Prayers With a Good Aim

One facet of the internet I appreciate is that sometimes you follow a new link and find an unexpected story you love, like this one:

I am inspired by Scott Smiley's resiliency, perseverance, and "no quit in him" attitude. I loved this couple's commitment to each other. I rejoice in their evident joy. Above all, I was inspired by his wife who prayed for her husband. Tiffany had the wisdom to stop praying about her husband's disability, his blindness, and pray for the single most important thing - his heart. I remember the words of Thomas Watson, from Saturday's post on prayer,  "Prayers which lack a good aim, lack a good answer." God has given her a good answer to her prayers.

I want to be a wife and mother who prays in the same way, with a good aim and a good answer.

Not a Drab Life

     In the seventeenth century you could use the word drab as a noun in a sentence.  You could have said, "His companions were drabs."  It wouldn't have been a very nice thing to say.  Noah Webster's 1828 dictionary lists this meaning as the first definitions of the word, a low sluttish woman.  The etymology of the word suggests it came into English from Gaelic "drabog" meaning "a dirty woman."
     Our modern meaning of drab, simply a dull color, used to imply the color of undyed cloth and came into English from the French word "drap," meaning a piece of cloth.  Think of the word "drape," it has the same roots.  Clearly they're two entirely unconnected words,except that they share the misfortune of being constructed of the same phonemes.  There's nothing wrong with a drab color, I often wear clothing of drab colors, preferring them to colors bold and attention grabbing.
     But just for fun, for a moment, take a liberty with the language, and let them be connected in your mind.  As a stay at home mom I often have nothing of interest to chat about on the phone with family.  My days seem boring, and sometimes I am bored living out my day from morning til night.  (I know, too, plenty of working women could say a lot about how dull the job is day after day after day.)  I listen to the lies that any woman can run a vacuum cleaner, as if that is what my life is all about.  I wonder if my husband might find a career woman fascinating, full of goals and ambition and a lot to talk about.  I ask him, and he faithfully reassures me that's not the case.  I know I'm not alone in this.  I know other women, thoroughly convicted that they've chosen important work, family work, feel the same way, and it affects our feeling of worth.  We know the objective truth about the value of children and the importance of loving your husband, but to let that truth genuinely direct our feelings is a difficult task.  Our life feels drab, an undyed life, lacking in color or beauty.
     A faithful wife is not drab, or a drab, to bring in the earlier meaning of the word.  Proverbs tells us an excellent, noble wife is worth far more than rubies.  An excellent wife is a jewel her husband will proudly admire and display as his greatest treasure.  Our life as a wife and mother is rich in color and beauty, with facets that reflect back the light of the Savior.  The noble in scripture wore cloth of Tyrian purple.  The family of the Proverbs 31 woman wore cloth of scarlet.  The wedding garments of Christ's bride are of a brilliant white.  Christ's calling is not to an undyed life and a drab existence, but to something much more, a life of richness beyond measure.

An Eye for Love

     Bryan and I have been married 15 years.  Before that we dated for 2 years.  He's had 17 Valentine's Day opportunities.  How many of those opportunities have I decided he's wasted, for lack of thought or effort, disappointing me?  He's not a dreamy romantic.  He's not a flashy spender.  He's not a foodie.  All these years I've spent waiting...waiting for the Valentine of my dreams.
     Bryan is the man of my dreams.  Those thrilling, blood rushing, heart pounding joys of just holding his hand have settled.  They've settled into a steady, dependable, deeper love.  I pray, often, to love him more.  That God would make up the love I lack in my heart.  And today I thought, I need to look harder for Valentine gifts, the gifts of love scattered through the ordinary.
     Bryan has a few plans for Valentine's Day.  This weekend I'm not looking for roses on the table.  I'm not waiting for his heart poured out in poetry.  I'm not expecting diamonds or pearls, and certainly not hearts crafted in gold (because I probably wouldn't really like that anyway).  I won't be disappointed that I don't have to dress for dinner.
     I want to teach my heart to see that love is his hand on my back in the kitchen, he hasn't forgotten me in the rush.  Love is Bryan stretching out, warming my side of the bed before I get in, thinking of me.  Love is folded towels, unexpectedly neat on the dryer.  Love is a child he quietly corrects when I want to throw up my hands and roll my eyes.  Love is playing my favorite game, for the thousandth time, pretending he's having fun.  Love is stopping by Starbucks when I haven't even hinted, or whined, or asked, or begged, or cajoled, or bargained.
     In Isaiah 41:20 God says eyes of faith need training to see Him acting in love as well,

That they may see and recognize,

And consider and gain insight as well,

That the hand of the LORD has done this,

And the Holy One of Israel has created it.

     If we think our heart sees what our eyes see, we're mistaken.  Our eyes can look long on the world and not recognize the hand of God.  Faith looks around and carefully considers how a good God is working and the heart gains insight.  

      Like Valentine's Day.  If I think a red rose is the only proof of love, I'm mistaken.  I can't recognize love laid out before me.  I'm looking today with an eye for love, love of a man and the love of my God.

Love's Labor

     Over all we have a fairly traditional division of labor at house.  Bryan mows the grass and does small plumbing repairs.  I mop the floors and clean those same toilets.  (We're not militant about it.  Our daughter mows and installs dead bolts.  Our son does laundry and dishes every day.)  We didn't plan it out on paper, but as we developed our rhythms of living together we each have certain traditional tasks we perform and some that we do together.  If Bryan is home and I'm cooking dinner, he's almost always in the kitchen.  He's not a great cook, but he's a fine sous chef and a good dish washer as well.  But he finds his way to the kitchen because I'm there and even after fifteen years of marriage we still enjoy being in the same room.
     Every once in a while I like to surprise him.  I wrangle the mower out from behind the bikes in the shed and mow the lawn when it's a little long and I know it's been bothering him.  Or when he's overwhelmed at work and comes home exhausted all week and the bank statements show up, I'll balance the checkbook for him.  If I have the ability and the skill, and extra time in my day, I like to show a little love and bear the burdens of life with him.  He'll do the same for me.  I'm the laundry folder here, but when he sees three baskets of unfolded clothes it's a visual cue that I'm overwhelmed and without being asked he'll help me out.  Or there was one afternoon I was gone and asked if he and Ally would start pizza.  I came home to rowdy music, pizza started, toppings all chopped, kitchen counters completely cleaned off, and he was moving appliances and cleaning underneath them (I'm still impressed).  It's love, a kind of love willing to sacrifice a little free time for the sake of the other.
     Now don't get hung up on the specifics.  No excuses like "I'm allergic to grass and can't mow" or "I haven't balanced a checkbook once in my life."  Do the work of applying this to your own life.  I'm going to recommend taking time to do something for your husband (or parents - if you're not married) that normally isn't your job.  Not all the time, then it would be your job, not theirs.  Just once in a while.  Even if your husband isn't the kind of man to do it for you, you can still be that kind of woman.  Say without words, "I love you enough to inconvenience myself.  I love you til it hurts."

Nomenclator

     Naming our four children wasn't easy for us.  My favorites, Annika and Silas, were soundly rejected by Bryan.  We both loved Emma, yet you won't find an Emma in our house.  You will find Kara.  Her name wasn't on a list at all; it belonged to her all in an instant.
     Naming a blog was easier, but brought back memories of all the pressures inherent in naming.  You want a name to express so much, to encompass who you are and a whole host of  future hopes.
     My favorite idea is already taken, and I was hung up on that for awhile.  How could I go on when the perfect name was already taken?  I moved on to Psalm 84 and the idea of a swallow nesting by the altars of God.  But the name just wasn't coming and discussion degenerated into phrases like, "Surely goodness and lovingkindness will swallow me all the days of my life."  We moved on to Isaiah 44 and poplars by streams of water.  Blossoming Poplar was floated, which I liked, liking Tulip Poplar trees, but had to pass on because I didn't want the name to exalt my own life.  Someone else needs to be exalted here.
    Sam was an idea factory.  Running Rabbit, except I don't have much to do with rabbits.  Anything to do with rabbits.  Or Homeschooler at Large, except I want to write about a fair bit more than just homeschooling.
     In the end it was Bryan who named the blog.  He was the perfect winner.  He has been the encourager.  The force moving me to act and stop thinking.  That his idea sits in the header is absolutely right.  It proves how well he knows me and what I want in life.
     A nomenclator is one who assigns names.  It is from the Latin, literally a slave reminding his master of  names of the people they meet.  Except, of course, he's not my slave.  But we walk together and whisper those quiet words of assistance in the other's ear.  Bryan, the nomenclator.