The Mess That Makes It REAL

I own 46 Bibles.

But only one of them is REAL.

Now, I don't mean that the other 45 are fakes. Obviously, the other Bibles are equally God's Word. Many are study Bibles I use for teaching and for personal devotions. Others are various translations I use for work.

(NOTE: whenever you're reading a book with Scripture quotes, know that an editor has verified each scripture word-for-word against the cited translation. Back in the old days--before the Internet--we had to do this with hard copies.)

Each Bible in my library is valuable and serves a purpose in my spiritual and professional life.

But only one is my REAL Bible.

My grandparents gave it to me for Christmas when I turned 13. I don't know if you can read the inscription in the picture, but my Grannie wrote, in part:

"We have no other gift to give you that would contain all the answers to life's challenges the way this beautiful word of God can and will.

Keep very close by at all times, searching the scriptures for all the great truths and promises that will give you the strength and grace to face and overcome each disappointment and temptation that comes your way..."

I've carried this Bible for more than a quarter century.

It's been beside me through middle school drama... high school ups and downs... youth camps and sleepovers and Dawson McAllister conferences. (See that page number in the upper right corner? That's the starter page for the "Romans Road." Before I learned the books of the Bible, I used page numbers as reminders.)

It traveled with me to college--my faithful companion in the dorm room... college Bible studies... road trips... mission trips. (Oh, how I remember those early mornings in the dorm, wearing my fuzzy pig slippers and PJs, carrying my Bible and coffee maker to the end of the hall and setting up in one of the study cubicles.)

It was at arm's reach after college--beside me all those years I lived alone... on my desk at Word Publishing... eagerly studied at Dallas Seminary... and then Southwestern Seminary.

It came with me to my honeymoon... to the hospital rooms when I had my babies... to the six different churches we served and the seven places we lived.

It was clutched tightly when my marriage fell apart... when my world came crashing down... when I had to start all over again.

Its pages are crumpled, yellowed, smudged, taped back together, filled with underlines and notes and highlights. Its bonded leather cover had to be replaced several years ago when the stitching fell apart.

It's a mess.

But that only makes sense, because there's so much of ME in there. And I'm a mess too. ;)

It's the mess that makes it REAL.

All those notes. The tear stains. (And yes, coffee stains.) The underlines and the questions in the margins. Cross-references and comments on things I struggle with. Highlights to remind me of God's promises.

Let me say this again: this Bible not technically "more real" than any other version of the Bible.

But it's REAL to me.

In this messy Bible, God has met me on every page.

For more than 25 years.

The same God.

He met me in my middle school drama. In my high school grief. In my college questions. In my married issues. In my sleep-deprived mothering. In my middle-age anguish.

Every time I open this Bible, and I see all the mess and marks from all these years... I remember:

[God] Himself has said,

“I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you."
(Hebrews 13:5)

 

This Bible is a tangible reminder that God is always with me.

No matter WHAT.

****

In much the same way that the mess of the pages makes a Bible REAL... the mess of our lives makes our faith REAL.

It's a long and painful process, to be sure.

You get marked up and tattered and taped. You get stained and torn. Sometimes your stitching completely falls apart and you have to get sewn back together.


But through it all, you are deeply loved by the Author of life.


And in the end, your faith becomes REAL.

****

“What is REAL?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When [someone] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.


"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

--Margery Williams, "The Velveteen Rabbit"

Our Normal, Crazy, Fun, Adventurous, Everyday Life

So... it dawned on me the other day that the only time I sit down to write a blog is when I'm feeling reflective AND when everything else on my daily list is done.

Which, obviously, isn't that often. :)

I mean, I often feel reflective. And I enjoy writing--it's cathartic and fun. But to be honest, blogging isn't super high on my to-do list right now.

It's not that I don't adore all of you lovely readers! I do!!!  It's just that, with rare exceptions, I'm a 24/7 single mom and sole provider. So when I do have quiet moments, I usually spend them in personal devotion or squeezing in some extra editing to provide for the kiddos.

Or, you know, sleeping.

I Heart Sleep.

Anyway... there's a LOT more going on in the Stair house than what you see on this blog!

Since I don't have time to write about it now, let me just show you a few snapshots of what life is like in our home these days.

Obviously, we do all the regular stuff like homework and chores and showers and bedtime routine. But I don't have pictures of that. Just imagine your family and all its regular everyday stuff. Yep, us too.

What else do the kids and I do these days?

We dance.

 

We play outside.

 

 

We feed the ducks at the pond by our house.

 

 

 

We go to the park.

 

 

 

 

 

We have picnics and fly kites with my sister and her family.

 

 

We go to school events.

 

 

 

 

We hang out with friends.

 

 

(Do girls ever grow out of the "dress-up" phase? Hee hee)

 

 

 

We celebrate half-birthdays.

 (Ack! J.J.'s next birthday will have DOUBLE DIGITS!)

 

 

We make dorky, themed holiday meals.

 

NOTE: what I lack in baking stills, I make up for in food coloring.

 

Valentine's Day breakfast...

 

[[NOT PICTURED: our green St. Patrick's Day dinner, and the "resurrection rolls" we made for a sleepover on Easter weekend. If you ever make that recipe (widely circulated on Facebook), please note: Jesus-as-marshmallow tends to escape from His crescent-roll grave, so make sure kids know the Bible pretty well or they'll be concerned...]]

 

April Fool's! Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans are actually Cocoa Krispies treat, ice cream, and fruit roll-ups.

 

 

 

These are just some of the pictures I had on my phone. But I wanted you to see that we don't just sit around and pontificate and wax philosophical over here.

 

We LIVE.

 

We watch too much TV. We tickle. We giggle at our ever-expanding repertoire of family inside jokes. We get cranky at each other. The kids fuss. (I take deep breaths and remind myself of the immortal words of the Dog Whisperer: "Calm, Assertive Leadership.")

 

We eat breakfast for dinner. And sometimes, dessert first. (Who made up the rules, anyway?)

 

We sing. If you drop by pretty much anytime, we'll have Toby Mac or Chris Rice on Pandora (any guess which is my favorite and which is the kids'?). I have a habit of singing to myself--more of a "joyful noise" I guess--and the kids have picked up on that.

 

Sometimes I'll pause my editing, listen closely, and realize all three kids are singing three different songs to themselves.

 

I Heart Earbuds.

 

I'm not a very good cook. I'm terrified of crafts--glitter gives me hives. And I had to ask Miss B to explain the newfangled way the elementary school teaches math.

 

But the one thing I'm good at? Finding creative ways to have fun.

 

We have a lot of FUN.

 

So, that's pretty much our life. Regular stuff. Chaotic stuff. Messy stuff. Fun stuff.

 

Family stuff.

 

Because that's what we are! We're just a regular family. Doing regular family things.

 

Loving God.

 

Loving each other.

 

Doing our best to make the most out of our days. :)

 

Okay, that's all, folks! See you the next time I'm caught up enough on editing to blog!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

Why is there a Holy Saturday?

Today, I woke up early—while my house still sighed with the rhythmic breathing of five sleeping kids, exhausted from late-night sleepover giggles. While I tiptoed in the kitchen to make my coffee, it was quiet, and it was still dark.

 And as the excitement of yesterday melted into a silent morning. . . I realized:

Today is Holy Saturday.

I didn’t grow up in a liturgical tradition, so I haven’t contemplated the significance of Holy Saturday. Honestly, to me, it was just a bonus day sandwiched between Good Friday and Easter Sunday—a day to grocery shop for Sunday lunch, to take the kids to local Easter egg hunts. And for the thirteen years I spent as a pastor's wife, Holy Saturday was a hectic day, the final push to invite people to our Easter service (i.e., the Super Bowl of the church)—passing out flyers, doing some kind of community blitz to get our name and service times out there.

Never before has Holy Saturday been a quiet day.

For some reason I’ve been feeling especially reflective this Holy Week. So as the sun peeked over the rooftops this morning, I wondered, Why do we have Holy Saturday?

Why did Jesus stay in the grave an extra day?

I mean, I know the seminary answers: Jesus was fulfilling prophecy of being in the heart of the earth for three days (Matthew 12:40). Jesus was staying in the grave long enough for people to know He was dead, but not long enough for His body to decay (John 11:39; cf. Psalm 16:10). And some Bible scholars believe that on Saturday, Jesus preached the gospel in hell (1 Peter 3:18-20).

But even if Jesus “descended into hell,” as the Apostles’ Creed says—why did He need a whole day to preach the gospel? Jesus’ longest recorded sermon is the Sermon on the Mount, which can be delivered in only eight minutes. So Jesus could have been taken off the cross by sundown, made a quick trip to hell to preach the gospel, and been back in an hour.

Why is there a whole extra day?

I thought about what the disciples must have been feeling on that first Holy Saturday. They didn’t know it was Holy Saturday. To them, it was just another day. The day after their Master died.

The day after everything they'd been living for was snatched away in a matter of hours.

The day after their entire world fell apart.

Now THAT I can relate to.


About a year and a half ago, my dreams died. The tragedy shocked my faith like nothing I’ve ever experienced. He not only broke his vows with his marriage and his ministry, but he told me he was “tired of pretending.” Then one chilly morning, he chose another life and simply walked out.

Everything I had lived for was snatched away in a matter of hours.

I was devastated.

My faith was shaken to the core.

I had put all my eggs in this Easter basket, so to speak.

My life had been centered on the church from children’s choir to youth group—and then college Bible studies and mission trips. After college I worked for a Christian publisher and went to seminary, where I met and married a preacher. Together we planted churches and led ministries—all while I edited hundreds of Christian books. It is not an exaggeration to say the church was my entire world.

Everything I had been living for was saturated in the faith.

And then one day . . . it was gone.            

So I can relate a bit to the disciples that Saturday.

Maybe you can relate, too. You have your own story. Perhaps you’ve lost a loved one. Or gotten a phone call with devastating news.

Perhaps your dreams died with the words “cancer” or “infertile” or “runaway” or "downsizing" or “There's been an accident" or "I just don’t love you anymore” or “Your child needs some tests” or “He’ll never walk again.”

Or maybe for you, it was a crisis of faith that came out of nowhere. You were sitting on a pew or serving in church, when suddenly you were seized with doubt and thought, "What am I doing? Is this even real?"

Have you ever faced your own "Holy Saturday"?

Has God ever disappointed you? Not met your expectations? Been silent when you desperately needed Him to speak?

The disciples didn’t know that all their doubts, aches, and disappointments would be answered on Sunday. To them, Saturday was a dark day. A day of grief and anguish. A day of God's echoing silence. A day of enduring pain in the raw, empty place where their dreams used to live.

Everything they had believed in was buried in a cold, dark tomb.

God could have reassured the disciples by giving them some handwriting on the wall or a burning bush or something as a sign to let them know that Jesus was coming back. That their emptiness would be filled in the morning. That their faith was NOT in vain.

But He didn’t.

He let them wrestle in the darkness of that wide borderland--between anguish and hope--for a full day. Aching. Waiting. Grieving. Fearing. Wondering. Too shocked to pray. Too shattered to trust.

Why did God let them wrestle?

Why does God let us wrestle?

Why is there a whole day when God is silent?

***

When you're in your "Holy Saturday," faced with pain and doubt amid the silence of God… what do you do?

Do you turn and walk away from your faith, trying to fill the emptiness with something else?

Or ...

When you’re suffering in the silence, wracked by the feeling that God has abandoned you, do you notice that tiny, flickering, almost imperceptible spark of hope? The hope that makes no sense? The hope you cannot prove, you cannot see, and you cannot even quite say for sure is actually there?

Did He really say that He would rise again? 

Is there a chance that maybe He hasn’t abandoned me? That there is a future I just can’t see? A hope beyond this barren borderland?

It is today, Holy Saturday—the in-between place where we cannot see or sense God—when our faith becomes REAL.

If you are wrestling with your faith today, let me encourage you that there are thousands of other strugglers like you and me. We are the ones who know what it's like to be shattered by pain, assaulted by doubt and fear, and yet still desperately clinging to the hope that just barely throbs beneath our heartache.

Don't give in to the grief of your Holy Saturday. Don't run away from the One who alone has the words of eternal life.

Wait in the emptiness.

And watch.

Embrace the sacredness of your Holy Saturday, whatever it may be. Allow yourself to wrestle and to ask and to grieve and to fear and to doubt and to ache. Cry and pray and struggle. And through it all, pay attention to that tiny flicker of hope that just won't go away.

Then, as your heart is made tender by pain and your eyes softened by tears, the stone of doubt and emptiness will begin to roll away and reveal the transforming faith and fullness and glory of a Resurrection Sunday like you’ve never known.

 Where reasons are given, we don't need faith.

Where only darkness surrounds us,

we have no means for seeing except by faith.

--Elisabeth Elliot

The Best Gift a Daughter Could Ever Receive

I saw something at Starbucks last week that took my breath away.

Hang on, let me set the scene.

As a book editor, I often take my laptop to Starbucks to get work done. The particular Starbucks I go to is filled with all sorts of interesting people.

Just this past week, I sat by a group of young men giving each other advice about how to treat their wives (ahem), a MLM meeting in which the leader admitted his product didn’t work and was training his sales force on the placebo effect (really?!), and on and on. I try not to listen to conversations while I’m working, but sometimes it’s hard not to notice.

But my favorite—the one that will stay with me forever—was a middle-aged man and teenage boy who walked in last Friday.

The man seemed pleasant, chummy with the boy At first I assumed it was his son. He bought the teenager a latte and they settled at the table beside me. Between sips of coffee, the man casually asked how the boy’s senior year was going, what he enjoyed about school. Where did the boy go to church and so on.

 

Okay, so it’s not a father and son, I surmised. It was DNow weekend, so I thought maybe the man was mentoring the young boy or something. That’s sweet, I thought, sticking in my earbuds and turning up the volume on The Piano Guys channel to drown out their conversation.

I heard only a few bits and pieces between songs…

 “my daughter…” “How did you meet…” “I only have two rules...”

And then this:
  

“…You don’t put your hands anywhere on my daughter that I wouldn’t put my hands on my daughter…”

 

Wait… WHAT?

It finally dawned on me:
 

 

This father was “interviewing” the boy to see if he could date his daughter!
 

Well, what would you do? Yeah, me too. I hit mute on Pandora and totally eavesdropped on the rest of the conversation.

 

The man went on to explain how precious his daughter was to him. That she was his to protect until someday God gave her a husband and that he took that job very seriously. That whoever dated his daughter needed to be a man of integrity and honor. That his daughter was a treasure, and she deserved to be treated as such.

The father’s demeanor was agreeable and friendly, but you could tell he was serious about watching out for his daughter.

The conversation was peppered by a lot of “yes sir”s and nodding from the young man. A young man of such character, mind you, that he had been willing to meet with her father first.

 

Honestly, how many high school seniors would DO that nowadays?

Only the ones you want your daughter to date.

 

All right, I confess. I was tearing up at this point. Oh, what I would have given for my dad to have lived long enough to do that for me! And what I would give for my own daughters to have had a father like that!
 

I have no idea who this father is or who his daughter is. She may be glad her father is interviewing her potential dates, or she might be groaning in embarrassment that he’s sooooo old-fashioned.

  

Regardless, I know this: I’d give anything to be that girl. She’s the luckiest daughter on earth.

Dads of little girls, wherever you are, DO THIS for your daughters.

 

She might protest now, but someday, she will thank you.

 

I'm no expert on dads, but I know a lot about being a daughter. And I'm pretty sure that's the best gift a daughter could ever receive.

 

 

Freeze-Frame

I love lazy Saturdays.

My kids still haven't figured out how to sleep in, so they wander in my bedroom, one by one.

First, my middle child, carrying her Madame Alexander doll. "Can I snuggle with you?"

Of course. I scoot over.

Next, my young son. "Mom, I had a bad dream."

I groggily turn and pat the bed on the other side of me. There's plenty of room. He climbs in.

We cuddle, the three of us, somewhere between consciousness and dreamland. I don't know how many minutes pass. One? Ten?

Then my oldest child comes in. She's fully dressed, awake, ready to start the day. "Mom, can I play on the computer?"

"Mm-hmm," I affirm, rolling over to create some room for myself, resituating arms and legs that have streched across the mattress and wrapped around me, reducing my personal space in the king-sized bed to about ten inches. How can such small humans take up so much room?

I'm vaguely aware of the hall light switching on. The desktop computer playing its "powered-on" arpeggio. And the best sound of all: the gurgling of the coffeemaker.

I congratulate myself on what a great idea it was to teach my older kids how to make my coffee.

Soon, cuddles turn to conversation, and I resign myself to getting up. We make a game of it. I pretend to be dead weight as the kids scooch me over and grab my feet and pull me up.

We are a little parade of pajamas down the hall to the office, where my oldest is playing on the computer. The kids plop in the armchairs. I detour to the kitchen to pour my coffee.

In the two minutes I'm gone, the kids are already squabbling over the computer.

"Hey, it's MY turn! No fair! You've been on the computer forever."

"No, it's not! Mom said I could play it!"

"Hey, get out of my chair!"

My little guy, who had apparently climbed up beside his sister, wails in response.

Sigh.

I walk into the office, steaming mug in hand, and call a moratorium on the computer. "If you can't get along with electronics, then you'll have to get along without them." I shut down the desktop.

Three gripy children wander into the kitchen, variously accusing the others of it being their fault, reaching past each other to forage in the pantry and the fridge, aimlesslessly searching for food.

I twist open the blinds to a sunshiny morning and recruit them to help me make breakfast.

One turns on the music. Another stirs the batter. Another helps me flip the pancakes. The table is set. Vitamins portioned out. Apple juice poured. Jesus Calling for Kids devotional placed on the table.

Gradually, tattling turns to teamwork and breakfast is ready.

Between bites of blueberry pancakes, I tell the kids our plans for the day. I have to work today, so they'll be going to Gran's house. My younger sister is bringing her kids over so they can play.

My kids are eager to see their younger cousins, who weren't able to join us at the last family gathering. They can't wait to tell them all about their adventures in the big, country ranch house where we overnighted in Goldthwaite, graciously provided to us by a family friend as we gathered for my grandfather's funeral.

The kids remind each other of their stories--the "wild dogs" they encountered in the pasture (which turned out to be the next-door neighbor's pugs), the five cousins piling on top of each other in Keith's red truck as he took a bull out to join his cattle--and their mad dash to dive back into the truck once the two bulls met. Their "hike" to the windmill with their uncle. The time my little guy got to "drive" a pickup (atop the actual driver, of course).

The stories are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. My mom wants to know, would it be okay if she took my kids to see their other cousin's basketball game? If so, we'll need to be at her house a couple of hours earlier than expected.

The kids whoop in excitement. All the cousins! They'll get to see ALL of them!

Breakfast is hastily abandoned. I call them back to clear their spots at the table. And then I call them back again, reminding them for the upteenth time that "putting up your dishes" does not mean leaving them in the sink. I introduce them to the dishwasher. (Someday their spouses will thank me.) And I remind them that the pancake syrup isn't going to walk itself back to the pantry.

Three hopping, giggly kids quickly finish cleaning the kitchen and bounce off, Tigger-like, to get dressed.

One daughter insists on taking a shower first. Another wants me to braid her hair. Little guy is detemined to wear a "basketball outift" so he can shoot some hoops with his oldest cousin, who is twelve and, as the only other male cousin in our family, like a rock star to my son.

I wander up the stairs and into his closet. Basketball clothes? We settle for windpants and a T-shirt that reads "USA." He pulls out his only pair of Nike shoes, the ones with actual shoelaces.

A few minutes later, I'm in the downstairs office, editing a manuscript at my laptop.

My son, dressed down to his socks, carries his shoes downstairs. "Mom, can you help me tie my shoes?"

He passes his oldest sister, who is standing at the hall mirror, Stridexing her forehead.

"I'll help you, Buddy," she offers.

He plops on the floor, small legs extended, laces agape. She crouches down beside him and I pretend to be working... but I can't help listening as she shows him how to make the bunny ears and thread the laces. He can't figure it out. She patiently shows him again. And again... until his clumsy fingers can finally form the loops.

In the background, I overhear my middle daughter in my bathroom, belting out "How Great Thou Art" at the top of her lungs in the shower.

And I freeze-frame the moment.

This moment. This.

I don't want to cheapen it with a picture. That would turn the sacred ordinary into newsfeed fodder. Some moments are simply too precious for the mom paparazzi.

So I just hold the memory.

Snuggles and squabbles.

Tattles and teamwork.

The four of us have formed a new family. Our new normal. No longer feeling incomplete but whole.

All of us, finding our way amid preteen hormones and sibling drama and homework and manuscripts and school activities and book deadlines.

It's not perfect. At times, it's downright messy. But it's ours. Our little family.

This family.

This.

A New Perspective

Happy New Year!

Don't worry...this isn't another one of those "new year's resolutions" posts. I think setting goals is a great idea, but I've learned the hard way that I don't actually know what the coming year holds.

Plus, I confess: I'm a teensy bit intimidated by all those resolutions about losing 50 pounds or running a marathon or writing the next great American novel. Around here, my personal goals are more like "keep the kids alive" and "try not to run out of coffee."

So instead, I'll just tell you about something that's been percolating in my heart for about a week. Let's call it a "new year's perspective" post. Better?

* * *

It hit me on Christmas Eve.

I was blessed to have my kids for Christmas break again this year, and we kicked off our bevy of Christmas Eve traditions by attending candlelight service at The Village Church with my family.

The kids and I arrived early to meet my sisters and save rows for our clan. As the clock ticked toward 1:00, I ducked out of the sanctuary, weaved through the lobby, and peeked outside so I could escort my elderly grandfather to his seat.

Amid the throng coming through the front doors, I heard someone call out, "Jenny Haney!"

I love when people call me by my childhood name.

I turned to see my college friend John. After exchanging delighted greetings and "great to see you"s, John introduced me to his lovely daughter and filled me in on his post-college life--a decade in the military, a wife and kids, and a successful career as a surgeon.

Then it was my turn.

I told him about my kids. That I'm still editing books. And that I'd spent most of my post-college years in ministry, planting churches with my husband...but then he left us, so now I'm a single mom.

"I'm so sorry," he said sincerely. "I heard about that."

As we wrapped up our conversation and parted to find our respective family members--it hit me:

Why do I define myself by that?
 

I'm so much more than The Pastor's Wife Who Was Abandoned.

* * *

It's strange how tragedy brands you, at least for a while.

I remember those awkward weeks during my sophomore year, when I was The Girl Whose Dad Died. Fifteen-year-olds are supposed to be getting driver's permits and going to the mall and giggling at movies, not grieving the death of a parent. The shock of it reveberated through the school halls in whispers from friends and faculty alike who weren't sure how to treat me.

But I've long since put away that nametag. I no longer identify myself by my father's death. It affected my life profoundly, of course, but it's not something I feel compelled to tell people anymore.

My father's death shaped me, but it doesn't define me.

And, like you, I've weathered my fair share of trials and tragedies since then. But I haven't let any of those things define me. If you and I met at Starbucks to catch up or to get to know each other, I wouldn't mention those circumstances in the "who I am and what I've been doing" part of our conversation.

So why was I letting this particular trauma define me?

* * *

To be honest, part of the reason my scarlet D seared so deeply was that my situation was so scandalous. The shock of it reverberated throughout our community from church members and neighbors alike who, too, felt betrayed.

But the biggest part was that I hadn't yet chosen to put away that nametag. Maybe deep down, I wondered, without that label, who would I be?

For fourteen years, I had defined myself as a pastor's wife. Bible study teacher. Church planter. For many of those years, I was the sole or primary provider for our family of five. My life was a cyclone of ministry and mothering and editing and marital issues and making ends meet. I was having babies and birthing churches, trying my best to nurture them and help them thrive.

It's been a long, long time since I was Jenny Haney--girl who loves God, hangs out with friends, plays spades, and can find the fun in almost anything.

But you know what? It's long past time for me to set aside the cumbersome labels of "single mom" and "abandoned wife." I don't have to define myself by those circumstances anymore.

Yes, I've grieved. And yes, my life has been profoundly and permanently affected by the situation. But honestly, I'm much healthier and happier and, well, more myself now than I've been in years.

So after setting aside the nametag of "single mom," who am I?

I'm Jennifer Haney Stair--woman who loves God, hangs out with my friends, plays the Wii with my kids, and can still make almost anything fun.


Yes, the divorce has shaped me.

But it no longer defines me.

* * *

And you know what, sweet friends? Whatever you're going through doesn't have to define you either.

You don't have to wear that nametag of The Woman Whose Husband Has Cancer or The Man Who Lost His Job or The Parent of a Special-Needs Child. I don't know what your nametag says, but I know what's it's like to feel so wrapped up in that identity you feel compelled to bring it up in conversation--as if you've been so branded by your pain that you have to wear it on your lapel.

Yes, the circumstances we face in this life shape us.

But our identity is something else entirely. It comes from our Creator, not our circumstances.

So no matter what your new year's resolutions may be--or whether you make resolutions at all--remember, the ultimate goal is not what you DO. It's who you ARE.

"You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it.

Live out your God-created identity.

Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.”

--Matthew 5:58 (The Message)

Blessing My Blessings

No doubt about it: children are a gift from the Lord;
the fruit of the womb is a divine reward.--Psalm 127:3

It's already NOVEMBER! Woo hoo! I'm so excited about the holidays! I've already dug out my Christmas CDs and lit my minty candles. Seriously, y'all are going to have to stop me from putting up my Christmas tree already. :)

But first... I need to slow down and enjoy Thanksgiving. After all, November is the month of gratitude, right? So instead of skipping over this month and rushing ahead to Christmas (like I really want to do), I'm going to try to fill each day of this month--NOT with memories of the pain that happened last November, but with thankfulness for the joy that lies ahead.

I choose to redeem the month of November for my family.

With that in mind, I'd love to start off this month by sharing something special I did with my kids.

A couple of months ago, I began studying passages in the Bible about blessing your children. Not just a casual "I love you and have a great day" kind of blessing, but a well-thought-out, intentional blessing.

A blessing that gives children....

An assurance of identity.
A strong sense of belonging.
A clear vision for their future.

The more I read about blessing your children, the more I realized that was exactly what my kids needed. They had been very hurt and shaken by the divorce. And they needed to feel secure. They needed to know, for sure, that God created them with high value, that they belong in our family, and that God has a plan for them... no matter what circumstances they may encounter in their lives.

I could go on and on about the signficance of blessing your kids, but these articles pretty much sum it up.

So I prayerfully wrote out a blessing for each of my children using the five biblical elements:

1. Meaningful and appropriate touch
2. A spoken message
3. Attaching high value to the one being blessed
4. Picturing a special future for him or her
5. An active commitment to fulfill the blessing

Then I took the kids to my mom's house, where my extended family--my mom, my sisters and their husbands, and their kids--joined me in surrounding the kids as I spoke these blessings over them.

(Note: that's my mom's ginormous Bible study whiteboard behind me, still set up in her living room from her Precept Bible study the night before. Anyone wonder where my love of teaching the Bible comes from?!?)

Do you mind if I share these blessings with you? I've omitted some personal details for the sake of privacy, but I'd like to post them here to remind myself of how grateful I am for each of my three precious treasures.

***

MISS B

[[Miss B]], your name means “royalty.” And I’ve always called you “my princess.” But much more than that, you are God’s princess. You are a daughter of the King of kings! May you always remember that you are royalty—God is your heavenly Father and you are His much-loved princess.

And your middle name is in honor of my dad. You are not only the precious daughter of your heavenly Father, but you bear the name of my earthly father, who was a very godly man. My dad loved God very much, and He loved others. This is your legacy to carry on.

Sweet [[Miss B]], you are the first child God gave me. And because you are the firstborn, you are a leader. In our home you are a role model for your younger sister and younger brother—and as the oldest female cousin, you are a leader for your younger cousins as well. Whether you realize it or not, they are looking up to you. May you always set an example for them of faith, love, and kindness.

God has made you a leader not only in our family but in all you do. You have a natural gift of leadership that shines through at church and at school. Your friends look to you to lead them. May you use your gift of leadership wisely, to lead other people toward God and His kingdom and His righteousness.

[[Miss B]], you also have a strong desire for knowledge. You want to know everything about everything! God has gifted you with intelligence. But more than that, God has given you the gift of wisdom—the ability to use your knowledge to make right choices. As you grow up and continue to learn, I pray that you will have more than just "book knowledge," but God’s true wisdom—the ability to use your knowledge in a way that glorifies God and makes His name great.

Not only are you wise, [[Miss B]], but God has given you a special kind of knowledge called discernment. When you were three years old, God placed His mark of grace on your left eye. And that “God mark,” as we call it, not only saved your physical sight, but it’s a reminder that God has given you a special “heart sight,” or insight into the hearts and motives of other people. You have a unique gift of being able to perceive what others are truly like, of looking beyond their words and actions and directly into their hearts. May God use your gift of discernment to help you make wise choices and stand up for what is right.

[[Miss B], with your gifts of leadership and wisdom and discernment, I envision a future in which God will use you to lead others to Him and to teach Him them about His love.

Together with our family here, I pray God will use you to bring many people into His kingdom. We pray that you will use your gifts to serve God by serving others as a teacher, ministry leader, and friend.

***

J.J.

[[J.J.]], your name means “beautiful.” And you are beautiful, inside and out! I pray that you will continue to see that true beauty comes from within, from the beauty of Christ shining through your heart and life.

And your name is a special name I chose in honor of my grandmother and my mother. Both G.G. and Gran are godly women who love God very much! G.G. loved to pray and to help others. And Gran loves to teach the Bible and to share God’s love with everyone she meets. So you are not only beautiful and loved, but you are carrying on the legacy of two very godly women!

I call you “my jewel,” because that’s what you are—a precious jewel, a treasure. And you know what? You’re not only my jewel, but you’re God’s special jewel! Like a diamond, you sparkle and shine wherever you go. You are God’s treasure, a glimmering gem reflecting His light into our world.

And like a diamond, you have so many facets and sides! You are creative and artistic and musical and filled with zest for life. God has made you unique, and He has a great plan for your life. The Bible says you are God’s “masterpiece,” like a special painting filled with His light and joy. May you always remember that you belong to God and that all your unique gifts and ideas and beauty come from Him.

You are not only creative, but you have a very tender heart. God has filled you with compassion and empathy. That means when others hurt, you hurt with them. And when others are happy, you are happy with them. May your heart always stay sensitive toward others: to listen when they need a friend, to reach out when they need help, to comfort them when they are sad, and to show them the love of God.

[[J.J.]], with your gifts of creativity and artistry and compassion, I envision a future in which God will use you to shine His light and love to others around you. Because you think outside the box and see things that no one else sees, I pray that you will expand God’s kingdom by doing things that have never been done before. God has uniquely designed you to make a great big difference in the world.

Don’t be afraid to take big risks for God,  [[J.J.]]. Remember, you have no reason to fear. God is always with you, as close as the smile on your face. You are God’s precious jewel, His treasure, His masterpiece. Your heavenly Father cares for you, and He will always protect you and guide you every day of your life.

Together with our family here, I pray God will use you to help others see God’s love and beauty. And we pray that God will use you to take big risks for God’s kingdom and to shine His light into this dark world.

***

BUDDY

[[Buddy]], your name means “strong.” But being strong is much more than having big muscles. Being strong means having the courage to do the right thing. It means being brave enough to stand up for people who need help. It means protecting those in need. And it means letting God give you His strength when you need it. I call you “my little superhero,” but the truth is, you are God’s mighty warrior. I pray that He will fill you with His strength and that you will always be strong for Him.

You are named in honor of my dad. You not only have God as your heavenly Father, but you bear the name of my earthly father. My dad was a strong man. He didn’t have great big muscles, but he had a great big heart that was full of love for God and for others. He also had a strong sense of justice; and I see that in you as well. I pray you will continue to have a strong sense of right and wrong and the courage to make godly choices your whole life, like my dad did. This is your legacy to carry on.

 

[[Buddy]], you are my only son, the man in our family. In our home you are the protector of your sisters—and of your younger cousins too. Although you will grow up to be physically stronger than they are, don’t ever use your strength to hurt them in any way. Remember, you are strongest when you remember that your strength comes from God. He will make you strong to protect them and help them.

And just like my dad, [[Buddy], you have a contagious laugh! You are full of giggles and joy. I hope you keep laughing and having fun your whole life. Don’t ever feel like you’re too “grown up” to giggle. The Bible says the joy of the Lord is our strength, so keep on laughing and showing others the joy of the Lord.

[[Buddy]], you have a lot of friends. People love being around you! God has given you a charming and charismatic personality. Because people are naturally drawn to you, you will always be surrounded by friends. May you be strong enough to set a good example of right choices and brave enough to stand up for what is right in God’s eyes, no matter what others do. Have fun, but always remember who you are.

And you have such an imagination! You have an amazing gift of telling stories that amuse and entertain us all. And you know what? Jesus was a storyteller too! He used stories to help people understand important truths about God. I pray that you will use your gifts of storytelling and imagination to follow Jesus’ example of telling stories that teach others about God and His Word.

[[Buddy]], with your gifts of strength and joy and imagination, I envision a future in which God will use you to draw others to Him through your stories and your strong friendship. God can use you for His kingdom as an influencer, someone who introduces people to Jesus and helps them know Him more deeply.

Together with our family here, I pray you will use your gifts to serve God your whole life by being a strong and courageous follower of Him.

***

I know this is a crazy long post. But I needed to remind myself that I am exceedingly blessed to be the mother of these three gifts from God.

Thanks for letting me share my "blessings" with you today!

Jesus put his arms around the children

and blessed them by placing his hands on them.

--Mark 10:16