Author

Lois Flowers

How My Shortcomings Help Me Understand God’s Love

by Lois Flowers June 23, 2015

by Lois Flowers

Back when my soul’s desire was to be a mother, it used to bug me a bit to hear people wax poetic about how it wasn’t until they became parents that they finally understood God’s love.

Do parents somehow have the inside track on this glorious concept? I would wonder. Are those of us who aren’t mothers or fathers just out of luck when it comes to grasping how it really works?

Now that I’ve been a mom for more than a decade, I get what those effusive parents meant. While I don’t think it’s truly possible to comprehend God’s love, I can see how being willing to throw yourself under a bus to save someone, simply because he or she is your child, would give you a better feel for it. (He did that very thing, you know. Not with a bus, but on a cross.)

But it hasn’t been my affection for my children that has helped me appreciate God more deeply, though I do love them—more and more each day. Rather, it’s been my own frailties and shortcomings that have done the trick.

• When I see how my own selfishness influences my words and decisions, I’m grateful that God’s love for me is unselfish and unconditional.

• When I sense my own lack of compassion, I’m awestruck at how God’s mercies are new every morning.

• When I’m frustrated by my own shortage of patience, I’m comforted by the longsuffering nature of my heavenly Father.

• When I struggle to understand my daughters better, I’m thankful that God “knows how I am formed, and remembers that I am dust.” (Psalm 103:14)

Even the very children that God placed in my family though the miracle of adoption bear witness to His knowledge of me and what I need.

These girls, divinely selected for me and Randy by way of the China Center for Adoption Affairs, are the most fascinating people I’ve ever known. I am a different person—a better person, I hope—because of their examples.

One daughter’s genuine interest in people has pulled me out of my introverted comfort zone and shown me the joy that comes from noticing others. The other’s quiet observational ways—which at times enable her to anticipate the needs of others even before they do—have forced me to evaluate my own serving skills and take steps to improve them.

I am here for them, of course, but they are also here for me. We need each other, but even more so, we need the One who brought us together. We need Him and we want Him—His protection, His forgiveness, His presence.

And, miracle of miracles, God wants us too. He initiates a relationship with each one of us because He wants us to be His children.

His family is not complete without us.

P.S. I’m linking up this week with Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory, Holley Gerth at Coffee for Your Heart and Kelly Balarie at Purposeful Faith.

June 23, 2015 18 comments

A Dad Kind of Comfort

by Lois Flowers June 16, 2015

by Lois Flowers

One Sunday last fall, my pastor talked about the kind of consolation children receive from their parents. Moms are nurturing, he said, but the comfort dads provide is different. It’s special, somehow.

dad and me at wedding I happened to be sitting next to my 82-year-old father during this sermon. I elbowed him right then, hoping he would understand that I appreciated this about him.

He’s not a real emotional sort, and we don’t often sit around and share feelings and whatnot. But I could tell that he got the point of my jab.

When I was a little girl, I would sit on the curb and wait for him to get home from work so I could carry his briefcase and lunchbox into the house. This was long before the days of tobacco-free workplaces, and his clothes reeked of secondhand cigarette smoke. But I didn’t care. Daddy was home; all was well.

I remember sitting on the window seat in our family room shortly before I left for college. I would be going away from home for the very first time, and I was scared to death.

My dad and I talked about change, and he said he liked it.

Huh? I recall thinking. It’s possible to like change?

To this day, that conversation still gives me courage, even though I have yet to reach the point in my own life of liking change.

Years later, I lay in a hospital bed in Little Rock, recovering from one of many surgeries I’ve had to repair internal damage caused by severe endometriosis. My parents had made the eight-hour trek from their home in Kansas to be with me.

I remember my dad there in the room with me, just sitting.

Yes, dads provide a special kind of comfort, all right.

It’s funny how the tables are turned now. There have been several times in the last few years when I have found myself sitting in the hospital room while he lies in the bed. Recovering from hip-replacement surgery. Banged up after a bad fall. Being evaluated after a seizure.

Even then, as my parents look to my family and my sister for logistical support, I draw comfort from him as he banters with the nurses and jokes with me about how he and my mom have a standing account at the hospital.

During different seasons of struggle as a parent—when I find myself wondering how to raise children in this ever-darkening world or how to get someone to understand a particular math concept—my dad’s perspective is soothing.

“She’s going to be alright,” he’ll say. “They’ll be OK.”

He can say that because he knows my daughters. He sees their special qualities, enjoys their personalities and appreciates what they bring to our large, sprawling clan. He can
often see that better than me, caught up as I am in the daily grind of spelling words and driving to ballet class and trying to figure out why someone’s having trouble sleeping at night.

And sometimes, that’s all I need to hear. I don’t need a lot of words about what to do and what to say, just reassurance that they’ll be OK.

Neither of us knows what that’s going to look like for either of my daughters. We both understand that “OK” in God’s point of view may be vastly different from what we might prefer.

But whether the road ahead takes our family through green pastures or dark valleys (chances are, it will be some of each), we know our heavenly Father will be there to guide and protect us.

And that’s the ultimate kind of comfort.

♥ Lois

P.S. I’m linking up this week with Kelly Balarie at Purposeful Faith, Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Holly Gerth at Coffee for Your Heart.

June 16, 2015 12 comments

Life on the Short Side

by Lois Flowers June 9, 2015

by Lois Flowers

Lately, what’s been cropping up in conversations with my daughter Lilly is how tall everyone else is getting. She hit her growth spurt early and was one of the tallest kids in fourth and fifth grade. In sixth grade, her classmates started catching up, and now, most of them are taller than she is.

I’ve always tried to remind her of all the wonderful women she knows who are, well, a bit on the short side. Friends of mine, mentors and former teachers of hers—strong women all.

“You might not be very tall, but you can stand out in other ways,” I tell her.

It’s true, she can.

Honestly, though, I have no idea what it’s like to be short. Growing up, I had the opposite problem. I was a full head taller than everyone else through fifth grade, at least. I was even taller than my fourth-grade teacher.

To say I hated being taller than everyone else is an understatement. Back then, I would have given my left arm not to stick out because of my height.

Right about seventh grade is when everyone around me started catching up. And these days, my height is solidly average for American women.

As a result, I find it hard to relate to Lilly’s issue with her stature.

We were in the car recently, and she was talking again about how everyone is taller than her. In sixth grade she could still see over people’s heads, she said, but now, she finds herself staring at the backs of everyone’s necks.

We moved on to other topics. But later, I remembered something.

At her fourth birthday party, we planned to play pin-the-tale-on-the-donkey. She has always loved games of every sort, but at the party, she wanted nothing to do with that one.

At the time, we didn’t think much about her reaction. Different people have different things that bother them. I personally hate it when I can’t see my feet in the dark. Lilly, apparently, doesn’t like to be blindfolded (which is sort of a requirement for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey). There’s nothing wrong with that.

Why I thought of this after our latest talk about being short, I don’t know. But suddenly, it all made sense.

At her birthday party, Lilly didn’t want to be blindfolded because she doesn’t like it when she can’t see.

And now, in the halls of her middle school among 700-plus other students, she’s not afraid her height will keep her from being noticed. Nor does being on the shorter side bother her because she wants to be like everyone else.

It bothers her because it keeps her from seeing.

Lilly has always been a big-picture person, a noticer, a keen observer. She has always known everyone’s names, always kept track of what everyone is doing, always had a knack for reading people well. It’s all part of what makes her a good conversationalist and an amazing leader.

Now, though, it frustrates her that she can’t see as much as she once did.

High-heeled shoes may add some inches when she gets older, but right now, she’s not interested in that solution. She also realizes that, in the grand scheme of life’s problems, being slightly over 5 feet tall is not very high on the terrible scale.

But still.

She’ll have to learn to observe in other ways. And I have every confidence that she will.

The ability to stand taller, at least in certain settings, was a strong motivator as Lilly worked to earn her pointe shoes in ballet this past year. She achieved her goal, and now dances en pointe with pride, grace and a few extra inches.

In the meantime, I’ve come to a few realizations of my own. Sometimes, what I think is the problem is not really the problem at all. And the more I listen and ask questions, the better I will know and understand my daughters.

Which, from my perspective as a mother and a daughter, is one of the greatest gifts a parent can ever give a child.

P.S. I’m linking up today with Holley Gerth at Coffee for Your Heart, Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Kelly Balarie at Purposeful Faith.

June 9, 2015 16 comments

Song of the Month: “Smoke”

by Lois Flowers June 7, 2015

by Lois Flowers

Right after the Song of the Month goes live every four weeks or so, I always wonder. What will it be next month? What combination of lyrics and music will grab my attention enough to make me want to share it here, with you?

Sometimes I have a few months’ worth of songs lined up; other times, I’m fresh out.

The latter was true last time, but not for long. I heard a song on the radio that led me to a new CD, and that CD led me to this: “Smoke” by Plumb.

I know I say this every time, but I really mean it. I love this song. And I hope you like it, too.

June 7, 2015 4 comments

What To Do When No One Notices

by Lois Flowers June 2, 2015

by Lois Flowers

As embarrassed as I am to admit it, the Golden Rule sometimes frustrates me. Sometimes, I wish it were one of those sayings people think is in the Bible but really isn’t—like, “God helps those who help themselves.”

Unfortunately for me (at least in those less-than-stellar moments), it is part of the Holy Writ—showing up in bright red letters in Matthew 7:12: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.”

The concept of treating others how we would like to be treated is one I often refer to in conversations with my daughters. Whether the situation involves kids at school, each other or some stranger on The Voice, “How would you feel if someone did that to you (or said that about you)?” is a question worth considering, especially at this particularly me-focused stage of their lives.

But when it comes to my own reactions to perceived slights, I’m inclined to bypass the Golden Rule and proceed straight to feeling sorry for myself. When something I’ve said or done—my presence when I’m not normally there, my absence when I normally am, a fresh haircut, a new blouse, a sad countenance, the clean bathroom, how much effort I’ve put into something, the delicious supper—is overlooked or not mentioned, I’m tempted to get hurt feelings.

On rare occasions, the affront is intentional. Most often, though, it’s not.

People are busy. They don’t always notice everything that is important to me. They may notice and forget to mention it. There could be any number of reasons.

In these cases, I need to remember how much I love these people and give them the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes, I need to get over myself and stop being petty. Sometimes, a reminder that the world doesn’t revolve around me is in order.

But always, I need to look for opportunities to do for others what I wish someone would do for me, and then do it.

It’s counter-intuitive, I know. But it’s the only way I know of to take the focus off of myself and carry on about the business of living in a way that honors God.

I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I wonder if you might be able to relate to what I’m saying in some tiny way. If so, can I just pass on a version of what I shared with myself not so long ago?

If you are an encourager who needs some encouragement, keep encouraging.

If you are a helper who could use a little assistance, keep helping.

If you are a prayer warrior who needs prayer, keep praying.

If you are a cook in need of some nourishment, keep cooking.

If you are a giver who could use a present yourself, keep giving.

If you are a card sender who wishes someone would mail you a note, keep sending those cards.

If you are a listener who wants someone to hear you, keep listening.

Just keep doing the things God has designed you to do, even when they seem small to you, even when it seems like nobody is noticing, even when you desperately wish someone would return the favor.

Don’t ever believe the lie that what you’re doing doesn’t matter, that nobody would miss it if you stopped.

Because you are making a difference.

And God sees it, even if you can’t.

P.S. I’m linking up today with Holley Gerth at Coffee for Your Heart, Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Kelly Balarie at Purposeful Faith.

June 2, 2015 34 comments

When the Words Went Away

by Lois Flowers May 26, 2015

by Lois Flowers

I don’t keep a diary.

I journal my prayers, if you want to call it that, but mostly as a way to stay focused. (I get distracted very easily, especially when I am talking to God in my head.)

As far as keeping a record of daily happenings, though, I don’t do it. Every now and then, however—especially before I got back into writing regularly—I’d sit down at the laptop and pound out a paragraph or two about whatever pressing thing was on my mind at the time. When I was done, I’d give the file a name I’d be sure to remember (ahem), close the document and forget about it.

Until I stumbled upon it later, that is.

Which is what I did recently when I found a little gem I wrote on Sept. 3, 2010.

To put it in context, this was about four and a half years after we uprooted ourselves from a very comfortable life in Arkansas and moved back to my home state, roughly 12 miles from where I grew up. Before we moved, I had a steady freelance writing/editing job. When we moved, I gave that up to focus on being a full-time mom and homemaker, and I hadn’t really written much of anything since.

I thought about writing a lot, and wondered when I would start again, but I never actually did. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Here’s exactly what I wrote:

There’s no time like the present to start writing again. For years—yes, years—I have been waiting for the perfect scenario. I would be all caught up on all projects that I’ve been putting off for months—Molly’s [adoption] scrapbook, all the family photo albums, cleaning the house from top to bottom, organizing all the drawers, etc.

I would have called all the friends I have neglected for four years and had long, meaningful conversations with them. I would have arranged my schedule to include at least three complete mornings a week with no plans—no shopping, no cleaning, no meetings, nothing. I would be in my most creative phase, hormonally. I would be well rested. I would be coming off a productive quiet time.

My flower beds would all be weeded, supper already in the Crock-Pot at 8:30 a.m. and nothing else left to do. I would sit down with all the pieces of paper that I have scribbled notes on for the last eight years. I would organize them all into a perfect outline. Then—then, I thought—I would start writing. Not a blog, not an article, but a complete book, from start to finish, without stopping. I did that once, you know. Why not again?

OK then. That may be the funniest thing I’ve ever written. Or the most pathetic—I’m not sure which.

Apparently, I wrote it because I thought I was about to stop waiting for the perfect scenario and just start writing again. But as you’ve probably guessed, that’s not what happened.

I finally wrote Molly’s scrapbook in January 2013 (seven years after we brought her home from China), but I’ve penned no more books from start to finish. I have written an extensive outline and a couple of chapters, but neither that nor any other writing of much substance happened for at least three years after I wrote my little proclamation.

As a person who used to make her living writing, my season of no writing used to stress me out. When am I going to start writing again? I’d wonder. What if I can’t do it anymore?

During this time, I’m sure I broke every tried-and-true rule about writing and writer’s block there is. Just write through it. Write at the same time every day. Write for 15 minutes a day. Start a blog. Join a writers’ group.

I did none of these.

It wasn’t a matter of mechanics with me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t a “real” writer anymore. My problem was emotional, spiritual, hormonal, even physical.

I hadn’t forgotten how to write. I just had nothing to say. And whenever I tried, my neck tightened up and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

This pattern continued well after I wrote that little bit on Sept. 3, 2010.

Then one day, I just decided to stop worrying about it.

I will write again—I know I will. I told myself. It’s what I’m trained to do. It’s how I’m wired. It’s what I’ve always done.

This season in the wilderness has a point. Some day, I will write about it, and it will help someone else.

I then went on about my life without a writing schedule, believing that when the time was right, I would know it.

And I did.

I started small, with a toe dip here and there. I’m still going slowly (much to the chagrin of my husband who just wishes I would hurry up and finish that book I started last year).

Yes, I have some work to do in the procrastination department, but I’m not in a hurry. If there’s one thing I’ve realized over the years, it’s that words cannot be forced. They need to simmer until they’re done, however long that takes.

There’s also a difference when I write now. My neck doesn’t hurt when I think about it. The words are coming more easily. I can write with music on in the background, or not. It doesn’t matter what the house looks like, or whether I have concrete plans for supper. Sometimes I can write something meaningful in five minutes; sometimes it takes an hour. Either way is OK.

I still have my struggles, but I’m not the person I was when I was waiting for the perfect scenario. And, as sheepish as I feel when I read what I wrote back then, I’m glad I saved it.

More than anything else, it shows me that those years in the wilderness were not wasted. They had a purpose, a point, a reason. I felt like I was dormant, but under the surface, I was still growing.

Spring was on the way, and I’m glad I was patient enough (for once in my life) to wait for it to arrive on its own.

P.S. I’m linking up today with Holley Gerth at Coffee for Your Heart, Jennifer Dukes Lee at #TellHisStory and Kelly Balarie at Purposeful Faith.

May 26, 2015 18 comments