Labor On

Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain. (1 Corinthians 15:58 NIV)

I had such idealistic ideas about childbirth before our first child was born. Kathryn would be delivered naturally, as I stared calmly at my focal point picture, breathing as I had been taught with my wonderful husband and coach whispering just the right words of encouragement into my happy ears. Our baby would emerge pretty and pink and glowing with health. We had attended the classes. We had practiced. We were ready. Well ... the reality was somewhat messier than expected.

I was in labor 28 hours. Not only could I not focus on a focal point, I did not want to focus on anything except the doctor who could give me something to Make The Pain Stop. Sigh. Yep. I caved. Had the help of drugs. Delivered a healthy baby, but … she was not all pretty and pink when she first appeared. Ha! But Oh. When I held that little girl in my arms, when I counted her little fingers and toes and kissed her cute little button nose, I was smitten. All that hard, messy labor was worth it. Our Kathryn had arrived and we rejoiced.

Paul urges believers in the verse above to “ … stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” What work has the Lord called you to do? Are you a Sunday School teacher? On a missions committee? Working with the homeless? Whatever job God has assigned you at this point in your life, be encouraged. Labor—hard and messy though it might be—if done for the Lord, will never be in vain. Every little thing we do in our churches or simply in our daily lives that points to Christ matters.

Dear friend, don’t give up. Even when it hurts, even when you need help, like I did, to push through, keep going! On that great day when we arrive in Heaven, one of our greatest joys will be to see the results of our labors. That little kid in Sunday School class, who had a million questions, saved and present with you before the throne. Those from every tribe and nation worshiping, some of them there because of your monetary gifts, prayers, and support of missionaries. That homeless person you witnessed to … you didn't think he heard you and there he is beside you in Heaven worshiping the King! There is no greater work than the work God assigns. So stand firm. Let nothing move you from the work God has given you. It is not in vain.

Heavenly Father, show me today the work You have for me. Give me eyes to see those who need to hear of You. Help me to keep going, sharing the gospel, serving in small ways so that others can hear the good news that Jesus has paid the price for their sins and they are freed to enter Heaven if they put their trust in Him. Lord, use me. Give me strength to labor for Your kingdom work. In Jesus' Name, Amen.

Originally written by Sharon Gamble of Sweet Selah Ministries. Used with permission.

Am I Doing Enough for God?

“Do you ever feel like you’re not doing enough for God? Do you ever feel guilty, like you should be working harder for him?”

Many of the ladies in my Sunday School class nodded in response to the questions. Our teacher had struck a chord that resonated with us.

We were studying 2 Samuel, and in chapter 7 we read how David had a plan to do something wonderful for God. He would build God a house. David’s desire to do this work for God flowed out of his love and worship for God.

But God’s response to David’s desire to serve him gives us insight into the way of the Lord with his children. Through the prophet Nathan, God asks David, “Would you build me a house to dwell in?…Did I speak a word…saying, ‘Why have you not built me a house of cedar?’”

Later, David’s son Solomon would build him a house, but for now, God wanted David to understand what kind of a God he was — and it wasn’t a God who needed David to build him a house.

God says in Isaiah 66:1-2,
“Thus says the LORD; ‘Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool; what is the house that you would build for me, and what is the place of my rest? All these things my hand has made, and so all these things came to be,’ declares the LORD. ‘But this is the one to whom I will look: he who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word.”

And oh, God did look! God looked to David, replying to him in a way that said, You want to build ME a house? Oh no, no, no, no. I will build you a house — an eternal one!

The Bible is clear: God isn’t looking for women who will build him a house, who will work for him, who will get their act together and plan for him, who will provide for him, who will fill some void in his heart. He’s looking for women for him to revive (Isaiah 57:15). He’s looking for women with a contrite and lowly spirit so he can come to them to show himself strong on their behalf (2 Chronicles 16:9).

“I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with him who is of a contrite and lowly spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” Isaiah 57:15

“For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to give strong support to those whose heart is blameless toward him…” 2 Chronicles 16:9

God turns David’s (and my!) understanding of himself upside-down and on its head — GOD is looking to serve ME. To help me. To support me. To work for me.

“From of old no one has heard or perceived by the ear, no eye has seen a God besides you, who acts for those who wait for him.” (Isaiah 64:6)

Does this kind of doctrine make you feel uncomfortable? Do these truths make you feel like you need to put on the brakes?

I think I’ve felt uncomfortable with these truths because I don’t want to make it out like God is a genie in a bottle, a Santa Claus waiting to give me my best life now and make all my dreams come true. I also know that the Christian life does involve sacrifice and walking in a manner worthy of Christ, and I don’t want to seem to encourage lawless, ungodly living.

But Paul taught a gospel like this — a gospel so good that one might fear that its grace gives license to sin. Paul’s response to this assumption is, “By no means!” (Romans 6:1-2)

Because, for those of us who have been brought from death to life, Jesus has changed our very want-tos and who we are from the inside out. Yes, we’ll still fight those old, sinful inclinations, but we won’t love them anymore. When we receive Jesus, the Bible says we are new creatures in Christ Jesus (2 Corinthians 5:17). We are fundamentally different after we receive Jesus than we were before we believed. Now, we love God and his ways, and whereas we went wrong before, now we go right, because we are right within (Spurgeon).

But I think the biggest reason I’ve felt uncomfortable emphasizing a strong God who helps the weak, is because it’s hard for me to admit that I’m weak and needy. Do you identify? Are you strong, self-sufficient type that others can always count on? Not needy? Not dependent? For the strong, for those who see themselves as better than others (Luke 18:9-14), it’s an uncomfortable gospel.

But it’s the true one. And it’s good, good news for those who realize that they are unworthy, needy sinners.

And that Sunday when we talked in our ladies class about this glorious, too-good-to-be-true God and his goodness to us, I could feel the weight of “the Christian life” lift off my shoulders. The should, the ought-to, the guilt, the trappings of busyness and stress. Because the right response to God’s goodness is to receive it — and ask for more!

“What shall I render to the LORD for all his benefits to me? I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the LORD.” (Psalm 116:12-13)

Like he did for David, God is seeking to help us, too. Jesus said that he did not come to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many (Mark 10:45). Jesus’ work on the cross — his ultimate service of dying in our place for the sin that we have done — is for those who receive His son, Jesus.

“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)

But Jesus’ help for us did not end when he died on the cross for our sins. We live the Christian life like we began it: receiving.

God works for us.

Our response to the incredible Gift we have received is love, obedience to, and worship of “the God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth.” He is a God who “does not live in temples made by man, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mankind life and breath and everything.” (Romans 12:1; Acts 17:24-25)

And the Christian life is daily asking God for more. Asking God for help. Asking him to do in us what only he can do. Asking him to change our loves and want-tos. Trusting him to be our strong help. Walking in obedience to his word through the strength that he supplies. Joyfully rendering obedience and a whole-hearted trust in response to the work he has done for us and is doing in us. Resting in a God who works for us.

Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress, helpless, look to Thee for grace:
Foul, I to the fountain fly, wash me, Savior, or I die.

Originally written by Amanda Criss of Bless Your Heart and Home. Used with permission.

When You Feel Like A Less-Than Mother

“Lara, I think you’ve lost some weight.”

My mother-in-law’s words were a stake in my heart, though I know they were never meant to be. I finished zipping my jacket over my tiny baby bump. “Really? Maybe it’s just this jacket making it look that way,” I lied.  

She verbalized the fear I had pushed away all week. I’m not gaining the weight I’m supposed to.

Nine weeks into pregnancy, morning sickness came. Though I had not thrown up yet, each morning I was greeted with nausea that stayed with me all day. For most, this would be considered easy—at least you aren’t throwing up everything you try to eat. But for me, the mere thought of vomiting was crippling.

My fears of throwing up are what started my life-long journey of anxiety. After my first experience with the flu as a young girl, the thought of vomiting gave me a visceral reaction.  I would collapse into panic attacks—crying, screaming, sweating, shaking—anytime my stomach began to get that gurgling feeling. This fear became so strong that at times I refused to eat at all so I wouldn’t have something in my stomach to throw up.

The car ride with my mother-in-law was quiet as I nibbled a saltine. This is not what I pictured pregnancy to be like. Pregnancy was supposed to be exciting, full of pleasant surprises and sweet kicks in my belly. Instead, mine was filled with misery—reminders of the anxiety I had yet to conquer 15 years later as a grown woman. I felt like a weak child again, helpless to a fear that still held me in its grips.

God, why can’t I be free from this, even still? I prayed to myself, wondering and questioning with each silent plea: If I can’t conquer this anxiety, am I really ready for motherhood? How will I raise a courageous child, who can trust God in the unknown, meanwhile I still fight against this anxiety?

Momma, are you afraid that you don’t have it “together enough” to be a mom? Do you already feel like a failure when you see the put-together moms around you? Do you look at their perfectly still children sitting in the pews and feel like giving up?

Aside from my fears of throwing up, I have many other reasons to feel like a failure compared to my fellow mom friends. But God is giving me a new hope in him, and teaching me to stop looking around at others and start looking at him.

The Joy-Robbing Comparisons

It is a gift to be in a church with fellow mothers who love God and desire to raise their children according to his Word. It’s a joy to come alongside of them and to learn from their years of mothering, both by discussion and simply watching. We see in Titus 2 that this is God’s good intentions for the women in the body of Christ—that the older women would disciple and teach the younger.

“Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior, not slanderers or slaves to much wine. They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.” (Titus 2:3-5 ESV).

Sadly, we have the tendency to turn that joyful gift into despairing heartache by comparing rather than learning. Rather than looking up to these women, we begin to despise and envy them in our hearts because we do not measure up. We compare our children, our words, our methods, and our choices to see whether we did better or worse. This creates for competition rather than fellowship, and exhausted sadness rather than joy.

This is what our sinful hearts are inclined to do. But we must train them according to God’s Word. Rather than giving way to despairing comparison, we should strive to learn from one another as God intended, and encourage one another in Christ. It’s not a competition but a relay race of passing the baton to the next generation, cheering on those who are still running, and learning from those who have years of training under their belts.

The Only Life-Giving Comparison

There is only one we should be comparing ourselves to in every aspect of our journey: Christ. Comparing ourselves to other women can lead to pride. But when we compare ourselves to Christ, we see ourselves rightly: An imperfect sinner who can never measure up. We realize that no matter how hard we strive, we will never meet his standard of perfection. Maybe with enough striving we could come close to matching our friends, but we will never match Christ in his blamelessness.

Instead of despair, this comparison should bring us joy as we remember the gospel. Christ died for imperfect people. He died for moms who would yell at their children, who would become annoyed with their chatter, and who would make poor choices. He died for sinful women like us. And he rose again, paving the way for us to rise to new life with him. He lived, died, and rose in perfection because we could not. And though we are totally undeserving of it, he accredits his righteousness to our account, as if we lived it.

When we trust in Jesus’ work on the cross and repent of our sins, he renews our hearts and give us the Holy Spirit so that we can obey him. Our new desire is not to strive to look like that put-together mom in the pew in front of us, but to look like Christ in order to glorify him.

If you are stuck in the game of comparison among the women in your church, remember the gospel. Preach this to your heart. Begin comparing yourself to Christ. In every aspect of your parenting, your goal is not to look like your friends, but to look like Christ. To lead your child gently as Christ leads the church. To teach them to repent of their sins and turn to Christ. This is your goal, momma.

The Sweet Tension

I stared out the window of the car, watching the evergreens pass by.

There was a sweetness to this tension of still struggling with my anxiety even now as a soon-to-be mom. As much as I hated the fear and wanted to be free from it, it was a constant reminder that I will never be a perfect mom. There’s no “getting it together” before baby comes. I am a weak and sinful human being who will always struggle, and so will my sweet baby. In those times of weakness, my baby doesn’t need a put-together-mom. My baby will need Jesus. And in spite of my own limitations and how much carrying a baby has reminded me of them, my anxiety has also been the reminder that in all my imperfections, I can point my baby to the Perfect Saviour.

Originally written for Strength & Song by Lara d’Entremont.

Patience Walks

“Hold on, Mom,” she says, dismounting from her pink bicycle again. She crouches down, her face inches from the ground. “This is important,” she tells me. 

We’re on one of our walks through the neighborhood, and already we’ve paused like this many times. We’ve examined pill bugs and spider webs, smooth black rocks and purple-flowered weeds, cracks in the sidewalk and one neighbor’s coral-colored roses. I feel the impatience begin to rise in my throat, the impulse to tell her, “Charlotte, get back on your bike. We need to keep going.” But at four years into this motherhood gig, I’ve finally started to learn to push that restlessness down. We don’t have to keep walking. We’re not here to move forward, after all. We’re here to do exactly what my oldest daughter does so well: engage in, watch, and pay attention to the world around us. 

——— 

Ten years ago, I was known as a fast-walker with a tongue to match my gait. I’d chosen a life in political action as a self-assured and overly confident 18-year-old, poised to change the world. I spent part of my eighteenth summer in Washington, D.C. 

I loved Washington. I drank in the hum of the city, the power and importance and history you could feel pulsing through its streets. When I used the metro, I admired how D.C. dwellers kept their travels business-like and straightforward, just the way I liked it. Gone were the backstreet meanderings of my small-town Idaho upbringing and the aimless, slow movement of farmers’ daughters with no place in particular to be. Everyone in D.C. had an urgent errand to dispatch and no time or need to interact with fellow passengers or take in the scenery. Eyes on Blackberries (yes, this was pre-iPhone), they walked with purposeful strides: slow-movers to the right, rushers to the left. It was orderly and controlled and swift. 

It wasn’t long before I learned to stop smiling at strangers like a wide-eyed Idahoan—it only confused people while they watched my hands nervously, expecting me to offer them an unwanted pamphlet or petition. I stopped noticing the hungry squirrels with their twitching noses that occupied sidewalks or the pigeons cooing beside bus stop benches. I stopped making eye contact and didn’t mind one bit. I felt D.C. and its residents understood me: they were willing to keep moving at my breakneck pace for 60-hour weeks rather than forcing me to tailgate their tractors on the highway like back home. 

———

Is it cliche to say my life didn’t end up how I thought it would? Maybe. Maybe it’s only cliche because so many of us have been rescued from the life we thought we wanted when we were 18 years old. 

The particulars aren’t relevant, but my fast-moving life in politics was pulled out from under me with little ceremony and less warning when my boss lost his re-election bid. My 10-year plan crumbled, my hopes died, and I felt (with all my teenage fervor) crushed. 

The next ten years brought college, a rediscovered affection for writing, marriage, a hodgepodge of jobs, and finally, two curly-haired daughters. Each year, circumstances slowed down my natural pace, sometimes maddeningly, like when I fought my physical limitations while pregnant or experienced the paralysis of anxiety. But nothing—absolutely nothing—has taught me to take a beat and practice some patience like motherhood. 

———

Mary Oliver’s Instructions for Living a Life commands: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” 

My near-daily walks through our unremarkable, quaint neighborhood with my children look nothing like rushing through the metro tunnels of Washington, D.C. I haven’t moved forward—metaphorically and physically—at that pace in a long time. When my first daughter started biking, I could barely stand the painstakingly slow wandering and near-constant pauses for rocks, bugs, leaves, nuts, and flowers. Still stubbornly stuck in a point-A-to-point-B mindset, I’d chide my daughter and hurry her along. “We have to keep moving,” I’d say.

Until finally, I realized, who says? Is the point of life forward movement? Or am I missing out on paying attention? On being astonished at a stunningly yellow bumble bee or a fragrant lavender bush? On having something to tell about: missing out on the vibrant, beautiful, mundane moments that make a life?

I’ve started to call our neighborhood ambling my patience walks. When Charlotte stoops to pick a dandelion, I allow myself to breathe deeply and watch the wind play in the grass. The endless curiosity of my daughters’ childhood has given me an immense gift I don’t know I could have captured on my own—and it’s not only patience or a slower stride. It’s a sheer astonishment at the quotidian and deep pleasure in the mundane. Now when Charlotte tells me, “Stop Mom, this is important,” I agree. This is important. This is what we’re here to do. 

Originally written and published by Emily Fisk.