Category Archives: Living For Him

Tuesday’s Prayer

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I filled the house with smoke for the second week in a row. You would think that after five and half years, I would get the hang of this oven. Alas, it seems to not be so. The coconut oil that spilled into the bottom last week (which started quite the fire) apparently was not all burned up.

The coffee cake this morning? Not the best. Sorry, dear Pioneer Woman, but it seems your tastes are a bit sweeter than mine. It felt a little like inhaling spoonfuls of sugar. (Maybe I’m just sensitive to the stuff.)

There is a bag of trash that has been sitting by my front door for three days. (Ew!) It, unfortunately, has blended into the woodwork and I keep forgetting to take it with me when I go to the barn.

I was kind of hoping that no one who need to use the restroom while they were here because there is a huge pile of laundry in there that never got taken care of.

And I was actually praying that no one would need to open the fridge for anything. There is something dead in there. Probably that container of chicken stock that I thawed two weeks ago but forgot to use.

What I’m really trying to say is neither my house, nor I, am very well put together at times. 

But it never fails. When I open my door, open my home– God shows up. He pours blessings on me.

He empties out the pride, forgives the sinfulness, and wraps me tight in grace.

We decided to have prayer meetings on Tuesday mornings. It is the evidence that God has been stirring things up because my husband hates mornings. Yet, it was his idea to invite people up at 5:30AM to drink coffee and pray. It was originally going to be a one-time thing– he just felt the burden to pray for a friend and invited some others to join in.

But then it was so wonderful– meeting God in community, right first thing in morning– so we’ve had a few more. And now, for this season at least, I don’t think we’ll stop. 

God created community. He designed us for it. We are made to have a personal relationship with Christ and at the same time to share our walk with those around us. And the more true community you have, the more you crave it. Even enough to stumble out of bed at ridiculous times in the morning.

(Seriously, when we milked cows we didn’t get up at 5:30 (we milked at 7 and 7) but for prayer and community and the presence of God? Absolutely.)

I challenge you, friends, to establish community. No matter what your house looks like. No matter if you can cook (*ahem*) or if your floors are clean. Because it’s not really about all that stuff anyway. It’s about Jesus. Living. Moving. Breathing. Changing lives and forgiving sins and transforming hearts.

And if you live in the area, come on up next Tuesday morning. For reals. We’d love to have you. (And hopefully by then the trash will be taken out, the laundry cleaned up, the house smoke-free, and breakfast edible. But you never know. I make no promises. There will, however, be coffee and prayer.)

Community/prayer

the faith of my mother

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the faith of my mother

my beautiful Mama, in Alaska, when I was a little girl.

My mother never sugar-coated Christianity. She lived it raw, and hard, and glorious, and miraculous, and painful, and in such brutal honesty that I reached womanhood with a burning desire to know this scandalous beautiful Savior.

Her faith stills me quiet.

Her passionate existence stirs me to move and live and fight.

As a small child, I watched her move from New York and all her family to the towering mountains and strangers of Alaska. I saw her tears of loneliness and her sharp clinging to the true Comforter.

By the time I was nine years old, I had watched her face cancer with brilliant fearlessness, even while “what if’s” made her shake.

I remember her prayers– for anyone, everyone. The phone calls that ended with, “Can I pray with you?” Her feet pacing the kitchen as she called down the heavenly hosts to transform situations and lives.

She wasn’t perfect. That same passion that caused her to laugh and play silly games and adopt outrageous accents to make everyone else fall into stitches, also caused her to holler in frustration and anger when her four children tag-teamed to push her buttons. (She always joked that we must have secret meetings at night to sign up for what hour we were going to pester her. Just when one kid would get settled and attitudes dealt with, the next would start up.)

But I remember being 19 and having a woman look me right in the eye and say, “You honor your Mama,” she wiped tears and said with a shaking voice, “I would have aborted my son, my precious son, if your mother hadn’t intervened.” This woman spoke the story and I stood quiet, hearing the testimony of my mother’s passionate pursuit of Christ, even to the point of being the last thing standing between a friend and an abortion clinic. I watched the woman’s son play with trucks on the floor at my feet and reveled in the legacy I had been handed.

I was in my twenties when I stood in that church beside her and a woman walked up to us, holding a dancing toddler by the hand. “I don’t know if you remember me,” the woman said to Mama, “but a couple years ago you visited and came to our Sunday School class. I was pregnant but I wasn’t doing very well emotionally and you shared about God and hope and joy and… well, I want you to meet someone.” She turned to the little pixie-faced child and said softly, “This is my daughter, Cheri. I named her after you.”

And then there was Haiti. The time when I stood, translating the woman’s dire circumstances… the breach baby, the lack of hospitals or midwives, the complications… and my mother stepping up and laying hands on the 9 month pregnant belly and requesting a miracle from the God of the Universe. And the next morning, translating the woman’s awestruck words, “I think the baby moved.” I called Mama right after she arrived home to the U.S. to tell her I was holding a healthy baby boy, no surgery necessary.

Miracles. Beauty.

I remember Mama hurting. So many tears… And I remember her face of peace after months of heartache. “Forgiveness is always best, Tashi-girl,” she told me. I heard the words down deep. Etching truth where lies attempt to embed themselves.

Then this past year. Oh, this past year. Me, married and gone, still learning so much from her quiet strength and wisdom. It was cancer again. A different kind.

I stood in the hallway of the hospital, looking down at her wedding rings, nestled with mine on my left hand. You can’t wear any jewelry into surgery, so she slipped them on my finger and I watched her face until she disappeared through the doors, then stared at the rings until my gaze blinded with tears.

I was blessed enough to give them back to her, and we were all blessed when the scans came back with no sign of anymore cancer. But even if they hadn’t, even if she had left me, the legacy I carry is bright and strong and brilliant.

I want to have faith like my mother. The kind that sings the praises of God through fear, heartache, cancer, loss, emptiness, fullness, joy, pain, or sadness. To be a true woman after God’s own heart.

Tell me your story. Maybe it wasn’t your mother, maybe it was a relative or friend or neighbor. Tell me about the woman whose faith spurs you forward. 

 

natural fertility ebook bundle

more than watchmen wait for the morning

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Some days run hard together and the sun seems to disappear even while it shines bright. Which is why my husband showed up last week, took my hand and said, “Let’s go on a mini-vacation.”

We spent the night at a hotel in Old Forge, one that sat right on the water where we could watch the last shades of pink slide out of sight into the ripples spread by the wind.  After the light was gone, I took a long hot bath and prayed that muffled tears wouldn’t wake my husband.

They were happy tears. Sort of.

The kind that comes and you’re fine, just sad, but okay and happy? Of course. You’re blessed and provided for and loved… and hurting. All at once and together and the same.

He was awake when I slipped into bed. “Read to me,” he said, so I clicked on the light and reached for my Bible and read the words I had underlined so many times.

Oh, Israel, put your hope in the Lord,
for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.

“Where is that found?” he asks.

“Psalm 130,” I say, turning the page for him to see.

“Read the whole chapter to me,” and he settles back against the pillow.

So I read and the words drift off me and float away. He sleeps at the sound of my voice and I quietly close the book and click out the light.

The clock reads 5am when I open my eyes again. My husband is snoring and sleep has evaporated so I slide from the covers and slip into a skirt. It is this bright silly thing that made me smile when I bought it, the way the stripes of color seem to swirl when I walk.

A jacket over my shoulders and I step outside to wander. Frost painted the ground, thicker as I neared the water’s edge. I stepped onto the dock and almost slipped, the icy whiteness stealing traction. Two steps, three steps, a cloud breaks and the sun makes me blink. I stand there, quiet, watching the frost melt away.

A verse comes to mind, the one that I paused at the night before, wondering why such a strange line was repeated,

My soul waits for the Lord,
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning. Ps. 130:6

Psalm 130:6

The last bit of frost is melting, the sun is so warm it is burning a pattern on my face. It comes, you know. The morning comes. And the watchmen, they know that morning will arrive. Light will break through and darkness will flee and morning always comes. 

No matter how strong the powers of darkness seem, the Kingdom of God is advancing. 

I wait with assurance. With knowledge. With the power of knowing that the darkness will leave. Like watchmen wait for the morning, I wait.

I hear the click of a camera shutter and spin around to see my husband standing on the balcony with my camera in his hands. “You look like your Mama,” he says, voice echoing across the silent water. I wrap my arms around me and call for him to come. So he leaves the warmth of the room and visits the coolness of morning. 

We walk on the boardwalk around the edge of the water and talk about mornings and Christ’s return and hope that is unchanging, that never dies, that burns deep and grows us upward.

Walking through the darkness of winter can feel like death at times, but the dormant season is needed to produce a harvest. Eventually morning light will touch the fertile ground and life will spring forth.

So we journey on, waiting expectantly, because it always comes. The morning always comes.

Redeeming the Division {rejoicing and grieving together} with giveaway

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Today I am bringing you a guest post (and giveaway!) from my friend, Angie. She is the author of the book, “Redeeming Childbirth”, and her post today is the perfect ending to our series last week on infertility. One thing that God has taught me over and over is  we are not as different as we think. 

Redeeming the Division {rejoicing and grieving together}

I am so honored to be here with you all and meet you. Honestly, as I was praying over what the Lord would have me share with those who have faced infertility or miscarriage… I was speechless at first. I had thoughts like, “How can I relate, or even have anything to share with them, since I have not struggled with this.”

Then the Lord again reminded me that this is one way that the enemy divides God’s people. Itʼs what I wrote about in the first and second chapter of my book, Redeeming Childbirth, the division among women on what has become one of the most controversial topics among women today {along with education choices and occupation choices}.

As I was writing my heart burdened for all those who were unable to have children. I have continued praying for all of you, my sisters in the Lord, who have closed wombs and have suffered loss {through all different circumstances}.

I wanted to write to you. To encourage you. But I also felt inadequate and unable.

The Lord impressed upon my heart to lift this specific ministry up in prayer. So I began to ask the Holy Spirit to raise up a sister who had gone through similar pain, to teach, encourage and inspire you– and the Lord answered my prayers in Natasha!

I see Pain Redeemed as the perfect complimentary book to Redeeming Childbirth.  I thank God for Natasha and her obedience to speak out on such a painful intimate experience in her life. I know that for me it took 11 years to get the courage to write. But once I did, it was an amazingly intimate experience with the Lord… in a new way I had never experienced before.

You see, together, as women in the body of Christ we need to learn to rejoice together and grieve together--even when we donʼt have the same life experiences, circumstances, or callings on our lives.

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There are too many divisions and camps in the church, especially among women. Our experiences or opinions draw lines and create groups. The reality is that there is something special between kindred spirits who can sympathize with one another, but because we are so divided we have a new problem today:

We are not fluent in the language of empathy and we are not practiced in the ability of grieving or rejoicing together.

In a culture that is completely focused on avoiding pain, many avoid the “needy” or “hurting” because it would be to inconvenient for their own lives or slow them down.

Likewise, one who has experienced pain, grief or loss often struggles to rejoice with their sister or brother in Christ when there is a real opportunity for rejoicing and praising God. Inside we have the temptation for jealousy, competition and instead of truly rejoicing in what God is doing in their lives, we make it about ourselves and what we donʼt have, or what our circumstances are. Ugly isnʼt it? I know.

We are the church, the body of Christ. And as His representatives, His ambassadors. We need to be a light in this dark world– but we canʼt until we learn to grieve with those suffering and learn to rejoice with those who are experiencing the Lordʼs blessing.

You see, I am the mama of six. I have not struggled with long term infertility and I have never had a miscarriage {that I am aware of}. I have never lost a child… but I have experienced loss and I believe everyone has on one level or another. Pain is not a foreigner to any of us. It is part of life. However, for a woman the pain and grief that comes from the loss of a child, or the loss of ability to be with child, can be some of the greatest pains we could ever encounter in life.

As sisters in Christ, we need to unify and encourage one another, building one another up without falling into the temptation for competition. It is amazing the ways the enemy divides the body of Christ. I believe it is such a hot topic among women because our choices and experiences greatly impact how we view ourselves, and likewise so do our circumstances. A womanʼs birth experience is a milestone in her life, whether it is a good experience or not. It is an intimate one that impacts her life forever, as does the pain of infertility and the choices one makes in how to deal with it.

We need to recognize that our battle is not against one another, but against an enemy that seeks to kill and destroy. We need to choose love and acceptance over judgementalism, division and cliques.

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I believe that we ALL have perspectives on pregnancy, childbirth and the gift that life is.  My deep desire is to attempt to bring God glory and to let Him walk into the painful broken circumstances of our lives and allow Him to transform us.

The reality is that regardless if you have biological children or not, you are a mentor to someone. If you are striving to be a Titus 2 Woman of God then books like Redeeming Childbirth are beneficial so you can teach and inspire your younger sisters in Christ in a Biblical way.

There are chapters specifically written to mentors because I believe this is critical to us all partnering with Christ to “Redeem Childbirth Together.” We as a church body can all benefit to study what God says about this topic in His Word.

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Even if you have not been pregnant before, even if you have had painful experiences like losing a baby… God is sovereign. You have the power, the choice to partner with Christ and redeem that terrible experience and glorify Him through it, as you minister to others.

When I was hospitalized with my sixth baby, the doctors recommended terminating the pregnancy. As I lay there on that cold bed, unable to feel anything from my waste down, uncertain if I would ever walk again, I had a choice to make. My convictions and beliefs made the decision not to terminate easy, but the hard reality of my circumstances impressed upon me a fear and doubt like no other.

The enemy attacked me with thoughts like, “Maybe God has chosen me to birth my babies and created another woman to raise them?” To make matters worse, I tried to lean on Christ and then people dear to me would remark, “Is it really worth this childʼs life?”

I was under attack.

Do not fearRC (1)And I had to view it as a spiritual battle. I made a choice to see that God had an amazing purpose and plan for my son… so much so that satan already wanted him dead. That really motivated and inspired me.

After coming home from the hospital I remained on bed rest for another 3 months, through part of my first and second trimesters. The emotional turmoil I experienced during this season in my life was unlike any other. I felt like a failure as a mom. I couldnʼt even change diapers and put my baby in his crib.

Was it really Godʼs plan that we have so many children? I questioned it all. But an older woman in my church encouraged me. She said, “Sometimes the trials we experience are not just about the lessons we have to learn, but are meant for the edification and growth of others in our life as well.”

She was right!

Though I endured pain, I never once regretted it. I never once wished we werenʼt pregnant. I did however, beg and plead with God to remove this cup of pain from me, to heal me. But that was not His will for my life in that season. He had a different plan.

You have a story, and if you choose to allow God to use you and your circumstances to glorify Him, I believe you will experience healing from your pain. Once you partner with Christ through allowing Him to do the sanctifying work in you… He redeems that experience, that circumstance, that hurt.

You see, I feel inadequate to minister to those who have had miscarriages and infertility… so I often donʼt try. But when I do, when I get real and share the yucky hard realities of what others are dealing with and experiencing both in  circumstances and in their hearts, it is then that God grows me and I become more like Him.

Let us all encourage and edify one another in Christ. And may we be an example to the world of what it should look like to be a part of the body of Christ.

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Angie @ RedeemingChildbirth.comAuthor Bio: Angie is married to Isaac Tolpin, Mom of 6, and lives in the Pacific NW on their small hobby vineyard {which they planted to teach work ethic to their children}! You can find Angie writing about Motherhood, Marriage and Faith on her website Leaving a Legacy {angietolpin.com} and manages RedeemingChildbirth.com.

You can find her online here:

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Angie has graciously offered you all a chance to win a free signed copy of Redeeming Childbirth: Experiencing His Presence in Pregnancy, Labor and Birth. 

To enter the giveaway, click through the link below:

Redeeming Childbirth giveaway

The giveaway will close Saturday, May 4th.

 

The God Who Eats With Sinners

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My great-Uncle Carl died this past week.  In so many ways, I barely knew him. All my life I’ve heard stories of Charlotte, his wife and my grandmother’s younger sister, but there haven’t been too many about him and my memories are few.

I remember mornings at Lloyds for coffee, every time we came to visit.

I remember going to see him at Brookside, the assisted living facility in our town, and hearing him mention World War II. He didn’t say but a few words. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized he was a veteran. Later I pestered my mother and grandmother for details. They said they didn’t know much, he didn’t like to talk about it.

He participated in the liberation of Dachau, Germany. They said his eyes would cloud when he spoke of the concentration camp. So much suffering. He did not speak of it, even to his wife, for many years.

With Uncle Carl’s death came a lot of other memories. Memories of Grandpa, who died 6 years ago now.

Six long, long years.

I miss him.

Grandma said that Grandpa was exempt from the draft because he was needed to run the farm. He offered to go but the war was almost over anyway. So he stayed and ran the farm and raised his children. Eventually, after 6 rough and tumble boys, they had a daughter. My mama.

The one thing I wish I could change in life is the fact that my husband never met my Grandfather. Amos and I had our first date when I was back in the United States for Grandfather’s funeral. I’ve often wished he could have met him, just once.

Then this past week Amos came home from work and started telling me about his trip to Harrisville. Another great-Uncle needed some work done on a tractor in the sugar bush, so my husband drove down with him.

“We talked about your Grandpa,” Amos said, “Don told me a lot of stories. He told me about when your Grandfather found Jesus.”

I sat beside my husband and cried.

Because you see, Grandpa didn’t really find the Lord until he was almost fifty. He had lived a “good” life but he didn’t know Jesus…until God met him.

And that’s the part that makes me cry with joy.

God met him. 

In the middle of everyday life, the King of the Universe came down and took the time to reveal himself to my Grandpa.

Uncle Don told my husband about the day that Grandpa came to him and said, ”It’s true. Everything I’ve heard about Jesus is true. He’s real.”

I only ever knew Grandpa as a solid Christian man who spoke with gentleness and boldness. One who would hold my face in his hands and say, “I’m so, so glad, Natasha, that you know Jesus.”

He did that more than once and I can still feel his hands and hear his voice. I remember him praying for me and for all his children and grandchildren. He would pray with hands shaking, begging God to show Himself to each and every one of us. 

I’m so glad that Grandpa lived Jesus in my life. Because I found the God who comes right down and eats meals with sinners and touches lives with grace and meets the lost, the broken, the deaf, the blind, the hungry. The God who created and loves me.

Death always brings life into clearer focus.

I don’t want my life to be just something I live. I want to leave memories like my Grandfather did. I may never have children to speak truth into, in which case, I will never have grandchildren to bless, but I can still do it.

I can still breathe Jesus onto the hurting. I can still hold my niece’s face in my hands and say, “I am so, so glad that you know Jesus.” 

Because I am.

Because He didn’t just meet with my Grandpa, He met with me too.

The God who ate with sinners.

life bread

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bread

At this very moment it is dark outside and snow is sprinkling down. Soft white flakes that glisten and sparkle when the porch light hits them. I just set the bread to rise for supper. One loaf will be for tomorrow and another is a cheesy garlic onion concoction that will be eaten this evening with spaghetti squash casserole.

This afternoon, as I mixed the batch of bread dough, I was lost in thought. I remember a time when I could only get the bread to turn out when I followed the recipe perfectly. Measuring. Careful counting. How hot was the water supposed to be again? I would yell questions to my Papa as he sat in the living room reading.

Then over time, it changed. I knew the texture of bread. I knew the amount of yeast per cup of flour. I experimented with all kinds of interesting ingredients. Lentils. Kidney beans. Sprouts. White whole wheat. Fresh ground wheat. Spelt. Soaked grains. This and that made its way into my bread. I never followed a recipe because I didn’t need one.

I could tell by the smell, by the feel of it- if it was going to turn out. Sometimes I would be kneading and realize, It’s not going to rise. And my plans would change. Pizza for dinner.

After I got married, I listened to my husband as he sampled each loaf. He likes the kind with a quarter cup of honey instead of two tablespoons. He doesn’t mind the lentils or kidney beans but despises the millet. (Of course, he doesn’t know what each thing is. I never tell anyone who is eating my bread that there are kidney beans in there!)

There is something earthy about making bread. The realization that people have been doing this for centuries. The closeness to the Biblical accounts about bread and yeast. 

The kingdom of heaven is like yeast
that a woman took and mixed into
about sixty pounds of flour
until it worked all through the dough.”
Matthew 13:33

The Kingdom of Heaven is like yeast… What a concept! I want to know Jesus and His kingdom the way that I know bread. When I touch life, I want to know what’s missing, what’s needed—what the point is. Most of all, I want to be the good yeast. The part that makes things rise and grow and be more of what God created them to be.

Jesus also spoke many times about “watching” for the yeast of the Pharisees. Just a little bit affects a lot. Words and actions that are contrary to God’s truth can spread just as quickly and work their way into and around—making a sorry mess out of things that are meant to be beautiful.

As I was kneading the bread, turning, working, pounding—I was also praying. Asking God to put His kingdom inside me. So that when I affect things around me (for I will) my gift is more of His Kingdom, more of His truth. Oh, God. Keep me from the lies. Pour truth into me and through me and let my life reflect You.

Then Jesus declared,“I am the bread of life.
Whoever comes to me will never go hungry,
and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”
John 6:35

life bread @natashametzler

edited re-post

the year I stopped being a proper-church-attender and learned to just be with God

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I always loved Sunday mornings. Up early, my hair pinned and primped with frizz tamed. Long skirts that flowed around my ankles or knee-length ones, paired with colored tights and high heels. It was often the only day of the week that I wore makeup, not overly done but a bit of eyeliner and face powder to make myself presentable.

I loved seeing friends and family, singing, playing piano, talking for hours after the service…

Yet, somewhere in the turning of time a sliver of something ugly began to creep into my heart. In the midst of a society that was quickly becoming more and more relaxed in dress and interaction, I knew how to look and act acceptable. I became a proper-church-attender.

Oh, how I cringe at that truth.

I was always presentable. I always looked proper. I always sang the right notes and talked to the right people. I did everything right but something was very, very wrong.

Soon I was working full-time and doing ministry full-time. Tired is a pretty accurate word to describe that period of my life. I quickly learned that Sunday had to be a day of rest… but I had conditioned myself to make it a day of presentation.

I wanted to look and act how I thought in my head that everyone should look and act. But I no longer had the strength or fortitude to continue.  I was tired of dressing up.

I mean that  figuratively but also physically. I dressed up for work and then went directly into ministry-mode and spent all day in heels and pantyhose with my hair pinned up. I was exhausted and was sorely tempted to just start skipping church all together, even though I knew, so clearly, what Scripture says about not giving up meeting together.

I was wore right thin and when I went to God and said, “I can’t handle this much longer.” He told me a very interesting thing.

“Stop dressing up, Tasha, and just be with Me.“

For an entire year I wore jeans and a hoody sweatshirt to church. Comfortable. Soft. I wore slip on shoes and spent most of my time out of them.

It wasn’t about what I wore or didn’t wear at church. It was about stopping the presentation and stopping the sinful pride that had crept into my heart. It was about giving up my picture-perfect ideal and settling into the reality.

Reality was that I needed a day of softness and dressing down and just being with God. It was a time of soaking in tight and worshiping with abandon and giving up on any pretense of “looking right” and just leaning hard into Christ and my base need of redemption and grace.

It was the year I learned to be with God, right at church. Which might seem like a no-brainer, but for this church-attender-since-before-my-birth, it wasn’t.

I sat quiet in the back row, after a lifetime of front row sitting, and closed my eyes tight and only sang the songs that I believed in. I kicked off my shoes at the door, curled up with my feet under me on the bench, and prayed prayers of devotion and love to my God during the service.

I stopped teaching, stopped singing or playing piano on the worship team. I retreated, far back, and used Sunday mornings as a time to breath deep.

Sometimes I even left. Slipped out softly and walked the streets of town, stopping to talk to people sitting on their porches or walking the same sidewalk as I. Often our conversation turned to the Creator and I was humbled right quiet by the holy worship I heard from these random people whose names I never learned.

Other times I would hide under the big apple tree in the church’s side yard and lean my head back, watching the way the tree limbs moved in the breeze.

I lived out the year and I built an altar. One of jeans and hoody sweatshirts and barefoot toes on the church carpet. One of softness and closeness and a God who whispers gentleness into my quiet moments.

He is a God who brings peace and rest into the midst of our busyness. And I had allowed my desire for approval from men to close my ears to His grace. How thankful I am that He never gives up on me.

I try to return to that altar at times. I leave my elegant skirts and colored tights and high heeled shoes at home. I slip into jeans or a hoody and break the mold of dressing up for Sunday mornings. Not out of disrespect for God, or as a judgement to anyone, but simply as a reminder of the time when I learned deep that God doesn’t look at outward appearance. He looks at the heart.

And what He desires most is a heart that is willing to stop the madness of presentation
and simply be with Him. 

I Samuel 16:7

one thing you can do when it feels like control has been ripped from your grasp

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Living in Haiti brought all kinds of challenges. Learning how to stand on my own two feet in another culture was a lesson all in itself. One that was much harder than I anticipated!

I am a giver– In other words, I give way long before I stand firm. Literally. In Haiti, people will push (without malice) and crowd and my tendency is to take three steps back and give whatever they ask. At times, this left me standing at the side of the road while my husband accidentally drove off without me.

Oh, how he scolded when this would happen. “Hold your ground,” he would say in frustration, “tell them no! and don’t let go of the vehicle.”

Nice idea but not very applicable when it goes against the very grain of my existence.

Finally, he gave up lecturing me and turned on them. I was slightly behind in my Creole-speaking abilities but I caught the gist, You are all personally responsible to make sure my wife is taken care of when we are going places. You will not push her, squish her or otherwise cause her to move away from a secure place. She is my WIFE. I will not drive your ambulance or run your errands if I have to worry about her being knocked off the vehicle.

Turns out that worked pretty well.

Willim and Arnold, teenage boys who hung around the mission regularly, made it their personal responsibility to take care of me on trips. They stood on both sides and pushed others away. I thought they were a little rude. My husband thanked them and actually paid them money for the fine job they did.

But even I hit a cutoff point eventually.

It was during church (which grated me to the core) that someone walked by my kitchen window, sliced through my screen and stole… my dish soap.

And I cried. Huge blistering tears.

I could try and defend my over-reaction… after all, it was rather hard to come by dish soap. The Haitians in that area use mostly ivory bar soap to wash their dishes and it was this one luxury that I insisted on. And trust me, I didn’t insist on much! It was this silly thing that kept Haiti from being completely foreign and difficult.

And, we didn’t have money to buy more. We kept ourselves on a strict budget and gave away all the extra of the allowance the mission provided for food and monthly expenses. I know the Haitians could not understand that we were literally living broke, our personal income barely covering the expenses back home, but I sure knew it.

But the truth is that it was just dish soap. 

Somewhere in the middle of my tears, I felt the Lord speak. He just asked this question but it left me wrapped tight inside.

Tasha, why are you so injured by this event?

It took awhile for me to understand the reason. It wasn’t the dish soap, as nice as it was to have it. It wasn’t the inability to buy more for the next two weeks. It was the feeling of lost control. 

I had stiffened my back at being pushed out of the vehicle more times than I could count. I was used to the eyes watching me every minute, even while I was in my own house. I adapted well to the climate, to the social changes… but this broke a line that I had unknowingly set: this thief stole more than just my dish soap, he or she had stolen my ability to control what was sitting in my own house. 

And with this realization came a deeper, truer, more difficult reality:

I was withholding control from God. Still. 

I had left my home, gave up my job and my friends and my family– claiming so strongly that I was giving all control to Christ– but I was still withholding. Still clinging tight to my rights to control my own life.

And there is only one thing to do when your eyes are opened to such startling facts:

Wipe the tears of self-pity and kneel.

Of all the lessons I learned while living in Haiti, I think this was the most practical.

I lose control of life all the time. It is constantly, repeatedly, ripped from my grasp. Each and every time my mind flashes back to my sobs over dish soap and the feeling of those tile floors when I knelt in my kitchen and surrendered again.

Because the only way to regain control is to surrender. 

When You Lose Control of Your Life @natashametzler

when dirty floors meet grace

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when dirty floors meet grace @natashametzler

When the ladies group ended and I left that night, I had to push down this wild envy that took over my heart. Glistening floors. They had sparkled at me through the meeting and I had to keep pulling my attention back to the subject at hand. Oh, how I desired to have such beautifully clean floors. 

I was determined to do a better job at this particular chore. How did they get so dirty anyway? I didn’t even have children!

The next morning, after barn chores, I set to scrubbing. When I was done I felt a measure of satisfaction. Now, just to maintain!

It wasn’t too many minutes later that a knock sounded at the door. An older neighbor was stopping by to see my husband so I invited him in and turned to go back to washing dishes.

“Come in,” my husband said, “have a seat.”

“No, no,” the man answered, “I don’t want to get your wife’s floor dirty.”

I heard myself saying, “Oh, my! Don’t worry about floors. They clean up.” And it dawned on me; this was how my floors got dirty.

Five different men came through my kitchen that morning. None of them took off their big lace-up work boots. All of them drank a cup or two of coffee. They all heard the gospel, right there at my kitchen table while mud and snow dripped off their boots.

My husband’s words painted pictures of a dirty messy cross and my floors were graced with muddy footprints.

One man turned to me as he left, “Sorry about your floors, ma’am.”

I shrugged and smiled, “No big deal. They’re just floors. Made to walk on.” And I believed it.

But later is occurred to me that maybe they were more than that. Maybe my floors were something I could use to extend grace. These men who trudge through mud and muck, working from sun-up to sun-down—don’t they need grace, just as I do? And I can offer it by allowing them to keep their boots on. And maybe, as I am wiping up mud after they are gone, this, for me, is a version of washing feet?

Sometimes I still flush in embarrassment when women are there, when I imagine I see a disapproving glance from the corner of an eye.  I want everyone to think that I’m put-together and capable of everything.

But I’m not.

I can’t maintain glistening floors and an atmosphere of grace to the men that my husband is called to share the gospel with.

Maybe someday. But not today.

So for now; I make pots of coffee, offer sugar and creamer and pray unceasingly for the souls at my kitchen table.  And my dirty floors don’t cause me to be envious anymore.

I kind of like them, actually. 



edited repost

the language of spring

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A few weeks ago the sun was shining bright. Green grass peeked out from a midst the leftover chucks of icy snow. Mud puddles littered the driveway and the wood stove sat cold and unneeded.

Then in one blustery stormy night spring was wiped out.

Snow piled high, high. Puddles hardened into ice that crunched under my feet. The barn, where windows had been opened and the cattle grew restless for fresh grass, froze solid and hard. We lugged buckets of hot water to pour over the water bowls, wild attempts at breaking through the frozen pipes to allow the animals to drink their fill.

As the weeks passed and the cold filtered into the house and into my toes, it began to feel like spring would never return.

Have you ever felt that way? Like winter has settled strong and hard in your soul and spring is forever out of reach?

And what happens when you get a glimpse of sunlight? Of warmth and sweetness and bright days? And then, as suddenly as the glimpse appears, it is gone. Wiped away and lost in snow storms and frozen dreams.

I’ve been feeling that way. Like the weather is just a reflection of my soul condition and I live in this terrible fear that maybe, maybe spring will never come. Maybe this winter will last forever. 

I went for a walk today. The littlest munchkin toddling alongside as we journeyed down the highway to deliver a book to the neighbor. We bundled up tight in snowpants and hats and mittens. He pulled on his little froggie boots, his feet wrapped in wool socks. We dressed to fight the cold and walked right through that bitter wind and the piles of grey clouds that blocked the sun.

It wasn’t until we were walking home that I was hushed still. I swooped him into my arms and whispered, “Listen!” There where the creek sat frozen and snow clung to the banks, I could hear it. Underneath the ice the stream was rushing madly. Bubbling and gurgling over rocks and around icy clumps. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it clear and strong.

The baby giggled in my arms and I sighed.

It was Narnia and the trees were whispering, “Aslan is on the move.“

Winter can’t keep spring away forever.

Are you feeling like winter has taken residence in your soul? There is a glorious promise and hope for even today. Winter will pass. 

Song of Solomon 2:12