Tag Archives: grace

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

unmasking infertility

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Unmasking Infertility

She had twins. Beautiful little girls with tiny fingers and velvety skin. There was a time when she thought motherhood was forever lost to her and now daughters number 3 and 4 have joined the family.

I ache with the glory of it. God redeems and here is proof. Shimmering, exploding evidence of grace.

unmasking infertilityHolding the tiny bundles, I couldn’t help but remember almost eight years ago now, when news of another set of twins twisted my stomach. I sat alone and ached in pain at my sister-in-law’s ultrasound pictures. I cried at the feet of my God and said, Why does she receive the things I long for? 

His answer shook me to the core. I stared at the water and shivers danced my spine. The words were gentle, like a soft wave on the sand, and they reshaped me fully. “Would you rather I take her gift and give it to you?”

I recoiled at the picture of my selfish heart painted plain.

Never. I whispered and let the rocks fall from my hands. Ripples spread out to sea and something deep in me began to heal.

I will not yearn and reach for other’s stories. My brother’s twins were part of his redemption, not mine.

Then in Haiti. It was twin babies that were tossed into my arms. Malnourished, dirty babies. The mother, young and flippant, said to me, “Take them, I don’t need them.” I wanted to pull them tight to myself. I wanted to shake her silly. Instead, I gently washed and kissed seven-month -babies who were the size of newborns.

I wanted them to be the redemption of my pain. These beautiful children with brown eyes that lost their glaze and began to sparkle as their faces stretched into smiles over warm bottles of formula. But then I looked up at their father, standing there, now without a wife, offering his children not because he did not love them but because he did.

Before we left, when he offered them one last time, I turned the little boy in my arms to face him. “Look,” I said quietly, still aching but sure, “he knows you. He loves you. You are his papa.” As if on cue, the baby clapped his hands and smiled. “I could take him away but he would miss you. He needs you to be his father.”

The young man dripped tears and wrapped his son tight in his arms. He reached for his daughter and my husband let her go.

unmasking infertilityI will not reach and yearn for other’s stories. The babies were part of their father’s redemption, not mine. They were the means to make him stand tall and work hard. God was using them to mold and shape him into a father worth having.

I ache with the glory of it. For my brother. For this Haitian man. And now for my friend as well.

These twins are part of her story. And I will not long for her redemption– but I will delight in it with her. She bore and birthed two babies and I kiss them and squeeze their soft little toes and rejoice in a God who redeems every taste of sorrow.

And me? Can you not look back and see? God is still reshaping me. Unmasking the lies of infertility. Giving me glimpses of glory. And that, in itself, is redemption. 

I am in awe. And I wait in anticipation. God paints glorious masterpieces. The scarlet cord of redemption runs straight through history. And I trust that it will forever run through my life. 

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the hungry.

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Once upon a time there lived a man who owed his King a great amount of money. He was brought to court but when the King was about to send him to prison, the man fell on his face and begged for mercy. The King, touched, allowed him to go free.

The man left the courtroom and happened upon a gentleman who owed him a very small amount of money. He demanded payment and the gentleman fell on his face and begged mercy but the man refused. The gentleman was sent to prison and when word reached the King’s ears, the man was brought before him again.

“I offered you mercy but because you have not also given mercy, what you have will be taken away…”

taken from Matthew 18:21-35

“Wish he’d pay,” I mumbled to my husband, “I know it wouldn’t fix everything but it would sure help.”

My dear husband, who graciously forgives my often selfish greediness, touched my arm and said, “I’ve been where he is. As a Christian, I will not pressure him or fight for the money. In the end, it is all God’s and who am I to dictate how God distributes His resources?“

So it was that my husband invited the man to our house, served him coffee, told him that we wanted to help in any way we could, went through lists of places to look for work, and offered encouragement, hope.

He told the man of the Living Water, right there at my kitchen table, then backed up his words of grace with an offer of grace. 

I would have been the man who required payment from the broken and my husband, filled with the Holy Spirit and love, was the grace-giver, the Jesus-in-flesh.

And after the grace, after the hope, after the love-in-skin offered– the story came. Everyone has a story and the man, trusting grace, opened himself and offered his. It came out in razor sharp pieces. Memories of fears and hurts and horrendous tastes of evil. Of a six-year-old boy and a murdered mother and unanswered questions. The type of pain that leaves one gasping for breath and desperate for anything to heal. The type that can only be healed with an intimate knowledge of the cross of Jesus Christ. 

I took a deep, shuddering breath, whispering thankfulness to a God who has blessed me with a husband who has chosen to surrender himself to the leadership of the Holy Spirit.

I once promised myself that I would never miss the crying child for the angry man– but without the grace and leading of the Holy Spirit, I would have missed the hungry boy for the empty checkbook. 

Every single person you meet has a story. Do you know it? Are you “one of those who have turned away in disgust”? Are you withholding mercy {for the sake of such horrendous things as your checkbook} or are you living Jesus-in-flesh?

the one thing that will make every day better {with free printable}

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grace. when I’m offended.

grace. when expectations aren’t met.

grace. when there are differing opinions.

grace. when I’m wounded.

grace. when I’m lost.

grace. when I’m misunderstood.

grace. in every moment. everyday.

“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” Luke 12:48

I find myself teetering on the edge. Vile, unloving thoughts closing in. “I’ve given grace and grace and grace. Now it’s his turn!” And truth splinters across and the fire of conviction sears my skin. If I’m keeping track it isn’t real love.

“[love] keeps no record of wrongs.” I Corinthians 13:5

And if it isn’t real love– it cannot be grace.

grace. none of my sins are remembered.

grace. I can grow and change and leave behind my old self.

grace. I once was blind but now I see.

grace. this world and my sinful stumblings are not eternal.

grace. He is. 

Click on the image to download a free printable.

a scribbled note {from a bad day}

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I found it last night. I was trying to clean up the barn desk and this scrap of paper fell out. I had forgotten that day, completely, but I’m so thankful I scribbled the words on the back of the milk check stub. They made me stop and praise the God who makes the corn grow and the rain fall and grace pour out like rivers of living water. Maybe you can take a moment to praise Him too?

It was a bad day.

A tear-at-your-hair, I’m-going-insane, someone-just-knock-me-out kind of day.

The littlest one learned to say my name. It was darling a week ago but on this day? The two thousandth “Tata” made my nerves crackle. He is one snap away from me flipping out but thankfully he doesn’t have a clue.

Putting the cows in the barn is a nightmare. Push, shove, 3 in a stall. Really? What idiotic animals! I’m yanking on a halter and feeling thankful for every extra pound that clings to my hips as I throw myself backward to spin the fifteen hundred pound animal around. She comes and I fly onto the seat of my pants but at least her nose is headed the right direction. I swat at her and instead of soft hide, I hit the protruding hip bone and my hand screams in pain. Stupid. I grind my teeth to keep from yelling my frustration.

I forgot the scraps for the dog so I turn to race back to the house to get them. As I step outside every nerve ending tingles. It’s raining.

Hot, muggy, make-the-corn-grow kind of rain.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, feeling His presence as the whole day of frustrations wash away in the warm summer rain.

The brown grass under my feet seems to clap in thankfulness. My hands are lifting. My head bows.

I don’t know about tomorrow, but tonight, I know grace. 

when life gets hard

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Sometimes life clouds right up with hard.

I’m tired, there are kids whining and pulling at my skirt, there is paperwork than needs to be filled out, my husband is hungry and in a hurry, the bills are stacking up, my hair is frizzed out, my sister is moving too many miles away from me, there are bills to juggle and… well, the list could go on for quite some time.

I forget.

Over and over.

There is a God who longs to walk through every single moment with me. He cares about all the small details. When I drop my head and lift my  hands, saying again, “Lord, give me grace.” He answers. He is not alien to the feeling of being overwhelmed. He is not disappointed in my weakness– on the contrary!

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

2 Corinthians 12:9

God delights in meeting us right where we are. He rejoices in showing His strength, in pulling us from the depths.

The four little babies who came to visit me today are all snuggled in, softly snoring. There is music playing quietly. The Tug Hill breeze smells like fall. There are apples and cucumbers and huge juicy sweet cantaloupe covering my counters. Chai tea is heating on the stove, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon and ginger.

Grace and grace and more grace.

I wish I could plaster a sign to my forehead that says, “Have you asked God for grace today?” I need Him. Today. Tomorrow. The next day. New every morning.

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

2 Corinthians 12:9

Have you asked Him for grace today?

when {soul-stench} meets grace

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Screaming would help, I think. I glare at the bucket in my hands. Years of training help me set it down gently but everything in me wants to crash it against the wall.

Who feels graceful when they’ve been informed of failure? Who feels gentle when they’ve been wounded?

I walk out of the barn and just keep walking. Moonlit fields, over a hundred acres of them, call my name. Can I just stop being? Can I disappear into nothingness?

I finally stop. Lay down in cool grass. Stare at a sky with rushing clouds and a round full moon.

My protests quiet. My {self} shrinks back. Words from the book of Job seem to fling themselves from the heavens.

Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? 38:4

“Oh, God…” I whisper and he comes.

Gentle grace raining on a dew-covered sinner.

The moon shimmers. His voice admonishes. My heart surrenders.

He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness… I Cor. 4:5

Even in my own soul. Even in my own failures. His light will pierce and his Word will divide, like double edged sword, and pieces of me will be laid bare.

For he wounds, but he also binds up; he injures, but his hands also heal. Job 5:18

Am I willing? Part of me wants to curl up and withdraw.

If I keep soul-stench hidden in darkness does that make it stop eroding my insides?

Can I be made humble that he may be glorified?

What if His glory is what brings me healing?

I know the answers. I know truth. My hands run over the fresh green shoots of spring and hope refills the desperate places in me.

I know that I want Him more than anything else.

What about you?

Of Dirty Floors and Grace

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It was a sin.

I knew it was a sin but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

Glistening floors.

What a thing to stumble over! But stumble I did. I was envious of clean floors.

When the ladies group ended and I left that night, I was determined to do a better job at keeping my floors clean. 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. 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.

And all of them 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 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.  

[grace]

by

Depression Meets Grace

The morning sun rises
Soft and slow upon the eastern sky
Another day has come and my heart whispers
“Why?”
I want more than anything
To hide my face again
But God in his patience
Love and firmness
Pulls me from my self-consumed
Depression
To say…

Why are you hiding, O, Daughter of mine?
Why are you wishing
To escape this life?
I created you to face what is before
To walk, not alone, but with me guiding
To be a witness
Not of perfection
But of my infinite, matchless
Grace.