How Does Salt Lose Its Saltiness?

It’s 2 pm on a weekday and I’m driving to Walmart. I have a list of groceries, and an hour to myself. It’s been a week since Mike completed field training. He is a cop. This is our life now—crazy schedule included. There’s the budget that we just can’t seem to meet. The house we wish we owned. The longing to establish some kind of routine for my kids. The college fund that hasn’t been set up. The hand-me-down couch. The two cars that are both over ten years old. The door I wish I had a fall wreath for.

A thousand ways to be distracted. A thousand things that seem necessary.

And yet, I can’t shake the story I read yesterday. The headline: “A Global Slaughter of Christians but America’s Churches Stay Silent.” And inside the article: the story of one woman, Rasha, who called her fiancé’s, Atef’s, phone. Instead of hearing the voice of the one she loves, an unfamiliar voice told her that Atef’s throat was slit for refusing to convert to Islam. Before that voice ends the conversation, he mocks her with these words: “Jesus didn’t come to save [Atef].”

Atef lived in the reality that he would have a choice, to deny Christ or to live for him. A choice that might cost him his life.

A choice he made at knife-point.

And really, I have that same choice every day. That decision might not cost me my life… but it might cost me my soul. Will I deny Christ?

The decision is subtle here between Newport Beach and the Hamptons with our strip malls and freedoms, where we sing of blurred lines and how we can’t stop and we won’t stop. Where there is worry about housing prices and the job market and the government shutdown… will I deny Christ or live knowing that He is my Daily Bread? Where I get wrapped up in schedules and how my life has changed… will I deny Christ or live knowing Him as my Center, my Constant? Where there are things like Miley Cyrus spinning out of control and whether transgender should be allowed to choose which locker-room they prefer… will I deny Christ or live knowing the God who IS Love? Will I live distracted? Will I live for stuff? Will I hide my head under a pillow and pretend there aren’t Christians who are being martyred and imprisoned daily because that reality is terrifying?

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This Saturday we went to an evening service. The pastor spoke on salt and light. In the passage Jesus poses this question: “If salt has lost its saltiness, what good is it?” (Matthew 5:13)

How does salt lose its saltiness?

I think Jesus was intentionally asking something that would baffle. Salt doesn’t lose flavor. It isn’t natural or normal, just like light doesn’t fail to change a dark room. So what is a Christian that denies Christ? That doesn’t change their environment? That doesn’t make someone thirsty for the only One who really satisfies? That doesn’t live in the reality of who Jesus is and what He promised He’d do?

Syria seems like a hard place to be a Christian right now, but I think America might be harder.

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As I was driving feeling both convicted and burdened for my brothers and sisters on the other side of the planet, I turned up some Delirious.

“My heart, it burns for You. And my heart burns for You.”

I belted those words through stinging hot tears, as though my words could be the fireplace poker awakening a barely-smoldering fire. My heart burns for You. Not for stuff. Not for home-ownership. Not for an earlier bed-time or better routine. Not for stability. But You. The desire of You. The holy pursuit of friendship with You.

Just give me Jesus.

I don’t want to live denying Christ. I want to live like He’s changed me to my very core… because He has.

I arrived at two conclusions today:

1. I have no idea what the proper response of the American church is to the slaughter of Christians in Egypt, Kenya, Pakistan, and Syria. But I do believe prayer is the one clear thing we can do… the one clear thing we are called to do.

2. The only way to make it as a Christian in America is to realize we are deciding whether or not to deny Christ everyday. Perhaps this a simple truth, but I do believe we need to meet with God daily… to burn. To light the fire afresh. To burn away the cares of this world, the distractions, and remember the one thing that really matters: Knowing Jesus. Not knowing about Him. But Knowing Him as friend.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Here’s that Delirious song, Obsession:

Linking up with the #TellHisStory community

Hide It Under a Bushel.

Yesterday I had one of those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.

You know the ones: you run behind for the first day of something, and you promised yourself you would be on time. You forget to put on deodorant. You drop your cell phone in the toilet. You blunder your way through a lesson for preschoolers in front of first-time parents. You notice the subtle signs that someone in your circle of friends probably doesn’t much care for you. You attempt small talk with a new friend and end up bringing up a painful topic that you really didn’t want to talk about, and all of sudden you feel incredibly awkward and embarrassed. You feel the sting of someone carelessly mentioning how they can’t believe anyone actually has the time to blog and, with all the other social media outlets, why anyone would want to.

Today, yesterday tormented me. Amanda who is terribly awkward and clumsy. Amanda who can’t do something simple like small-talk. Amanda who is still grieving. Amanda who is apparently hard to be around. Amanda who does weird things like make time to write on a blog. Amanda who actually thinks she could write a book.

So, here I am sitting outside of Starbucks, laptop out, tapping keys, unable to produce a decent thought because I worry about what people think of me and what I write. I am uncomfortable in my own skin. In my moment of self-deprecation, I glance over and my eyes catch the sight of fountaingrass dancing in the glow of the setting sun.  The foxtail ends look lit from within, fluttering about like fireflies through a sticky July dusk.

Immediately, I want to pull out my camera and capture it. And as soon as that thought enters, another one follows: busy street, busy Starbucks. People will see. People will think I am weird bent over with my average camera snapping pictures of a strip mall planter.

That moment presents me with a choice, the same one that presents itself everyday: to live worshiping my Creator with the passions He placed in my heart or to live stifled under the expectations of others.

Because really, if you are going to live lit up with your passions, people will notice. Worship calls out the greatness of the Creator. Worship reflects His greatness too.

The worshiper gets lit up like a foxtail in a setting summer sun.

Somedays, I feel awkward in this skin. The girl who desperately wants approval, who doesn’t want to color outside the lines of the housewife role, who doesn’t want to draw too much attention to herself because some of that attention might look like rejection... she picks on the girl who takes great delight in putting beauty within the four corners of a lens, who likes her big-frame glasses and her purple pants, and who somehow comes alive when she is organizing her words and thoughts on the screen of her laptop. She might even feel like sometimes her fingertip-to-key tapping is really a dance of passion between her heart and God’s.

And really, it's the fight of pride: to bring glory to oneself or to God. Self-glory looks to people for approval. God-glory seeks only God's approval. And isn't it strange how self-glory--how pride--wants to deny oneself of who they really are? And isn't is a grand thing that God delights in the very thing that brings us delight?

How will I live? How will you live?

Will you do your worship dance in the passion that lights you up… behind a camera, pen to paper, in front of a black board before little faces, hands to dirt raising plants from the ground, covering miles of nature trails in running shoes, touching paint to canvas, strumming guitar strings, singing, baking, cooking, creating, organizing…

Or will you worry what people will think?

And just like that, I push my chair back and walk toward dancing reeds and a glowing sun.

Here I am: awkward, silly, occasionally clumsy and learning to care less… learning to like God’s creation (me)… learning to worship.

I will not hide under a bushel of worry or expectations. Oh no, I am going to let it shine. 

Since I just gushed about some of my passions, I'd love it if you shared with me: what passions do you worship with? What makes you come alive? 

By Grace, 

Amanda Conquers

Psst... My beautiful inside-and-out friend Becky posted earlier this week on a similar topic. She addresses comparison and the reason why we as women sometimes hold back when it comes to our passions. It was well-written and pricked at my heart. You can find it---> HERE.

Sharing in this lovely community:

For Sunday Morning

This one’s for the single mom, the military spouse, the cop’s wife, the woman whose husband won’t go to church. This one’s for the woman who does the toothbrush, pajama, bedtime story, no-more-getting-out-of-bed-son routine all by herself and then wakes up on Sunday morning to get herself and her kids dressed, ready, and looking decent… and wearing matching shoes… also by herself.

This one’s for the woman who doesn’t have the luxury of applying her make-up in the passenger seat while someone else drives.

This one’s for the woman who took all three of her kids to 3 different Sunday school classes and survived one “no-I don’t-want-you-to-leave-me!” tantrum. This one’s for the woman who snuck in during the middle of the third song and sat down in the very back, the one for whom just making it is a victory in itself.

This one’s for the momma who feels small, like everyone notices that there is no man present and wonders about it.  This one’s for the momma who dreads the cue to “turn and greet somebody” because all you see is husbands and wives and this magical land of perfect families and you forget you belong here.

This one’s for the weary one, the bone-tired one desperate for a touch from God, the one who wants to sink into her pew when the minister talks about serving because just getting to church is really all you have to give.

This one’s for the one who overcomes temper tantrums, self-pity, lost mascara, missing shoes, slow drivers, and the worry that maybe you don’t fit in because you don’t look how you think church-goers should look. This one’s for the woman who puts her children above herself, the one who pushes back the lies of the enemy, the one who tries to be transparent, the one who chooses to live in community with other believers, the one who seeks after God’s face with all her heart. This one’s for the one who doesn’t always feel like being that woman.

This is for you.

This is for me too.

Maybe you need to know that it is really hard for me to get to church right now. Maybe you need to know you aren’t alone. Maybe you need to know that I see you. Maybe you need to know that the church is made of misfits, of broken, of sinners, and that the enemy would like nothing better than for you to think you don’t belong. Maybe you need to know that sometimes in this following-Christ life, the way we feel doesn’t match what God requires.

Do it anyways.

Do it for your children. Do it for your husband (or the one that may be in your future). Do it for yourself. Do it because it’s worship, because it’s sacrifice, and because it’s community… and all are important. Do it because the church needs your voice. Do it for the woman who is struggling to get to church too. Do it because you are keeping the enemy from getting the victory.

In this uncomfortable space, in this desperate and lonely place, I have seen God work in my heart. I have fallen deeper in love with Him. My sufficiency has decreased, so Christ’s very present and abundant grace has increased in my life.

Sometimes I feel like I barely have anything to give… what could I possible bring to the body of Christ? Tired, weary, barely wanting to go to church, and never making it on time… what do I have to give? And somehow in this place, God reminds me: Your salvation is free. And My love is yours. You cannot do anything to earn it.  You just have it.

My pride hates all that I am learning, but it’s kind of an amazing thing to behold.

God. Is. For. Me… and that truth cannot be shaken from me. I know know it.

I can hear His soft voice:

Rest in me. I have prepared a place for you.

And that raising children (and supporting your husband) business? That’s kind of a big deal.

And that mom who is sitting by herself? You know what it’s like to be her, go love on her for Me.

So maybe instead of closing with a question, how about I close with a challenge? How about you find someone at church today who is all by their lonesome and after you ask for their name and how they are, give them that look... you know, the you are welcome and you belong here and I don't really care what baggage you came with because I got some of my own too and how about we learn to follow Christ together look. (Is there such a look? I think there should be. :)) 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Retro Office-Classroom Space

We live in a two bedroom home. We chose this place because, well, our budget doesn't allow for us to rent anything larger than two bedrooms at the moment and because this place came with a little 10x9 bonus room. It has no door or closet, but it makes for the perfect office.

Now that we are homeschooling, I have to share my creative space with a classroom. 

So, armed with very little money, this woman set out to make the space a great learning environment and a place where I could retreat in the morning and evenings to pray, read and write.

I sorta love the way it turned out. 

The design plan started when my mom (who runs a thrift store) got a few desks in. I fell in love with the lines of the desk. They were solid wood, sturdy, were designed for two kids, and were completely retro.

I also found a mint paint chip that just seemed happy, energizing, and perfect for a retro classroom.

I used Glidden Minty Green in flat for the bottom of the desk and Glidden White Muslin in flat for the top.

My mom convinced me to try out chalk painting for distressing. I fell in love.

It was easy to make chalk paint. Easy to apply. Easy to distress. And the wax? Well, it is easy to apply too, easy to make your furniture look shabby and aged, and it feels like butter to the touch when you are done. (Are you catching the easy theme?)

We are almost two weeks into school and so far it's done a great job of holding up against crayons and two rough kids. If you like wood working or furniture restoration, I highly recommend looking into chalk painting.

Isn't she pretty?!

I found THESE free alphabet card printables and strung them up with yarn and mini clothespins. 

Addy really wanted to put the painted wooden butterfly, flower and crown in her space. I really didn't want to let her because they just didn't fit with my design scheme. But, you know, Addy is in this space and it needs to feel like home to her too. So I let her. :)

My mom had some of those old kitchen cabinet doors lying around in the thrift store... you know, the standard 90's-track-home oak kind? I turned one into a chalkboard. The frame got the same white and the same treatment as the desk and the inside was painted with actual chalkboard paint.

I thought I would use the board to teach from, but, as it turns out, it is a great way to keep little brother occupied.

My favorite part about using old cabinets (besides the free part)? We used the original hinges as our hardware! EASY! Plus, it seems to fit in with the retro theme. I added two pieces of those picture mounting Command Strips to the back to keep the kids from pulling the bottom of the chalkboard away from the wall and then releasing it to bang against the wall. Kids seem to like to make noise like that.

I used another cabinet door above my desk for a sign as a personal reminder to me.

I love the way it turned out.

It seems to be the phrase God keeps speaking to me... when I want Addy to just get through the school work and just magically understand the concepts... when I am wanting to go places with my writing and the kids need my attention... when the to-do list is long and I want to skip time in my Word and in prayer... when I am "running late" and hurrying and could completely miss the gifts in my day (and teach my kids how to miss them too)...

Walk Slowly.

My daughter asked me about what the sign said. Her response: "Oh. Like we aren't supposed to run in our classroom?"

{And momma grinned.}


I put a few more quotes up that I thought would help me as a homeschooler, a writer and a human in general.

I love this one: "The bravest love is wildly faithful and it falls hard again each morning." -Ann Voskamp

It reminds me to faithfully meet with, pay attention to, and love with my whole big heart my husband, my kids, and my Jesus even when I don't much feel like doing what love requires of me.

I got the free printable from HERE. I ended up changing the colors to suit my color scheme. (I may provide my printable version later... but I feel like I need to ask permission first because I didn't design it, I followed her design and made a few color and font changes.)


I used thrifted frames and chalk-painted them too.
Oh, and see that curtain fabric? MUSTACHE print!!! I didn't think I wanted mustaches in this space (or any space really), but this print just makes me happy, the scale of the print was right for the room, and it seemed retro. My daughter told me that she hates it, but then in the next sentence bursts out laughing,"It's just so silly, Mom. Mustaches are silly!"

I'm taking that as it being successful. Silly. Quirky. Happy. Retro.

And I am still laughing over the fact that I put mustaches in the space.

And sometimes you just need a laugh.

I have a feeling I am going to need to remember this quote from Anne of Green Gables: "Each day starts fresh with no mistakes in it." Marilla says this to Anne after Anne has a "Jonah Day."

I need this reminder often.

I picked this clock up at Hobby Lobby when it was on sale. It just seemed like it was made for my classroom/office.

Most important piece in this space:

Okay. So there you have it... my office, creative space, and homeschool classroom.



I'd love to hear what you think. 
Also, I'd love to hear the quote/scripture you would put in your office and/or classroom to prod you forward. I could use a few more good ones :)



By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

When You Ask "Why God?!," and Don't Get an Answer

I have had two miscarriages.

The first one was right before Addy. The pregnancy came as a surprise; we hadn’t been trying very hard to prevent pregnancy, but we weren’t actually “trying.” I found out very early on. We were so excited... SO excited that we ignored the rule that some follow of waiting till the doctor confirms the pregnancy. We just couldn’t contain our joy.

Less than a week after we told our parents, I began cramping. And no matter how I prayed and hoped against hope… I was miscarrying.

I was heartbroken.
But I am not sure "heartbroken" adequately describes feeling of a 1000 lb. weight crushing your innermost being, how it feels like a part of you dies and can never be recovered.

I spent a week laid up on the couch with the puffy eyes and a tissue mess around me. Then, I got off the couch and decided to focus all my efforts on getting pregnant again. A few months later, the pee stick gave me that extra pink line.

It was a hard pregnancy. I was terribly ill (as in I visited the ER when, in my 11^th week, I started throwing up blood because my esophagus was raw from throwing up so much. Yeah. That bad.) But the hardest part wasn’t the morning sickness. It was where I realized that as much as I thought the meaning in that miscarriage was discovering how much I wanted to be a mom… it wasn’t. I was pregnant still grieving the loss of the baby that would never be.

I wanted to give that miscarriage meaning. I wanted to be on the other side of grief. I thought another pregnancy would get me there.

And the hard truth: Sometimes in this life, our “Why GOD?!?!” questions just don’t get answered. And sometimes, as much as we would like to be on the other side of grief, grief is a process.

Sometimes it’s in wading those heavy waters with a hole in your heart as wide as the Grand Canyon that you find that even though the hole remains, God’s grace can fill even the widest chasm.

And really, it isn’t that I actually wanted to grasp the meaning in the losses… what I really wanted was to hold those babies in my hands. And I can’t. And I wrestle with it. While as much as it might seem meaning is the only thing that can bridge the gaping hole in the aftermath of loss… truth is, only faith can.

I think it’s in those moments of loss that we encounter the gap between our understanding and God’s ways. This side of heaven, things don’t always make sense… we see through the mirror dimly, peering through the mist (1 Corinthians 13:12). Real faith demands that we freefall… let go of our understanding and jump. God is good. God has a plan... even when I don't understand it. And the hardest reality to grasp: God loves us and has our best at heart. At some point in the freefall, faith catches us. Joy and peace are restored.

We fall in love. We fall INTO Love.



Saying a prayer this morning for all who mourn... Blessed are those who mourn, for they SHALL be comforted. (Matthew 5:4).



By Grace,
Amanda Conquers


Sharing here:

Eat Your Crust

Growing up, my grandparents lived ninety minutes away. Once a month, we'd make the trek to the Bay Area to visit. At dinner time, we’d sit at a small table—4 kids, two parents, and two grandparents. No matter how little the elbow room was, the table was always properly set: bread plate, salad bowl, and water glass on the right, above the knife.

At some point, every dinner around that table would consist of Andy, Kelly and me arguing over who got to use the one children’s plate with the little Pluto caricature printed on it, probably leftover from my uncle’s childhood. There would be conversations about Granny’s cooking, whether or not Gramps would make us watch the Lawrence Welk Show after dinner, and how picky of an eater I was.  

Gramps always led the mission to get me to eat everything on my plate. The Great Depression and hard times from my gramps’ childhood would never be mentioned. However, starving children in China might be brought up and so would my gramps’ and granny’s excellent health.

“I don’t know why you won’t eat everything here, Amanda. I eat everything your gran puts before me, and look at me, my health is great. 

I don’t think you realize how good you’ve got it.”

As I cringed through bites of things like baked salmon or tomato casserole, my gramps would notice the remains of a French bread slice on my plate. I had buttered my bread, consumed the soft insides and left crusty, bitter outsides behind.

“You know, Amanda. Crust gives you curly hair. You should eat your crusts. Wouldn’t you like curly hair?”

I did. 

As a child of the eighties, all I wanted in life was big hair and bangs—curled up high with a few wisps on my forehead.

I remember when my mom let me perm my hair in third grade, and I crossed my fingers for body and height and curls. The permanent did not live up to my expectations and fell out in a month’s time.

With hope for better tresses, I started eating my crusts. Religiously. I guess I thought the heat-kissed outsides of bread held some kind of hair-curling nutrient. I was in seventh grade brushing out my fine, straight hair when it occurred to me: I had been eating my crusts for years and still didn’t even have a wave. I’d been duped. Bread crusts having magic hair-curling properties was a myth just like tooth fairies, Santa Claus, and “don’t make that face or it’ll stay that way permanently.”

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As my gramps is living out his last days--hospice has been called, his body is shutting down, he has forgotten who each one of his grandkids are--I feel like I am grieving the loss of my granny, my childhood days spent at their house all over again along with grieving the loss of my gramps.

I am mourning the passing of a generation. As my parents become my grandparents and I become my parents, I marvel at the way time marches onward, and it does not stop.

Gramps, Granny and my dad. Circa 1952

When you leave this earth, you can’t take anything with you; you can only leave behind. I think it's in all of us to want to know that at the end of our life that we will leave behind something that's good, something that lasts, something that keeps getting passed on.

As I try to think of what it is my Gramps would pass on, I think of bread crusts. The way as a child I wanted to just eat the soft insides and avoid the bitterness and hardness of the crust. The way I didn’t want to eat what wasn’t pleasant.

Honest, sometimes I try to live my whole life that way. I open my hand to the beautiful wedding day, the snuggles and the I-love-you-to-the-moon-and-backs, the house and the backyard. But sometimes I want to close my hand to the hard: the hard parts in marriage, the temper tantrums in the grocery stores, the miscarriages, the job losses, the times of more month than money. I see the good stuff as a gift, but I fail to see the value in the hard stuff.

My grandparents were crust eaters. Overcomers. Hard workers. People who married for life even on the bad days. People who lived through wars and Depressions and things like the death of a grandchild, a disabling injury, and many cross country (even cross world) moves. They were people who knew the value of everything put on their plate.

They knew how good they had it.

(Left) My gramps and granny on their wedding day. Wasn't my gramps handsome?  (Right) circa 2003

To this day, I still eat my crust. And I am learning to “eat my crust” here where sometimes it’s hard and it doesn’t always make sense or seem fair.

I might not have curly hair, but I know how good I’ve got it.

Care to reminisce with me? What is one thing your grandparents always told you to do?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

A Strategy for the "Terrific" Twos (and maybe parenting in general)

My son is 2.

You know, that special time in a child’s life when they suddenly have a will of their own and use it every chance they get? Yeah. That.

Everything green on his plate will not be eaten, not even tried, maybe even thrown.

It will take no less than one hour from the time I tuck him in bed till he actually goes to sleep. (and on the rough nights… 2 hours.)

The bed will be gotten out of no less than 32 times.

No is his favorite word.

When I say it’s time to leave, there will be that sparkle of mischief before he takes off running in the opposite direction… and after I catch up to him, he may start kicking and yelling depending on how badly he wants to stay.

Parenting Jed is hard right now. There are days when I contemplate whether or not I should just cave and let him live off of chicken nuggets and goldfish and stay up till he falls asleep on the couch. It seems easier.

Discipline and consistency are not exactly easy. And some days, when you are with a toddler… progress is difficult to see.

 

And then I think of Addy. The other day we were wandering through the produce section of Costco. Addy points at the huge bag of asparagus and asks, “Mom, can we get that green stuff? I like it.”

I stopped in my tracks and perhaps looked a little more stunned than I should have. Play it cool, Mom. Play it cool. I smiled, “Why, yes. Yes, we can.”

It was like sparkles and a glowing light had descended upon us in that super store. Break through. Victory. Sweet fruit of my labors. Maybe it was in the simplest, most everyday-ordinary of ways, but we were overcomers.

My mind flashed to the 2 year old battles I had had with my picky, toe-headed daughter over the dinner table. I remember trying different tactics. I remember evenings of frustration. I remember wondering if I was going about it all wrong and if all this was really worth it. I knew I wanted a healthy child and a girl that would be brave enough to try new things.  

So I did it. I pressed forward. I drew my line in the sand. And it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t overnight. I am not exactly sure when the shift happened. I just know that now she eats a lot of what I put in front of her (save but her short list of foods she cannot stand no matter what. I can live with that. I have my own short list. Mushrooms are and always will be nasty nasty little things.)

Bedtime is no longer a battle with Addy. She knows my “momma means business” voice and acts accordingly. Sometimes I have to remind her I mean business, but it’s not daily, it’s not even weekly.

Addy brushes her teeth. She shampoos and conditions. She dresses herself. She goes to the potty all by herself. She picks up toys. She loves helping momma (and some of her “help” is actually helpful.)

At some point, Addy stopped being a toddler and became little girl. At some point, the discipline and wisdom took root in her heart.

All that hard work eventually paid off.

I need to remember this on the hard days. The strategy for the "terrific" 2's might not be profound or easy, but here it is: Keep at it, momma. Don't give up. Keep love first and foremost.  Do what’s best for your children in the long run and in light of eternity. Keep mold and shaping. Keep disciplining.

Change might creep in slowly so that you barely recognize it… until one day your child asks for green veggies and the light shines down on you and you look back and realize you’ve been making progress all along.

You’ve got this, momma.

The sweet rewards of hard work will soon be yours.

Does it help knowing that each child is different and what worked for the first will likely not work for the second? Yeah. Sorry. But, hey… motherhood is this glorious adventure in which we likely will not ever lose our need to lean on Jesus.

What would you add to this list? What are your current parenting battles?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers