We returned last night from a long weekend in Portugal. Colorful, sunny, delicious Portugal. I picked up the dog from the kennel and he doesn't appear any worse off for being the unfortunate victim of my craziness prior to leaving. I sincerely hope I am not the only person who forgets they have a dog, or an appointment, or--hypothetically speaking--a child waiting to be picked up at the bus stop. I feel like I'm rushing to catch up, only I never do.

I've thought a lot about rest lately, spiritual rest, the kind where your soul lies down in green pastures and is restored. Every time I sit down to write about it, I can't. I circle round and round the idea in my head, but I can't seem to get the words to trickle down into my fingers. The best way I know how to express it, is to say it's a longing. I long for a deep rest of the spirit, the kind that has nothing to do with my schedule, my responsibilities, or my feeble attempts at keeping all planets revolving around me.

I woke up early on Saturday, to the sun breaking across the sky and the sea. Clouds sat above water, hugged by earth, lit in a golden glow. Each element knew exactly where it belonged, hung and held and revolving around the Son. I watched the day break and I knew I had seen the thing I long for. Rest is knowing I am not the sun or the Son. All things do not live and move through me. Responsibilities exist, lists must be made, but instead of allowing the light of the Son to shine on those places and bring me into a place of restoration, I try to become all things. I try to be the sun and the earth, the sky and the sea, when all He desires is for me to simply be.


I feel the light of the Son wooing me, calling me to come, to be, to rest. And I feel the longing again, to answer the call with a quiet yes.

I went to my favorite spot. The one where I can watch the trees dress according to the seasons. I ran first, and then I stopped at the car, zipped up my jacket, and grabbed the camera. In the two years I've been going there, I have never seen another soul taking photographs. I'm mystified by it. Maybe after a while we become numb to the things that bring us the most beauty. Writing here helps me fight the tendency to go numb. You help me remember to chase those things down.

While walking around the lake, shielded by a huge bank of tall grass, I could hear a horse raising hell on one of the paths. It was whinnying and snorting so loud, I could hear it clear across the lake. Once I emerged on the other side, I followed the sound with my camera and he came into view. He was gorgeous, but totally resistant. The girl riding him was struggling to stay in the saddle, she was yanking and pulling him, and giving him a good smack on his rump. But I tell you that horse did not want to be broken. He wanted it his way or no way.

I lost sight of them again, and half an hour later as I walked to the car, they passed within a few feet of me. I wanted to take another photo, but when I saw the girl's face red with exertion I decided against it. She walked beside him now, instructing him in a low voice, jerking on his bridle while he pawed at the ground and tried to bite the mouthpiece clear off.

He was a powerful horse, and she was clearly fed up with trying to get him to do it her way, but they were at a stalemate. Neither one was ready to give up on the other; he was strong enough to pull away, and she was almost frustrated enough to let him. I watched until it became awkward, and then I hopped in the car and drove away.

I think of that horse and his girl when I feel like I'm hanging on to someone or something for dear life. I have kids and a marriage and a faith which, at times, seem to pull in every direction but the one in which I want them to go. I suppose it is the nature of wild things to want to run free. Sometimes I'm the wild thing, and sometimes I'm the girl trying to tame it.

But, you know, I don't think I would have it any other way. If we're not the ones doing the leading and the breaking, then we are the one being broken. And if we are willing, we are put back together in a new way, one that has strength and purpose and the ability to carry someone else on our back.

This week we are enjoying Spring Break, and I will be spending time with my kids, my husband, and a glass of wine or five. It might be quiet here on the blog, although there is the possibility that I will need to talk about how much I love my kids, and/or the revelation I have every school break in which I realize once again, that homeschooling will never be an option for us. I think it's more important that one, my children learn math, and two, they have a mother who is not driven to brink of insanity.

This week will be a good one. My son will turn ten, and I will lament that fact that we have two children in double digits. We will sit in the sun and I will wear big hats because the sun has become my nemesis. We will explore and I will look through the lens and appreciate learning how to see all over again. I will think about running and writing and change and new life and celebration.

I will remember Christ's work on the cross for us, His blood and His love. And even though things on this great, green earth keep changing, my limitations grow ever clearer, and my children become more themselves every day, even in this I know God's love for me is unchanging. Nothing I've said, done, thought, hated, loved, sought after, cried over, doubted or trusted in will ever change what happened on the cross.

Nothing.

So when numbers tick upward and change is a revolution I can't win, I celebrate a God who remains the same yesterday, today and forever. He makes all things beautiful in His time, including me.

It's been a while since I've taken part in Five minute Friday, but today that's all I have to spare. Join me at The Gypsy Mama? The rules:

Well, no one is going to be giving me a Mother of the Year award. I sent all three of my kids to school today. Jet-lagged. A little bit sad. In the bitter cold. The littlest and I had a date with a box of Pop Tarts at one in the morning. That and a little dose of Benadryl. Sue me. I need my sleep as I am having a busy day sorting through laundry, making lists, staring into space and contemplating the formation of toast sweat on my white china.

I have been sitting in front of the laptop for a while now, willing the words to come. They're not really. I tried this same tactic with the treadmill and the silence was deafening. I haven't run in a week. I am woefully behind and I don't think I have the heart to keep up a training schedule. I'd rather eat chocolate. For some reason, this doesn't seem to present the same challenge that writing and running do. It's Dove chocolate. It's not even Swiss for crying out loud.

Today, life feels a bit like a fractured fairy tale. We are here and our family is there, and our sadness spans the ocean and endless sky. Those skies won't be carrying us home for good anytime soon. When you agree to life abroad, no one prepares you for the worst. And let me tell you, this is the worst. These fractures take faith. I know they will heal, and the moments will again have meaning, but for now I want to eat chocolate, contemplate toast sweat, and wonder if my kids will ever forgive me.

I'll give them time. And maybe a little chocolate.

My husband is home. He is home, and the littlest smiles and retires Daddy's shirt cum little girl nightgown until he is gone again. I made chocolate chip cookies and we laughed over Phil and Claire Dunphy and I complained about my sore backside. He rubbed my shoulders and we held hands in the dark.  I tried not to be annoyed when he sent me to the mountain without him again this weekend. Some things just aren't worth the fight. Some things are, but not this. This week we received news unexpected, and it spun us around until all we could do was hold on tight. To faith, to hope, and to each other in the dark.

If life were predictable, it would be too much to bear. Sometimes life surprises us with wonderful, and sometimes with grim. And sometimes life's real surprise is that you're left standing when you feel the weight of impossible on one shoulder and despair on the other. It's been one of those weeks. Our shoulders are sagging under the weight of some stuff and some things. But, and this is a huge but, we build our lives on hope. On grace. On Words that say 'Fear not'. And when everything in us wants to rebel and place our feet on fear, we stand fast in hope. We are mired in it. Not in a fairytale, happily ever after kind of way, but in the hope that God's grace is sufficient to keep us standing and shouldering the burdens.  What unexpected things are you trying to shoulder? How can I pray for you?

The day didn't start out well. Now that all of my children are sleeping steadily through the night without nightmares/toilet issues/scratchy throats, the dog has decided he would like his fair share of attention.

Before our children were born, my husband and I gave a lot of thought as to what they were to be called. We thought not only of the name they answer to when it's time for dinner, but the meaning behind those names, the words by which they are known. One is called 'Lamb', one is known as 'Strength', and the littlest is 'Wisdom and Grace'. I don't call them that on a daily basis, but some nights once they're tucked and cozy beneath the blankets, I remind them of who they are and what they are called.

You, son, are Strength. You are strong and courageous in spirit.

You, daughter, are my Lamb. Precious in our Shepherd's eyes.

You, little one, are Wisdom and Grace. Your name is your blessing.

My hope is that when I speak those names over them, the truth will bury itself deep in their spirit. My prayer is that they will become what they are called, that their name will be their gift and their blessing to others.

Last week my German tutor corrected me when I introduced myself as Kimberly. She said that the Swiss never give their first name in an introduction. Here, I am Frau Coyle. Your name is something you give to a dear friend, not a co-worker, acquaintance or even a neighbor. Your name is a gift.

I've been turning this idea over and over again. Your name is a gift. Who you are and what you are called, is a gift. This idea might be harder to grasp for those of us with names that don't really mean much of anything, but I believe that God gives us names too. He was in the habit of renaming people in the Bible, Sarai to Sarah, Jacob to Israel, Saul to Paul. I believe that He has a name for me, and that He wants to whisper the truth of what I am called if I will be still enough to listen.

Have you heard His whisper? Do you know who and what you are called?

It's time for Five Minute Friday with The Gypsy Mama. You know the rules: 5 minutes, no editing, just for the joy of it. Join us?



Prompt: GROW


It feels unnatural that it should hurt so much. Personal growth is hard enough, but to live it three times over in my children? Excruciating. Pain seems to be wrapped up in the DNA of growth. I wonder if it was meant to be this way, if the pain of growth is a sign that it's happening. A sign of something bigger and better ahead. I hope they grow to be giants; giants of faith and love in action.

It will cost them, in tears and heart hurts, but I see their potential. I know that God sees it too, and I try to rest in the fact that He will help carry the burden of growth. He knows what He made them for, and some day they'll know it too.

He made them to be giants. My job is to tend the seed, water and feed their souls, and pray for grace in the growth. His is to prune. Theirs is to learn trust in the process, even in the pain.

STOP

It's very easy to give in to the idea that the perceived problems in my life are, in fact, real problems. What they really are, in my first-world, comfortable middle class life, are annoyances. You know the ones, the dog poops on the rug or the husband travels too much or we do battle with the kids over dinner each night. They are something to talk about over lunch with a girlfriend.

Coming from suburban New Jersey, in particular a town filled with folks that look, act and speak exactly the way I do, living in Europe has been a bit of a revelation. I admit to being somewhat isolated from the Swiss. My complete inability to comprehend anything without hand motions and their frequent political campaigns aimed at ousting foreigners make for an uneasy relationship. This is unfortunate, however we are blessed to be surrounded by a vibrant and diverse group of expats.

I am enjoying Summer's slow goodbye with its shorter days and cooler nights. We have been in the throes of a busy school and travel schedule for three weeks, and I'm just starting to get my head around the fact that Fall is right around the corner.

Too often I spend time making comparisons. Wishing for her talent, his intellect or her success. I go round and round in circles with it, always with the same outcome. The same fears take shape, and I convince myself of my smallness. I think we're all wired for it, this desire to be bigger than we are. I realize the futility in it, this comparison between myself and others. Why choose to compare my flawed and broken against the brokeness of another?



Instead I must choose to see that we are, each of us, small in the hands of a Creator God. This is a place where smallness makes sense. A place where I can let the fears and wonderings rest in His greatness. Where the insecurities that I carry are set down at His feet and released, because He is so much better at carrying it than I am.

His greatness, our smallness, weary souls rest.

Kimberly

I dreamt recently that I was sitting among a group of women who I really admire, who awe me with their ability and talent. We were laughing and chatting, and it was inclusive and I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could belong there. Some unexplainable circumstance occurred, and I found myself suddenly on the outside, no longer a part of the group, unable to measure up. I woke up with a vivid memory of it, and this feeling of somehow being 'less than'.

My old friend Inferiority took this opportunity to roll in silently, blanketing truth like a fog. It's hard to see beyond its heavy, grey weight. It encompasses and obscures the solid and the real. We go a long way back, Inferiority and I, but I have learned she is a cruel companion.

She is a liar and a thief.

Inferiority steals time and potential and hope. Oh, how she loves to steal hope.  I have allowed her to take what I know is rightfully mine. She whispers lies like not enough, incapable, or mediocre. And I am guilty of listening.

I used to believe that the best way to combat inferiority was with success. But success doesn't always follow effort. It's the effort that counts, that contends. It's the effort of putting one word behind another, running one more mile, or creating one loving moment in a sea of bad ones. It is rejecting the lies and replacing them with Truth.

It is in knowing this Truth; that we are worthy, loved, fearfully and wonderfully made, that we are set free. And freedom is a far better companion than inferiority will ever be.

Kimberly

I recently read the book Thin Places by Mary DeMuth. In it, she writes very honestly of a childhood filled with abuse, neglect and loss. I generally avoid books of this nature, as they tend to potentiate my anxieties with regard to my own kids. I decided to read it anyway, and although I did have a sleepless night or two, I'm glad that I did.

Yes, there was abuse. Yes, there was brokenness. More importantly, God is in the process of healing those things. But what I really took away from the book, was the idea that although I (thankfully) haven't walked her particular path, I have my own areas of brokenness. They aren't founded in neglect or loss, but they are there nonetheless. My brokenness comes in the form of pride or fear or envy. It comes in lack of self control or in the refusal to extend the grace that I have been so freely given.

The truth is, we are all Mary. We are all flawed and scarred. We all need healing, and it is there, in the mess of it all, that God reaches down to meet us.

Kimberly