I want to live like this all year long. This gratitude, this thanksgiving, and this river of emotional indebtedness flowing onto everything I encounter. It’s all new and fresh right now in this season of cold air sneaking in, turkeys running for their lives and Santa setting up shop.
It's spasmodic joy over the simple, seemingly common. When red apples piled
high on your kitchen counter make you cry...you know your soul is tapped into
reverent acknowledgement of God's grace. I don’t always see life through this
lens...but right now, I do.
I see a house that holds warm air, hand crocheted blankets wrapped around
little girls reading library books three days overdue, a grey rescue dog who is
overweight from table scraps and a man whom I still sleep close too, head
on his chest drifting off to the sound of his heart beating and I think,
"These are the gifts."
Recognizing *the gifts* as just that...gifts. This is the intentional pause
that binds my faith.
Gift- Something given voluntarily without payment in return.
That I didn't "do" anything to earn this life. Camping on the idea
that God, in His compassion...gave a gift...many gifts...to me...a nobody.
What could I possibly bring in return to reflect my hearts cry of
thanksgiving? I refuse to get wrapped up in all the "doing" for acceptance
and I am far too good at the "being still and knowing" He is God. And
I find that now more than ever the most appropriate thing I can be is the acknowledger. Is that a word? I so hope it
is...I want it to describe me.
I feel small in a world that is swallowed up with big people grabbing for
stars to make themselves shine bright. I want to shine too...but I want it to
be the reflection of my God, The Light.
I will acknowledge the Giver. This is my gift to the King.
All anybody ever really wants is to be thanked. Don't you agree? Not a big
fuss, just a verbal recognition. It's the very least thing...but the most
There is nothing revolutionary about this notion, yet I find it missing
among most people I know. The credit is seldom given to the Giver of all good
Not me Lord. Not today. Not now.
Here I am, a mess of a sinner still holding tight to The Gospel. The simple
version. The one that starts with a virgin and a manger... skips all the
theology and debates... and ends on a Cross. Miraculously beginning again
through the Resurrection. I confess this truth.
It's just me, Allison Lee, the acknowledger.
Jesus, you are everything. In this statement I find the root of all
thankfulness. Let the feast begin.
Monday, November 4, 2013
When I picked up my first born from Sunday preschool, gosh I guess it’s been about 12 years ago now, the lady who greeted me at the door said with a chuckle, "Your daughter is so precious. She is singing the words to Jesus Loves Me This I Know wrong and it is so sweet.
I looked at her, tilted my head to the side and said "Singing it wrong? How so?"
She placed her hand on my shoulder gently and replied, "She thinks it goes...Jesus loves me this I know, for my Mama tells me so, little ones to Him belong, they are weak but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me...For my Mama told me so."
McKenzie was standing there waiting to hear my response. I put my Bible and my purse down and got on my knees...eye to eye with that wide eyed toddler I said "You didn't sing that song wring baby. Your Mama DID tell you so. You sing that song however you want to." Her smile could have lit up the darkest corner...all was well and confident.
It was at that moment I realized, The Bible may tell her so, but for now, her mama's words are her truth.
For these tender growing years, the nursing through the weaning years, the hand holding while crossing the street years and the spreading of peanut butter and jelly packing her lunch years. The potty training and learning to read years, tucking her in tight and bending the knee nighttime prayer years, long hours in the carpool line and napping together rubbing her back years...the brushing her teeth and braiding her hair years, putting on her socks and tying her shoes years...
These years.... the molding years, the clay soft and not hard years...the foundation years...my voice will be her lighthouse. What I say and do will be her gospel, Lord, let it guide her straight to you.
Let her hear me singing praise the shower, reciting Scripture in the kitchen, and speaking love over our neighbors. Let her hear me call out to you in times of need and in moments of plenty. Let her hear my silence when gossip surrounds and let her hear my voice rise up in defense of the poor. Let her hear me stand for justice in the power of the Name above all Names. Let her hear me foster equality. Let her hear me be bold, brave and firm in my womanhood...and in my God given calling. Let her hear me when I'm prideful, when I’m apologizing, when I'm humbled, and when I'm forgiven. Let her hear words that give those around me strength, life, hope, and redemption. Let her hear the offerings of second, third and fourth chances fall off my lips. Let her hear me confess. Let her hear me supporting my sisters in Christ, let her hear me pray away jealousy. Let her hear me expressing love and faithfulness to her father. Let her hear me tell temptation no...
A mothers words are powerful life shaping tools....let me never forget they are listening, and my words are always preaching.