Have you ever been in the woods in early morning, when the light is beginning to break through sky-high limbs?  The fog is dense, so much so that the rays of light are defined by it, streaking through as if you could wrap your hands around them.  The branches glisten with dew, heavy with the weight of each drop.  The birds are so loud they’re almost deafening.  If you stop and stand still, you realize that while it appears everything around you is motionless, truly nothing is.  The leaves lift as birds take off, bugs buzz and crawl, dew drips, the angles of the sun beams shift ever-so slightly.

While it’s few and far between that I have moments alone in the woods or moments of earsplitting silence, I’ve found that it’s in those places of stillness—in those places of solitude, in those places of quiet that I truly hear.

My mind has been buzzing lately—it’s buzzing when I don’t want it to, and it’s still when I’m seeming to need movement.  I came into this time of writing unsure of what it was I would scrawl out, yet there are so many unfinished thoughts and ideas welling up inside of me—changing me.

Do you ever feel like when you have the best intentions of being your best self, you end up falling on your face overwhelmed with disappointment and defeat?  It’s like when I finish a truly inspiring parenting book and then I have no idea what to do with my head-strong toddler.  Or after I just spent time in prayer for my husband that I can’t seem to engage meaningfully with him.  Or the moment I decide that I’m going to practice self-control that I feel most tempted to overeat.  Or when I vow to exercise four times each week that I only get one good workout in.

I made a decision this summer to take meaningful steps in the direction of growth, discipline, love and grace.  We all say we’re going to do one thing, and then end up doing another, and this is because whether we want to believe it or not, we are so very limited by our humanity.  And when it comes right down to it, we are most often our own worst enemies.  We listen to that little voice that tells us it’s not that big of a deal if we just skip the workout this once.  Or we listen to that voice when it says it’s not that big of a deal if we lose our temper a little bit when the bickering between the kids is constant.  Or we listen to that voice when it says it’s not that big of a deal if we make ourselves a batch of cookie dough when we said we were trying to eat healthier.  If we could all will ourselves to be perfect people, then there would be no need for the Holy Spirit.

When we first moved here, both of our kids were harassed by nightmares—ones that had them tossing around in bed, screaming, inconsolable. One night when Gabe was traveling, I was so concerned with Martell’s safety on his top bunk that I just laid my hand on him and said “Oh Jesus,” and immediately he took a deep breath, laid down, and went soundly back to sleep.

You guys, we need Jesus more than we’d like to believe.  I’ve been learning all over again that the fruits of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control are character traits that are born out of deep dependence on God—on “abiding in the vine.”  Gosh, and I’ve known this all along, but when I learn to lean into my weakness instead of choosing to fight it—I learn that the pride I’ve been so fiercely gripping is worth loosening my grasp on.  I can stop beating myself up in those moments of weakness, believing that I’m never going to grow—because guess who wants us tossing and turning, harassed not by our dreams, but when we’re wide awake, by none other but our own thoughts?  That’s right, the prince of lies.

And when I’m still, when I choose to slow down and pursue those places of quiet I get to hear Him more.  I don’t hear the audible voice of God, if you’re wondering, but what I always thought was a totally still silence is actually vibrant with motion and life.  The more I get near, and I search the scriptures, and I quiet my buzzing mind, I’m more able in the hot moments to receive His self-control.  The more I get on my knees in quiet, the more I’m able in the lazy moments to receive His kindness towards me and take steps out of unkindness to myself.  The more I lift up His name in moments of anxiety, the more I can sense His nearness and peace.  The more I turn my hands up to receive from Him, the more I’m able in angry moments to receive His patience for the kids.

I want to believe what’s true about me, instead of choosing to settle into the reality that I’m always going to be imperfect.  No.  I want to be better, more like Jesus everyday.  And the only way I can do that is to be with Him.  Not just in moments of earsplitting silence, but in moments that are loud with tantrums and temptations and stress and grief and hurt feelings and arguments—we can be with Him there.  All we need to whisper is, “Oh Jesus,” and guess who rushes to us armed with beams of light ready to push back the darkness?  That’s right, our King of Kings.