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All in Faith
“Mommy, come. I’ve found this path and there are so many flowers.”
It’s morning, and our second day camping in Jasper, Alberta, our favorite place on earth with its mountain peaks—like a father’s hands cupped, shielding this sacred hollow of water and spruce from the rest of the world.
I leave my coffee and follow my oldest son to the path he’s found and he points out the daisies, the bluebells, the buttercups.
We’ve all been there, the comparison trap. That place where we don’t feel good enough, where our standards and expectations of ourselves meet who we really are. That place where we look at what others are doing with their kids or what we think they are doing, and we feel like a failure. Social media perpetuates this comparison trap and we fall for the bait over and over again.
The comparison trap is a very real place and we are all tempted to fall into it. Whether it be comparing our marriages, jobs, families, children, churches, you name it. But what we don’t often realize in the midst of fighting the good fight against falling into this trap, is that our children are also being tempted to fall into it as well.
Last month, I confessed how the last decade of my life has been marked by fear and yet thanks to an adventuresome opportunity at family camp, I recognized how living in fear was stealing joy from my life . . . and from my children. {Read that post here.} That “big swing” moment marked off a life once lived in fear, and I’m in awe at how God has invited me to walk in brave faith ever since.
With three boys who are only five years apart, a friendly game of putt-putt can quickly get the competitive ( and unfriendly) juices flowing.
We'd only made it to the third hole on the miniature-golf course when one of my boys got a hole in one. He squealed with excitement!
But his joy was short-lived with his brother's harsh words - “That was such an easy hole. You just got lucky. I'm so much better than you at this game.”
His name means pleasant little fire.
He is my eldest, and God whispered "tender-hearted leader" over him when he was just a baby.
I was sitting in a hotel room on a king-sized bed at a conference.
I was sitting there alone, not minding being alone, wishing that I missed him.
Wishing I missed the man I’d been married to for eleven years and forgetting what the touch of his hand felt like. His calloused, farm-boy hand, the one that found me across the duvet those three years I relapsed into anorexia and sleeping pills, the one which fed me ice chips as I birthed two miracle boys, the one which always gave me the first strawberry of the season from our garden.
And I crawled onto the king-sized mattress then, stretched out across the miles of bed and cried.
