{Big Picture}

About 4 or 5 years ago, I set out to read the Bible through in a year. Chronologically. (To mix things up.) See, I wasn't sure if I had read every single book in the Bible. I thought I likely had at some point, but I couldn't be certain. This way, I would know I had.

I didn't make it very far. So the next year, I started over with the same goal. I made it much further, but still didn't finish. So the following year, I picked up where I had left off and kept trucking. By the end of that 3rd year, while I had made great progress, I still had not finished and my goal fell by the wayside.

Last year, the women's Bible study I was a part of, went through a book called the 66 Love Letters together while also following a survey reading plan of the Bible. I enjoyed this study very much, though I did not finish either the 66 Love Letters or even a survey of the Bible.

See, part of this is because I am a detail-person. I like to focus on the little bits. From each and every angle. This is a good thing, but there are other perspectives to be considered. I'm always amazed by how others can see the theme of a whole book of the Bible or how the books are interconnected. I can't see such a perspective because I'm over here with my magnifying glass combing through the details. It's time for me to take a step back. Yet, I cannot face another year of trying to read through my Bible...and not finishing. A year is a long commitment after all.

But last week, I stumbled across the calculations of a website called, How long does it take to read the Bible?. It takes into account your reading speed and your time goal, then spits out a daily plan of which chapters to read and about how long it will take you to read it. I realized that I could read the entire Bible in less than a year by dedicating less than an hour of reading a day, even with my terribly low reading speed.

So I've decided to take the leap, perhaps biting off more than I can chew, by setting out to read the Bible in 3 months at just less than 45 minutes a day. (Along with 66 Love Letters.)

I have no idea what the outcome of this journey will be. Will I finish strong? Will I get distracted and let it fall by the wayside again? I don't know. But I do know that any time spent in God's Word is not a waste (paraphrase of a quote I recently read and cannot seem to get Google to release to me).

So here goes. It's time to follow that scarlet thread through these 66 letters of love.

{Time to Engage}

I’ve been walking around our cozy apartment, lights dimmed, just breathing in the quiet. Long, deep soul-refreshing breaths. Does anyone else need this at the end of the day? I’ve heard so much on how I *should* go to bed when my spouse goes to bed, but how I need this quiet calm. This time to slow down my heart rate. To attempt to process even a moment of this day. To tidy up a bit. To wash my face absent of questions and demands. Maybe even to watch some TV and color in an enchanted forest with my gel pens.

Granted, our schedule is weird. My husband goes to bed at 7PM. Earlier if he can get away with it. So I send my kids off to bed a little earlier than I would otherwise (they make up for it by being early risers). But I just canNOT bring myself to go to bed at that ridiculous hour most nights. Especially not when the quiet calls to me.

And so it is here, with the humdrum of the dishwasher running in the background—and the interruptions of a loud little man that can’t quite fall asleep himself yet, either—that I can hear my oldest’s words, retold by my husband, echo in my ears once again: “Mommy doesn’t play with us that much. She just reads us a lot of books.” And all I hear, piercing my heart, is “You failed.”

The worst part? He’s not wrong. They do ask me to play with them and I often seem to say, “Later, I’m working on [fill-in-the-blank].” I have legitimate responsibilities. There’s a lot going on in this season of life. However, there has been a lot going on in former seasons of life and I expect there will be a lot going on in future seasons of life. Dishes are not fleeting. They will be there.  a l w a y s .  Laundry? Not going anywhere. Facebook is a trip down the rabbit’s hole, for sure. My children, however. Well, my time with them is finite. So short. The blink of an eye. If I am truly lucky, I have 12 more years with my oldest at home and 16 more years with my youngest. It sounds like a nice chunk now, but I know how quickly these past years have gone by and it only seems to fly by faster every year. This time with them is like sand in an hourglass. Grains are slipping by every second. No do-overs. They will never be this young again.

The last thing I need is more guilt heaped on my shoulders. And guilt will not benefit myself or them. But grace and perseverance, perspective and wisdom will. I must learn to get outside of my own head. To set the never-ending to-do list running through my mind aside. To sit and play with my kids while they still want me to. Better yet, to run and play with them. I must find a way to turn off my anxious mind and really engage with them. To be less inhibited with them. To be silly and free and well, fun. And so many can attest that “fun” has never been one of my strong qualities. Thankfully, these little men bring out the best in me. They are a refiner’s fire like none I’ve ever known.

So I sit here tonight and fight the urge to plan and analyze and think my way to being a better mom and I simply lay it at Jesus’ feet, asking for grace and encouragement to be the mom they need me to be. The mom He wants me to be. Because the truth is, I can’t do this. But He can. Because with God all things are possible. I trust Him to work out the details in my life. To cover us all in His grace. To make all things new. And to weave the fabric of our family into something beautiful.

{2 Years Later: Scarred But Blessed}

2 years, 6 days ago, I took another test just to make sure I wasn't actually pregnant, like I suspected, before I ran the 1st Annual Spencer C. Duncan Make It Count 5K. I made it to the finish line, exhausted, and a friend's mom revived me with a banana. The very first banana I'd been able to eat--apart from those in banana pudding--since sometime during my pregnancy with Kendrick when he alerted me to the fact that he did NOT like bananas.

2 years, 4 days ago, I finally got that positive test I'd been waiting for, but it was faint. Fearing what might be coming, I announced to only a couple of people, asked desperately for prayer, and took a few "bump" pictures because I wanted to enjoy whatever time there might be.

2 years, 3 days ago, I took another test in the hopes it would be darker, but if possible, it was even more faint than the day before.

2 years, 2 days ago, I went into the doctor for a blood test. Before I could even get the results, I noticed my water had broken. At Chick-fil-a of all places, while I was at lunch with a friend. I knew, of course, what this meant, but against all odds, still, I hoped. The results of the blood test were 18--very low HCG; indicative of a pregnancy, just not a healthy one.

2 years, 1 day ago, the back cramps began. I rested and prayed and hoped.

2 years ago today, it became official. I miscarried.

I was sad, angry, confused. Yet I was also relieved to finally have the scientific proof backing up what I'd already known each time before. I felt damaged, inept. Why was having a baby so hard for me? All of me was broken--mind, body, and soul. I grieved deeply but thoroughly. I cried out to God in my prayer journal, no longer asking for rescue for our baby, but for healing and wholeness of my body, understanding and acceptance of this loss, and future healthy children.

2 Greek words had been jumping out at me during my Bible studies the week I was the box that housed Schroedinger's cat:  anastasis (meaning, "resurrection") and zoë (meaning, "[full, abundant, new] life"). While I had no earthly proof of the baby's gender, it was settled. Her name was Anastasia Zoë, meaning, "resurrected to new life." I took note of her A to Z name; He is the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last. He is in control, faithful, loving, merciful, gracious, God of all the universe and Savior of my soul. He was the Rock that was higher than I. He was near this brokenhearted girl and He was faithful to bind up my wounds. He beckoned that I come boldly to His throne of grace that I might obtain grace and find mercy to help in my time of need.

As I shared my bit of wisdom and encouragement with a friend who recently suffered a miscarriage, I thought of those who lived out this verse to me:  "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God."-2 Corinthians 1:3-4. I looked back along the path and realized just how far I'd walked--just a step at a time. As I told her, I could see the truth evident on my own heart:  the scar will remain, but the wound won't be open and raw forever.

True to His Word, He knew the plans He had for me, plans to prosper me not harm me, plans to give me hope and a future. 11 months (minus 8 days) later, I held a beautiful baby boy in my arms with my oldest son beaming at the newest arrow in our little quiver. "Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed, Because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness. 'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 'Therefore I hope in Him!'" (Lamentations 3:22-24).

{Wife}

My son was chattering away as usual when my husband gave me a tender peck. At the point my son expected a reply, my husband's response was, "Don't mind me. I'm just kissing my wife!"

A chuckle mature beyond my son's years escaped. "Nooo, that not your wife. That MY wife!"

We both laughed as my husband explained that I am indeed his wife and my son's MOM. Our son exploded, "You're being mean, Dad!"

My husband went on to assure him that he would grow up and one day find his own wife. His despair and frustration only grew. "Are you afraid you won't be able to find a wife?" my husband wisely asked. The tears overflowed as his anxiety was brought to light. He wrapped his little arms around his daddy's neck and his daddy reassured him:

"Are you a nice guy? Are you smart? Are you strong?" Our son responded in the affirmative each time. "Girls like smart, strong, nice guys, bud. You won't have any trouble finding a wife!"

To me, my husband asked incredulously, "What 3-year-old worries about not being able to find a wife??"

Our son is certainly one of a kind.

{Baseball}

All settled in for a relaxing Friday night of watching movies, my son approached me, glove in hand, and asked me if we could go play ball. Unfortunately, it was pretty wet outside due to the rain we received, so I suggested we play Saturday or Sunday when it should be warm and dry. Not sure what reaction I would receive, I braced myself {this is what the "trying 3s" does to a parent!}. To my surprise, my son said, "Let's play pretend baseball!" and threw an imaginary ball at me. As I caught the ball with my makeshift invisible glove, I smiled at his resiliency and creativity. Who knew a pretend game of catch could be as much fun as the conventional norm??

{Tickled}

At breakfast this morning, I was peeling and eating an orange. I kept coughing {once over my shoulder instead of covering my mouth...my son pounced on the opportunity to chastise me} and commented aloud, "Something is tickling my throat!"

My son's eyebrows shot up as he gasped, "Is it my baby?!?!"

Now I was tickled in a whole new way. I quickly assured him it was not baby brother, but likely the orange I was eating.

{Beautifully Bold}

My husband and I quite resemble the label "Backrow Baptist." The back corner is by far our preferred place to sit. This morning, however, we arrived at church later than usual. I cringed as I crept further and further up the aisle looking for open seats on the end. {I despise crawling over people to get to the middle seats--yes, even more than sitting in the front.} At about Row 5, we were able to slip into empty seats.

As the music started, my son stood up on tiptoes to look over the row of chairs in front of us. His eyes lit up as he watched the church's small orchestra at the front. Sitting in the back, he'd never been able to see them before! He was absolutely in awe, soaking it all in.

A few songs later, a group of children gathered on stage to sing the morning's special. He turned to me with wide eyes and exclaimed, "Them SINGING!" He watched a bit longer then pivoted and declared, "Me go sing too!" while scooting off the edge of his chair. Thankfully I was able to talk him down before he dashed on stage to join their chorus. However, at the end of service, when his time to go up in front of the congregation had not yet come--and indeed, his daddy was explaining that he would need to be older before that time came--there was a fat, quivering lip, shaking chin, and many tears spilling.

Taking in this sorrowful face and recalling the exciting passion he exhibited during the service, I was filled with pride and wonder at his courageous desire to clamber upon stage with children he's never met to sing before an entire sanctuary full of people he doesn't know. Sometimes I wish for such boldness in myself and I pray the world doesn't snatch it from him.