out. My thoughts on the Church have been percolating for a while now. So this is my launching point for a series on the Church. It won’t be in any particular order or on any particular schedule. I’ll add to the series whenever I get the chance, and I’ll unashamedly share how I feel about Christ’s Bride, the Church.

*photo credit

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Other posts in the Church series:

“Me too” Moments

On Not Being the Casserole Lady

Dear American Church

I am a Worshipper

Authenticity is Not New

“I’m Not Supposed to Have Needs” {A Life Overseas}

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Elizabeth is over at A Life Overseas today, continuing her series on life in ministry families. Here’s a snippet:

The idea that “other people’s needs are more important than my own” sounds very spiritual. It sounds very sacrificial and giving. But we are all of us humans, created and finite beings with limited resources. Our lives are powered by the Holy Spirit, true, but none of us can survive if we think we are only here for others, or if other’s needs are always more important than our own.

There’s a deeper, more insidious lie at work here, too. When we believe the lie that the only purpose of our life is to serve other people, we buy into the falsehood that we earn our worth. That our performance justifies our existence. That what we do, the service we yield for others, is what makes us valuable in both God’s eyes and other people’s eyes.

 You can read the entire article here.

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When Baby Snuggles Make Me Grateful for Modern Medicine

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by Elizabeth

Warning: This is a frank discussion of childbirth complications. Men in particular (and perhaps pregnant women) may not wish to continue reading any further. You will not find statistics here; rather, you will find my story. It is a story of immeasurable thankfulness.

My kids were extra snuggly today. (The weather is still cool enough to want to snuggle.) As I wrapped my arms around the Baby and sang to her, I remembered afresh how miraculous it is that I’m even alive and able to hold her.

When she was three weeks old, I was so weak I could barely get out of bed to go to the bathroom. The narcotics I had on hand were barely touching the abdominal pain. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I wondered if I was going to die. Not the seizure coma death type of fear I talk about so much, but a foreboding that I might not live to see my baby grow up. I wanted her to know how fiercely she was loved, and I wrote her a note to tell her so.

Later that day, emergency room doctors diagnosed me with endometritis — a uterine infection which can, they told me, spread to the bloodstream if left unchecked. I received intravenous antibiotics, spent the night in the hospital, and took heavy-duty oral antibiotics for the next week. I needed another full week of people bringing us meals and watching my older kids for my strength to return.

I wouldn’t have lived long enough to require those life-saving antibiotics if it hadn’t been for other modern obstetric interventions. I’d hemorrhaged at 10 days postpartum and required a semi-emergent D&C (dilation and curettage, my first, and so far only, surgery). Even before that, I’d hemorrhaged in the hospital an hour after her birth. It took, for all you medical people out there, two bags of Pitocin, one shot of Methergine, and another of Hemabate, alongside an already-nursing baby and that delightful practice of fundal massage, to stem the bleeding. Just as we began discussing blood transfusions, the hemorrhage finally abated.

I’m not sure I would even have been alive to have a fourth baby without those same hemorrhage-halting drugs for my second baby, whose nearly 10-pound weight stretched my uterus so far it had trouble contracting again, and whose large head tore my cervix, requiring a clamp to stop the bleeding. (I think it’s fairly obvious why my propensity to postpartum hemorrhage was a reason I didn’t want to move overseas in the first place.)

When I think about the fact that before oxytocic drugs, hemorrhage was a huge maternal killer (and still is in some parts of the world), I am thankful I didn’t die during my fourth birth or in the ensuing weeks of infection and illness. I am thankful I didn’t die during my second birth, either. Without modern medicine, I might not have lived to watch my second born walk at 11 months, or enjoy him as the laughingest baby I’d ever known. I might not have been around to watch him over and over again as he earned his “Danger Baby” nickname.

I might not have been around to watch him refuse to talk till he was three, communicating only through gestures and nods, simply because he didn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t have been around to watch his two-year old self lay on his floor every night, looking at board books with his stuffed Tigger till he was so tired he fell asleep there.

Without modern medicine, I wouldn’t be able to snuggle my Baby and sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” or her favorite Steve Green’s Hide ‘Em in Your Heart song “When I am Afraid I Will Trust in You.” I wouldn’t be able to belly-laugh at her dinnertime jokes.  I wouldn’t be around to watch her dance like a ballerina or to receive her sweet kisses.

I am profoundly grateful to the doctors, nurses, and midwife who treated my postpartum hemorrhages and infection. Because of you and the scientists who created those life-saving drugs, I can enjoy my four precious children. Because of you, I can cuddle with them on a couch in Cambodia. From my house to your hospital, I thank you.