A Morning Prayer

In the morning Lord I give you praise,

for the breath and the joy of another day's dawning.

Help me to keep you as the center from which all things will point to.

Moments may be hard and will test the soul but help

me to respond in peace and patience and the fruit's of your Spirit.
Teach me to sing praises when the moments get restless and hard and
to shout hallelujah's for when You have won in me.
You, Oh God are my Rock
You, Oh Jesus our my Salvation's Song.
My hope is in you.

For A Good Man To Fly

The thuds from the wall are loud and you could swear the wall might just cave in.

The clock pasts 10pm and it looks like it's another late night as he rearranges and moves his tools and saws and its packed full of clutter and beauty and wood chippings and dirt.

To a unknowing person it's just a mess of mismatched items, strung about with no real purpose that causes the mouth to gasp at its sight.

But to him it makes a perfect, majestic disorder. 

Sometimes life throws hurdles and messes and disorder and some can handle it well and others cave.

I cave and always fail and ask, "why?"

Why?

Everyday can sometimes feel like the day before and the day before that and the day before that and suddenly you question purpose and point and wonder where it is all heading after all the waiting and waiting.

He walks in from work a smile on his face as he opens the door all dirtied and covered in sawdust. 

His front pant pocket had a hole where the night before he had taken a stapler and stapled the seams together underneath the color so his keys wouldn't fall through.

His smile, I've seen before.

He said he got a text. A text from someone who needed a player, a guitar player for hope city, an outreach center. If smiles I could remember this one I would have wished I had.

Hopes don't soar high here, because sometimes it doesn't work out and more than likely it wouldn't work out for him as it usually does and it would only break again, my hope.

Excitement, don't let it show, but yet ride the waves high for dreams are only short lived and then age and distraction and disappointment and life swallow them up.

What does it take for a good man to fly?

It just takes some time. 

It just takes a word. 

Someone spoke good about him. 

And now, he was smiling as he practiced. 

His fingers stained with paint as they plucked and pulled the strings of a dust covered guitar.

I've tried to push him and pull him this way and that way to tap into skill and it's a sad road. 

A sad road of knowing and being able to go nowhere.

Adhd/add where a mind is torn between so many talents and arts and disappointments, but to him, he doesn't see it that way because he doesn't see through the mess of talents and if he could he wouldn't let it bother him.

When life is lived with multiple thoughts in the head, its hard to pin one down where accomplishment actually produces results.

Daily life has its demands and dreams are lost to the reality of working the clock for the basics, but to give up hope is to lose the battle of the souls will to flourish.

I thought he would miss the bus.

Surely,  he would. 

Never had thoughts entered my mind in the past of wondering if my husband would ever not be able to care for himself.

He played...for hours...and he said his fingers wanted to cave, but he wouldn't let them stop and it was good, because worship is what we are made for and it doesn't matter how many or how few hear, but what matters is the heart connection to the Savior.

I could imagine his smile. 

The way his eyes closed and how his crooked tooth would show and of how much he loves to worship.

If he never played a day again he wouldn't mind for he rests in the promise that one day he will fly right out of here towards heavens pearly gates and yes, he can't wait for that day to soar.

His heart would be content here, but mine, mine would always wonder and I could cave.

To give glory and praise for every minute and moment no matter how grandiose to God. 

For there is hope at the end of the day because of salvation and this life, a free gift, and its better to spend it with joy so fought for, than bitter from strife or life's toll.

Hearts pump thick now and to offer praise up High, a hallelujah, for all that He is and all that He has given us.

Purim~ For Such A Time As This

There is a certain beauty and truth to it all.

It's a quiet hush, a gentle display, a soft proclaiming of traditions and people. 

It's a certain holy that emits a closeness to God unseen in any other race or people.

It can take breaths away, this reverence of a sacred closeness of the jewish people to God.

It's heavenly music to a thirsty soul and when it's heard the heart can't help but be moved.

Only to look and see that through His people comes glimpses of His plans, His words, and Himself.

I never thought much of it or any of it because it wasn't for everyone or was it?

She had to have been nervous.

The fate of her chosen as queen rested in her humble beauty.

The fate of her chosen people rested in her willingness to obey.

The fate of her chosen people rested in her sacrifice to move forward in bravery.

Her beauty could have fallen by the sword.

Esther.

Motherless, fatherless, raised by her cousin, Mordecai, "Hadassah," won the favorful heart of the King.

Not long after crowned, Haman, a nobleman of the King, plotted to destroy and kill the Jews.

Unbeknown to the King, Esther was a Jew.

Mordecai tore his robes, wailing loudly outside the city walls, and Esther heard the news of the decree, and of her cousins cries for her to alert the King.

But to approach a King unannounced could mean death unless summoned.

"Who knows, but that you have to royal position for such as time as this?" uttered Mordecai.

Esther planned to tell the King, "And if I perish, I perish."

Through a series of requests and feasts Haman's plot was unfolded and the King, now knowing of Esther's nationality, had Haman hanged.

The Jewish people had triumphed, and every year the Jewish people and those who believe, celebrate "Purim" of how a queen saved her people from utter extinction.

During "Purim," The Megillah is read, the parchment scroll, of the Book of Esther. 

There is feasting and a celebration of a young queens stand to not be quenched or silenced but to speak to save her people. 

Children twirl, and dress up, and dance and remember how to live as though to never be silenced. Gifts are given to the poor. 

Around the breakfast table, I read of Esther to two little boys who have heard the story before. 

They listen and slowly I see their hearts open and souls come alive.

In everyday life, dry spells come and we remain steadfast and wait. Wait for such a time as this to open and show our true selves tested faithfully to the end.

Today the Spirit of Haman still lives on, it will never be quenched and it hopes to drain the life from all who believe in God's plan for His people, for those who kneel and pray and give grace.

But for such a time as this, those few rise and stand up and will not let go of their beliefs of His people and His word.

And we, we are only as close as we allow ourselves to be drawn in and there is so much beauty and truth there waiting.

The Fringe Hours~ Jessica N. Turner

Fringe, it's not a word you hear often.

It means "an area of activity that is related to but not part of whatever is central," a "benefit, a fringe benefit."

Jessica N. Turner, whom I follow on her blog, "The Mom Creative," recently wrote her first book about making time for you called,"The Fringe Hours." 

Graciously dedicating many of her fringe hours, she penned a brilliant book of simplicity that greatly lavishes the need to see ourselves as worthy of our own time, attention, and love.

I signed up for the launch team captivated alone by the title "The Fringe Hours," and yes, this mom could learn a thing or two about how to see or find myself in the busyness of everyday life. 

Days flee quickly and before I know it I'm turning the page of the calender yet again. Another year comes and goes and I'm another year older. So grateful for older, but sometimes missing the moments and days I can't ever get back.

The daily necessities and rituals of life can swallow you whole, leaving very little room for you and your passions if you don't harness some moments for yourself.

This book, a blessing, in showing us how to find ourselves in the grind of the daily day. "The Fringe Hours," with it's relatable and humuours accounts, is a lifeline to all women who need to see how valuable and precious they truly are, if they only make time to see it.

"When you make room in your schedule to breathe, you make room for you and that is the key to discovering fringe hours." Jessica N. Turner, "The Fringe Hours."

So yes trying to find time to breathe among the fifty million things I feel like I have to do and believing it's okay to take time away, just to rest and be at ease. I love this,.. "The goal of using your fringe hours well is to take time to do something that rejuvenates your soul." Jessica N. Turner, The Fringe Hours.

And Jessica N. Turner shows us how to "how to take back the pockets of our time we already have in the day..But you are a glorious creation, and your life is meant to be lived with joy....God makes us strong. In  your glorious imperfection, you can still shine beautifully bright. Embrace that truth. Stop trying to be everything for everyone and start investing in who and what really matters....Pursue a life of joy and contentment, and you will be happier, healthier, and more at peace." Jessica N. Turner, "The Fringe Hours."


On her blog, "The Mom Creative," Jessica N. Turner invites you to share in your fringe moments on fringe Fridays. 

You can purchase Jessica N. Turner's book, "The Fringe Hours," beginning February 17th.

Some of my fringe moments this week...reading, baking with my boys (this doesn't really count but since I ate must of them I'll include it), shopping kidless, and writing..learning to live more fringe!

The Best Sugar Cookie Recipe

A really good sugar cookie is hard to come by, at least in this kitchen.

I would like to think it could be the recipe but more than likely the baker, which would be me.

I've tried a few in my search for the ultimate sugar dough recipe. 

After trying the store bought, pre-made and pre-packaged and after reading the mega list of ingredients and knowing my son and husband have adhd and less is more, I began to bake only fresh using the staples, the basic ingredients.

There's nothing like a good homemade cookie. Of course the ones at the store with the tinted, delicately, whipped icing and tasteful garnishments beat mine by far but it's still a really good taste. 

I've tried sugar cookie recipes multiple times. They were either too hard or crunchy (could lose a cap there), too tasteless, too flat and hence not worth my time.

But this recipe I found over two years ago a keeper and it's not mine.

 It's simple and probably been seen many places but I thought I would share just in case anyone was like me two years ago and hunting for that perfect recipe.

I mainly make sugar cookies during Christmas but Valentine's day just beckons heart cut outs and sprinkles and icing and my boys and husband love them.

It calls for:

1 1/2 cups butter, softened

2 cups white sugar

4 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

5 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

The 5 cups of flour and other ingredients are a little much for me to blend. No, I do not have one of those two hundred dollar mixers (that I desperately want) so I mix all by hand and it takes awhile a long while, especially when two faces are edged close to my elbows eagerly waiting to move on.

This recipe is one to add to the books. 

Below is the original link where I printed my recipe from and you can use it to print from it as well.

The Best Sugar Cookie Recipe.

Happy Baking!

When You Need Him More Than Just In Case

Early morning sunrise streams in from behind cracked curtains and I see him.

I see him walk out in the snow to the shed, his jacket too thin for the bitter cold, his worn boots unlaced where underneath his heels broke free, and his socks were worn holey.

He hadn't eaten breakfast. 

He didn't make his lunch. 

I knew better than to ask if he had brushed his teeth because I already knew the answer. After ten years you know the answer.

He returned from the shed carrying a red, gasoline can and a set expression on his tired face. 

His footsteps leave deep trails in the white snow. Trails of his strength to make it through something so simple, so easy to have render fixed but to him a mountain that he couldn't see.

He heads over to the rusted, old, snow covered car and opens the gas door and he pours and he gives the faithful ole steed a turn and she purrs.

I watch. He was out of gas two days ago. He had been driving it daily. I knew it. He knew it. What should have been a simple remedy was left to last minute juggling because his mind doesn't cross the t's and dot the i's as normalcy should.

The many times and moments that have escaped barely to make it are too many for this wife too count.

I knew he was different before I married him.

He was enlightening, a brilliant mind, a soulful light, a well of laughter, a strong hand, a breath of freshness to this young, tried woman seeking the love of life. 

A brilliant mind never formalized. A mind never stamped and approved and sealed.

It wasn't until after I married that I found out or was told that he was diagnosed with add/adhd when he was younger. It doesn't matter for if someone would have told me back then what I know now it wouldn't have changed my "yes" to a "no" so in love were we.

It was only "ADD." It's nothing I've been told and I have read, nothing. It's easily over diagnosed.

 If I had a pen for every moment, every word, every outing, every circumstance, every tear, it's never nothing and always something.  Especially when he is the head, the provider, the one whom I want to lean on, it's never just nothing.

I remember sitting underneath the bright lights in a conference room, chairs arranged in a big circle, all the women wore big, beautiful smiles as they shared their husbands heart to provide. It was their passion, their life's work, to behold something beautiful to their wives financially. 

I sat, stiff and silent my hands clamped in my lap. My heart sunk. I was the only one whose husband didn't have a desire, a drive to financially provide.

Even from early on, I had to remind him to get paid but back then it didn't really matter for we were both with jobs, childless, and I was the floater. Over and over those words and he would forget and if it wasn't for me he would have worked without pay. 

We would sit and go over numbers and his brain doesn't follow numbers and how this wife wished that it had or could to this day.

So everyday I pray, pray for a miracle, an open door, a peace that transcends figures. 

He may never see the financial need or remember it for longer than a day.

But give him a piece of a wood and he could make just about anything. It was a boat this year that sailed him and our boys through the rivers to catch fish for the first time.

Give him that tarnished, well strung guitar and he could play you a song to get your feet moving, your heart singing, and your hands raising.

Give him that Bible and he could talk your ear off with praises and affections and admiration's and show you God's unconditional love to make your soul alive.

Give him a watered pool and he could swim like an olympian. 

Give  him that trivia game and he can answer just about every question.

Give him some string, a box, and he can trap you that bird, tell you the type, and its call.

Give him a saw and some tools and he could create just about anything.

Give him some chemicals, some tubes, plastic bottles, and wires and he's a wide-eyed, seven year olds favorite genius.

Give him a few paints and he could draw you a picture and make it look easy and flawless.

And that list goes on and now should come the "but then" list.

Ah  yes, that list is lengthy but we all have them this "but then" lists.

All days are merciful grace, all days are for clinging to the One who holds us in his palm, and who gently whispers "I will never leave you nor forsake you."

I sit in the truck, turn the key, and nothing but silence could be heard. The silence was quickly overshadowed by my disbelieving groans of not today. My sweet boy sits and waits at the academy, forty five minutes past pick up time.

From behind the curtains I see them pull into the driveway. Moments later the carpenter pokes his head through the door, all grins, "It started for me. Me and Josiah were praying the whole way home, it would start."

So yeah a weak smile panes my face and I nod and speak through gritted teeth "that I was glad."

Driving the truck to the dealer, I knew it was okay, my husband was behind me, following right behind, just in case.  

I needed him, just in case. 

I glance away and quickly look back in the mirror and he was gone. The phone beeps and his words flash across the top. "Had to pull over, forgot to shut the hood." 

A silent eye roll but after ten years you know all the answers. 

But I needed him, just in case. 

It melts the heart when there is no "just in case" someone or spouse.

No one was behind me to help except swarms of cars and passerby's in rush hour traffic.

I can panic or I can remember the One who is always here, unseen, quietly unseen, yet still powerfully, miraculously here, who is waiting, watching, and listening.

He is more than our "just in case," He is our sufficiency, our comforter, our defender, our provider and He sits and waits for us to speak to His heart and to show Him ours no matter how tattered or fearful or torn it is. He is the mender. 

I don't need a "just in case," I just need Him.

So Valentines Day weeks and marriage week and it's my hope to post more of the same sorts and I hope your here to join in!

Tomorrow is Another Go At It and We Get To

"Early in the morning my song shall rise to thee, Holy,Holy, Holy, merciful and mighty, blessed trinity."

Early in the morning, sometimes before the morning breaks light and the doors creak open to reveal the sounds of shifting feet, faces appear inches from mine and I breathe. 

Eyes are tired and bones are still tightened yet to have been unfolded and stretched. I sigh. Another day, another round, another "go at it" as my oldest would say.  

The worn hand becomes grasped, tugged, and pulled and ideals of early mornings before wakings never happen and sometimes the heart can sink because there seems to be never any me.

Early year resolutions flutter away as days are scratched off calenders and it always seems to be everybody has something or wants something and you nod the head, willing to be their need. 

It reminds me of how God gives days so that we could see our need for Him and His need for us.

Resolutions to write everyday have fallen by the wayside instead I find myself exhausted, sitting at the computer in the black of night wishing to have the strength to do what thousands of women do multiple times a day. How do they find time and I can't?

Maybe instead of resolution there's refinement? Small steps towards something that I can't really see, more of becoming, more of molding, more of His image, and less of resolution?

Today's keys didn't get pecked hundreds of times but there was laughter, soft silly giggles, bills paid, lunches made, the floor swept, potty training, dancing, lessons taught, laughter with a sister, and the list goes on. 

People, faces, little ones, those who need helpful, guiding hands, the hurted, the pained, the hopeless, the forgiven, the joyful, the blessed, this is what life and heaven and eternity will be, a family. 

So, yes, if all there is in a day is a whisper of "holy, holy, holy" then the day has been done and I have been refined in small steps and tomorrow is another "go at it" and I get to, whatever it may be, whatever it may hold, I get to.

I get to have another "go at it" whatever it is "I get to do it." Yes, God gracefully, mercifully, wonderfully, gives days and while they are here my song shall rise to thee as I am now.

~Worship of The King~

He counts down the days.

Every day until the long awaited, chosen, much anticipated day arrives he awakes early and heads his way to the calender.

Sometimes I catch him there in the morning sunrise, a hand on a light, a hand on a word, my hand on my heart.

"December 15th, it's the 15th day of Christmas!"

There's no stopping a celebration of Christmas, no waiting, no unraveling, no prolonging, no halting, no waiting for that one final day, at least not to him.

There's no advent stories from Adam to Noah to Moses to Jonah until the finale that crescendos His saving "coming." 

At least not in our house this year.

It's a story that grows and grows in a heart of a child and those stories are read throughout the year.

It's remembrance, a sacred time, because He already came and everyday is His coming and we just can't get enough from the first to the 25th.

To linger on the Birth of a King at Christmas, a "Christ Mass" a mass of Him and the wonderful, powerful, God ordained scripture of a Saviors coming that never really gets heard year round. 

It's hard to keep a lid on this child.

This child who lives in the moment.

Christmas it's a moment.

Every year it fades further from me and no matter how far ahead I plan, I never feel full of the good news.

I haven't done everything I had wanted to do this Christmas. 

I never made it to the Christmas recital, never saw a choir performance, didn't get a chance to see a live nativity, didn't see a lights display, no wonder why I didn't feel full and now time was running out.

I drive on a Sunday morning, pull up to a parking lot filled with cars, take a seat among the throngs, knowing what I won't hear, the Birth of  a King.

The Birth of a King.

A King's Birth that somehow in some places, somewhere never really gets told and retold and inhaled and consumed and praised and worshiped and adored by His Kingdom.

A tiny infant never helpless for His Father never takes His eyes away from Him.

God never takes His eyes away from us, His heirs, His children, His kingdom.

And it's a Kingdom that will never end. 

This is what grows from a root, the tree of life, a Kingdom that will surpass all others, the kingdom of a King who saved His people.

Jesus, He was planted by love.

A tiny babe to grow rooted to the Word as flesh.

Jesus came to dwell, to tabernacle with us as one, His finest creation.

Before He even took His first, wobbly steps men followed Him, the newborn King, the Holiest of Holies, the Wonderful Counselor, the Almighty God.

Even hundreds of years ago, they knew what drew their hearts together with the Savior, they clung to Him, looked for him, to worship.

Worship it's what were called to do, what were made for.

The shepherds tending their flock though frightened, the wise men who sought and traveled though weakened, did not run from Him because of fear or tiredness yet they arrived to behold the most beautiful sight ever seen, that has been written as such through generations upon generations, the Birth of a King, The Prince of  Peace, and.... they worshipped Him. 

That was their calling to worship, to praise, to bow down and worship this Son that saves us from our own destruction.

Worship its what were called to do, a commandment worship and it doesn't take the latest and greatest method to worship the newborn King, to feel completed, it only requires a hearts devotion.

If hands aren't lifted to the Son, if mouths aren't opened to speak His name, if praise is never given to the One who came as an infant took on the world to die as a Savior, then a lid has been placed over us, a heavy yoke, a covering, a concealment, a hushing.

A burden is felt on the heart and soul.

A lid is placed that wants to suffocate praise.

A lid that quenches and drains the true purpose of a souls existence, Worship.

And with the lid, come the feelings of incompleteness, disappointments, the lack of accomplishments. 

Heads are lowered and walks trudge, and there's a strive to find something that's missing anything to make life good, full of purpose but its fleeting and the path starts all over again. 

And yes, that serpent that slithers and hisses everyday in ears squeezes the lid tighter and takes joy.


Worship the Baby born, the Promised one, the Sacrificial Lamb, the Emmanuel, the Savior, it's what we are made for and in worship is our completion, our purpose, our true birth.

Toss the lid aside.

Freedom,  yes freedom is felt when worship escapes the mouth and is lived by the soul.

And worship doesn't take money or physically going anywhere and there doesn't have to be an attendance of multiple Christmas performances to be full of the good news. 

All that's needed to be done is Worship, it's never too late.

He was birthed in a stable, laid to rest in a trough, His presence was marked by a star and we follow Him and yes, Worship.

I can't put a lid on it, on him, my spirited boy, so we celebrate everyday as His, the Birth of a King, this advent. 

It's a coming that's treasured everyday, the Birth of a King, a Mass of Christ during Christmas.

God, the Father, has a plan for His kingdom saved and it all began in the beginning with love.... and a Son.

{"Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken,  be thankful, and so worship God acceptably in reverence and awe for our God is a consuming fire."}

Hebrews 12:28-29