Granddaddy ended every prayer at the table in the same way: “Lord, send someone today that we can be of help to.” Missional living which came so easily for my grandfather  took half a lifetime for me to grasp. My granddaddy supported foreign missions but he knew first hand that missions began in the home with your family and those right outside your front door.

So most of my childhood was spent helping him with his various community outreaches. Every Saturday before Labor Day we had up to 500 that came to his home on the Tennessee River for fried catfish, french fries, hushpuppies, and more. We started serving at noon and served as long as people came. The women brought drinks and desserts. He supplied everything else. Men and women showed up before dawn to get the burners started and make the homemade hushpuppies and peel and slice homemade potatoes for French fries.

Another fun memory included cooking chili in the back room of the local Exxon gas station up on the highway, a couple of miles from home. We loaded those burners, big pots, Styrofoam bowls, and of course his big wooden stirring paddle into the back of his white Ford pick up. Local men stopped by all morning to get some of his delicious chili and swap stories with the preacher. Some called him Brother Smith. Others called him Preacher. But they all loved him.

The legacy left by Granddaddy, here in Lacey’s Spring, was one of missional living. He did not keep great records. Once when cleaning up his room I found a drawer with hundreds of dollars of checks given to him over the years for weddings, burials, etc., which he chose to never cash. Numbers and programs weren’t impressive to him. He asked the Lord for opportunities, then went about his day. Through the course of normal routines,  he looked for a way to love and serve those he came in contact with.

I now have the privilege of raising my five children here in that same home which holds so many fond childhood memories for me.  My children will always know that the house next door to us, which they know as the Doyle’s home today, was once a church: River Mission, where Mommy got saved. 

They will always know that at the end of the street in the bend of the road where the Madewells live now was once a corner grocery: Johnson’s Grocery. It was the place where their PawPaw cleaned his fish and where Mama got baptized.​ But I really want them to know more than that. So, with the foundation of missional living rooted in my heart and life through Granddaddy, the outreach continues. We have only pulled off ONE fish fry for a local veteran. Since I never learned to deep fry well nor promote eating fried foods, that one was a little challenging. Yet, many friends stepped up to fry, freeing me up to spread out Grandmother’s quilts and bring some beauty to the feast.

Our platforms of ministry have included summer creative arts camps and Christmas outreaches with children from the after school care program at the YMCA. Both of these ministries have allowed me to include my children as we serve. They have been an overflow of the gifts and passions the Father has welled up inside me.

I am especially excited about the opportunity to launch a Mom Heart group in the public school system this fall which will include gospel storytelling, and sharing a piece of children’s literature with both mom and child weekly.  I believe God will raise up a team of volunteers to help me as we build relationships in this community. We long to push back the darkness that many may see the light of Christ in and through our lives.

Legacy is something that comes from an ancestor or predecessor according to Webster’s. It’s what Granddaddy left me and it’s what I am attempting to leave my kids.

Recently, I ran across a prayer booklet that is mailed to you after a funeral. I guess it’s an opportunity for a person to write remarks about your life so that the surviving party can be comforted. What I read was this person would be remembered for their red hair, and their love for fishcakes. 

I WANT TO LEAVE A DIFFERENT LEGACY.

I want to spend my life investing in the lives of my children. And I want to pray every day, like Granddaddy, “Lord, send someone our way to day that we can be of service to.”

What kind of legacy do you want to leave?

​Welcome back, girls!

We are so blessed to be sharing Sally’s thoughts on chapter three with you today.

I love these words from this chapter …

“God … intended it (motherhood) to be a fully committed job, not something we do on the side. For me that has meant choosing full-time, at-home mothering as my top priority. Yes, I have continued to speak and to write and to tackle a variety of projects to earn extra money during lean years. But instead of pursuing a career with motherhood tucked in around the edges, I have chosen to focus first on the mission of motherhood. My reward for this decision has been both simple and profound. I have been able to know the joys of mothering without a divided heart.”

Reading Assignment: Finish or Re-read Chapter Three of The Mission of Motherhood

To Read and Ponder:

Galatians 6:7 “Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, this he will also reap.”

What does this verse mean? How do we sow in a meaningful way into our children’s lives, so that the seed we plant will bear spiritual fruit?

Romans 12: 1-2 “Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.”

According to these verses, what does God consider to be true worship? How do we keep from being conformed to this world?

To Do:

Collect some special books, pictures, or other mementoes that will remind you of your commitment to the Lord. Place them where you can see them to be encouraged in your ambition to be the mother God designed you to be.

To Discuss (in the comments!):

What is the most difficult sacrifice you’re making right now as a mother?

After the final kisses, the final prayers...after the last story book is closed and toes are tucked tightly beneath quilts- I sip my tea. Every night I drink it in, leaning with one ear bent toward the hall- hoping tonight might be just the one where bed time ​goes off without resistance.  But the creak in the wood below my feet betrays one of my babes headed my direction.​

Up. Again. Deep Breath.​

Peeking from around the corner, almost whispering..."Mom? Will you pray for me again?"​

I can see the look in her eyes, the questioning behind the pools of brown sugar staring through me. ​She's aching...wondering if my answer will be an embrace or if I'll send her back to bed in frustration.

Right there- those eyes- they startle me. I am earnestly shaken by my own eagerness to send her on her way- to speed through the sacred and deny the giving of a blessing.

I'm stung by the memory of being a wide eyed child, still awake, longing for assurance, to be held and wanted. My mind wanders further...How many times have I longed for the goodness of God himself, for all the gifts the Scriptures tell us he longs to give his children and how many times have I wondered, as my sweet girl is now, if I'd interrupted him by taking too many trips down the hall after lights out to be worthy of favor? Too many. And yet, God gives so freely. So generously. He waits for me to want him and delights in my coming. 

I'm guilty of forgetting this. I have lived too many moments acting like I am still something old and not my own true self. The real me is redeemed and reconciled and made new.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come." - 2 Corinthians 2:17​

And this is what I want to give, this is what I want to leave to my sweet, wide eyed girl, what I want to leave to all my children: Something new: the announcement and reminder of their own true selves. 

The real me lives out of a place where I know I am family. The real me knows that I am a beloved daughter, a child of God he loves to lavishly care for.

"The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs- heirs with Christ." -Romans 8 :18-17a​

And right there in my hallway, walking my girl back to her bed, I can see clearly that the love I freely give, right this minute, the blessing I bestow on my child, the delight I take in holding her hand pours into who she knows she is: Beloved Daughter.  My love for her is what God is using right now to reveal His love for her, to display his glory to her young heart, to generously meet her needs and comfort her soul. And the sheer pleasure I show in being  with her pales in comparison to the delight over her that comes from God alone. 

"The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with singing." - Zephaniah 3: 17​

My sweet child- right in my arms, gently asking for a blessing...what an honor to be the one to bear it unto her. I cup her chin and kiss her head and we bow and I can feel her small body relax. Restful assurance of being loved fills her soul,​ deep breaths overtake her, andshe falls asleep.

I am by the stove cutting warm loaves of dark bread.

My mother is at the window, sewing new and vintage fabric pieces together.

I listen to the hum of the machine, thread lacing down, through, up, through, listening to her.

“Now you try. Just slowly. Take your time and really focus.”

Her crown of white hovers over a little one's shoulder.

​

“Like this, Gram?”

​

I turn to see a little girl's furrowed brow lit by the machine’s glowing light.

They are stitching up blankets for the PCU at the local hospital. The needle stitches crisp new cottons to a backing of reclaimed, familiar flannels.

Hope’s eyes are fixed on that quarter inch seam allowance, the curving arcs of the material.

​

“Yes, that’s it, Hope. Now if you’ll stop a moment…”

The machine drones to a halt. Butter melts into the steaming warm slices. I ladle garden vegetable soup into a circle of waiting bowls.

“If you’ll look closely, do you see how it puckers here, when you push the material through?" Mama leans in.

"Don’t rush, or push the fabric along. If you push the material through, you’ll end up with wrinkled, disappointing handiwork. You just guide...”

"Gently?” Hope offers.

“Yes!" Mama lights. "That’s it precisely: no pushing…or you’ll wrinkle everything. Just guide gently.”

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My ladle hangs midair.

Empty bowl waits in one hand.

I might have ears to hear.

Sunlight streams in. The needle again begins to purr. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and finger write those words  on my mind:

"Just guide gently.”

Push and it will all pucker.

How many perfectly good days have I wrinkled because I pushed, arms heavy with an agenda?

How many happy faces have I wrinkled into distress with pushing words: “Hurry up!"

I don’t even want to consider how many bare, beating hearts I have crinkled and crumpled with my pushing for more. Pushed and puckered.

I come to, fill the waiting soup bowl, and whisper it again, etching it deeper, “just guide gently.”

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The Spirit nudges: “This is what I meant the other morning. You underlined it, remember?”

I find black ink marking the words:

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“Therefore, although in Christ, I could be bold and order you to do what you ought to do, yet I appeal to you on the basis of love."

– Philemon 1:8-9

​

I could be bold and order you.

Push, push, push.

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Yet I appeal to you on the basis of love.

Just gently guiding. Gently serving. Gently leading by caring, encouraging, edifying.

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Wasn’t it Mama who also pulled me up on her lap as a four-year-old and told me the fable of the sun and the wind, arguing over which of the two was the stronger? I can still feel her leaning close:

“The Wind began to blow cold blasts, but the man only drew his cloak tighter about him to keep out the cold. Then the Sun took his turn, and under the sun’s rays, the man then threw the coat off!"

She turned me to look me in the eye: “Remember that, girl of mine: gentleness can do what force always fails to do.”

I could be bold and order you…yet I appeal to you on the basis of love.

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To release a child to be all that he or she was meant to be requires the sun, requires guiding gently with loving words of encouragement. Recent research confirms:

A study of twenty-two grade eight students found that those who were lit with positive feelings generated significant more creative and problem-solving ability than the group of students in which “a neutral mood was induced.”

Appeal on the basis of love, with a light touch of guidance and the warm igniting of encouragement, and watch hearts and minds creatively, joyously thrive. Gentle guiding reaps far more than pushing.

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Bowls served and dinner bell waiting to be rung, I survey the trail of rainy day pursuits: strewn legos, a blizzard of paper snippets, scraps of material flung about for good measure.

Take a deep breath, O Heart. Push and the day—no, more than the day--- delicate hearts, will pucker.

What if I were to just guide gently?

“What a day we’ve had, best beloveds!" Books are set aside, scissors left, and masterpieces presented.

“Such color! What a design! You made that by yourself?” Hearts embroidered with edifying words.

“Let’s clean this all up together?” A love appeal.

My hands, their hands, we sort, organize, gather.  I run my hand across the clean counter.

My mother smiles, her showing me how to just guide gently -- this pucker-free pattern for hearts.

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