I’m a little bit obsessed with the royal family. Ever since I watched Princess Diana walk the aisle in her billowy dress and miles of train, I’ve been hooked. I secretly read all the tabloid news stories that pop up in my feed, and scoff at anything that hints at a fault or weakness. Those people are amazing!  

I mean, look at them. They are well-dressed. They have perfect posture. They are polite and well-spoken, and when they smile at the camera, they might as well be doused in glitter. So. Much. Sparkle.  

Take Prince William, for example. Since he was a tot, he’s been drawing us in with that shy smile—so like his mother’s–and his sincere eyes. There’s just something about that young man that makes me want to bake him some chocolate cookies, just because.  

But here’s an interesting thing about William… he’s not that interesting. I don’t mean to imply he’s boring. He’s not! But apart from his royal title, he’s a lot like the rest of us. In school, he earned an A in Geography, a B in Art, and a C in Biology. He served in the military and earned the rank of lieutenant. He has a receding hairline (which I find quite charming). Take away the bloodline, and he’s a regular guy.  

Yet this regular guy has a security detail everywhere he goes. People swoon over his presence at any event. Prince William knows that his value isn’t based on his accomplishments or his intelligence or his good looks. His value lies in who his father is.  

There’s something quite freeing about that. He can just relax. He doesn’t need to strive to be good enough. He doesn’t have to try and impress people. He can rescue orphans and provide for widows and influence his government for the good, and he’s the prince. Or he can be awkward and shy and mess up and make poor choices, and he’s the prince. Nothing he does or doesn’t do will change who he is.  

For much of my life, I’ve felt the burn of needing to prove myself. I have wonderful parents, but there’s nothing impressive about my ancestry. Dad was a firefighter (okay, that’s a little impressive) and Mom was a secretary at a junior high (even more impressive, I know), but my identity isn’t decided by their accomplishments. So for decades, I’ve tried to earn my place in this world by getting good grades and writing books and earning degrees and raising decent children and so much more. None of that is extremely impressive or important. Yet I’ve had a hard time just relaxing and being me, because somehow, I felt I wasn’t enough.  

I’ve recently realized that my value doesn’t lie in my accomplishments. It’s not in my job or my bank account or the way I look or the car I drive or my children’s achievements. My value lies in who my Father is.  

If I write a NYT bestseller, I’m His child, and He loves me. If I forget to turn off the bathwater and it floods the entire back side of the house (don’t ask), I’m His daughter and He adores me. If I volunteer my time to help the needy, or if I stay in bed all day with the covers over my head, I’m His. I don’t have anything to prove. I can relax and be my goofy, socially-awkward, ADD, OCD, forgetful self, and it doesn’t change a thing. My identity is sealed.  

Not that you have to call me Princess Renae or anything. But if you see me walking a little taller, it’s because I’m trying to balance my crown.  

“But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light”. 1 Peter 2:9 

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I’ve started a new business. With the economy like it is, I’m always looking for ways to diversify, and an opportunity has presented itself. I’ve opened a storage unit. Rick and I know a couple of people who did this, and it seems like easy money for them. All you have to do is own some land, build a facility, find customers, and charge people to store their stuff.  

I own land. 

I’ve built a facility. (When I say “I,” I mean Rick.) 

I have customers—all young adults with jobs.  

Now if I could just figure out how to get my kids to pay me for keeping their crap valuable items, I’d be in business. I don’t even know what’s in those boxes. My guess is old term papers, yellowing prom dresses, and summer camp souvenirs from around 2012. 

We even added onto the house, increasing our space. Rick expanded his shop and built a barn. All this has proven my interpretation of Einstein’s theory of space-time relativity, which states that when space opens up, it will be crammed with other people’s junk in no time.  

(To be fair, a lot of it is my own junk. It’s just more fun to blame my kids.) 

Last spring, we got rid of a bunch of it. We delivered things to their owners’ doorsteps and unloaded it into their garages. We cleaned out, cleared out, and donated. We enjoyed the freedom of empty closets and negative space for less than a week when Rick’s parents’ house burned down. Now, Rick is rebuilding it, and guess where all the building supplies are stored?  

We are so, so grateful to help Rick’s parents this way. But are you seeing a pattern?  

The same is true for my calendar. It fills up with I-don’t-know-what. I stay busy all. The. Time. From the moment I wake up until my head hits the pillow, I’m doing stuff. But at the end of the day, I don’t really know what filled those minutes. It never fails, though—the moment I clear my closet or my calendar, it will fill right back up. And that kind of crowdedness feels like noise—loud, clanging gongs that won’t let me relax. 

I guess the important thing isn’t how much stuff I store… it’s how precious that stuff is. It’s not about how busy I am… it’s how valuable my activities are. Some of it is worth keeping. But a lot of it could be eliminated, and I’d never miss it.  

Take my daily time usage, for example. A close inspection of my phone shows I spend more than two hours a day scrolling through silly social media posts. I’ve learned so much about how to chunky-braid my hair and put on false eyelashes… each of which have zero value for my current lifestyle.  

My point is, I’m keeping stuff I don’t need, and then I complain that my life feels crowded. I need to let go. Be a minimalist. Say no. Guard my space. Because really, it’s in the empty space where I can rest. I can move. I can dance.  

I have a few more weeks before school starts again, and I’ll be swept up in class schedules and office hours and busy-ness. Until then, I think I’ll take some time to clear out. I’ll bless others with my boxes and release the space in my brain. As much as possible, I’ll leave some empty room just to exist in God’s presence… room to love Him more, love others more, and enjoy the quiet of empty space. 

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven…” Matthew 6:19-20. 

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My poodle, C.J., thinks he’s Hank, the Cowdog. Each time I let him outside without a leash, he runs like a bat out of Hades toward our neighbor’s cattle. One of these days, if we’re not careful, he’s gonna get gored or squished.

That’s why I’ve made a new rule. Every time I take him out, I tether him—either to a leash or a lead line.

            He hates the lead line. It’s in a nice, shady part of the yard, with lots of trees and squirrels and cardinals for company. I always make sure he has plenty of water and a toy or two. It’s not a bad life. But it never fails; every time I attach him to that line, he whines and moans like I’ve scalped him and left him for the buzzards.

            But he loves his leash. Whenever I grab the red-handled, retractable cord, he jumps, wags his tail, and shakes with joy. We walk outside, and he runs like the wind until his line runs out. Then he sprints another direction. At some point he’ll prance back to me, head high, as if to say, “I’m having a Brobdingnagian time!” (Poodles are very smart and have a colossal vocabulary.)

            Sometimes I take him with me to sit by the pond or on the patio. I’ll stretch out my legs and hold his leash handle while he sniffs around. Eventually, he’ll lay at my feet, happy as a grub in a grass crop. As much as he loves cows . . . as much as he loves to run . . . he loves me more. That’s why he hates the lead line, but adores the leash. He wants to be close to me.

            Yesterday, as I sat in my yard with C.J. playing at my feet, I thought of the old hymn, Come Thy Fount of Every Blessing by Robert Robinson. The final verse says:

Oh to grace, how great a debtor

Daily I’m constrained to be!

Let thy grace, Lord, like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,

 Prone to leave the God I love;

Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above. (Baptist Hymnal, 1991)

            In that stanza, Robinson said, “Lord, tie me to you, so I don’t bolt from Your presence. I tend to run to danger, but I don’t want to. Keep me safe; keep me close to You.”

            God uses a leash, not a lead line. He never ties us up and leaves us; He tethers us to Himself. But it’s a voluntary tether. He won’t force us to be tied to Him. He lets us make the choice; stay close to Him, or run into a stampede.

            My poodle has more sense than I do. When given the choice, he’ll choose the leash every time. I sometimes run from God, and that rarely—okay, never—works out well for me. Like Robinson, I need God’s gracious fetter to keep me close, keep me safe, and keep me in the circumference of His love.

            “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you,” James 4:8.

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I’ve recently realized that I missed my calling in life. I would have made an excellent queen. I enjoy dressing up. I adore expensive jewelry. And I’ve perfected the art of the gracious-yet-aloof smile and wave.  

I’ve come to this conclusion while catching up on episodes of The Crown. Several years ago I binge-watched Season One, back when there was only a Season One. Then I had to wait for Season Two with the rest of the commoners, and honestly, I forgot to go back to it. Now Seasons Three and Four are waiting in the wings, and I’ve got a lot of couch time to make up for. 

I spent the weekend with my computer screen open to Netflix, and I watched the show as I made my bed, cooked dinner, scrubbed my bathroom. Everywhere I went, The Crown went. In the last episode I watched, Queen Elizabeth revealed to her friend Porchie (Lord Porchester) that she never wanted to be queen. If she’d had her way, she’d have spent her life working with horses. She would have gladly set aside the crown to live on her own terms.  

But instead of abdicating, she embraced a life of duty and service. She accepted that her life was not her own. As the eldest child of a reigning monarch, she was born to fulfill a destiny. She laid aside her own wishes in favor of what was best for her country.  

Her story reminds me of another king. Though he didn’t wear a robe or sit on a royal throne during his time here, he was born into his role. Jesus Christ was the only son of the King of Kings. He could have abdicated. If he had, there would have been no one of his lineage to take his place. That would have brought about the completion of a coup, and the Prince of Darkness would have stepped in.  

We know Christ didn’t want his job. In the garden, on the eve of his crucifixion, he prayed, “Father, let this cup pass from me.” Understandable, as he was fully human, and what human wants to be beaten and mocked and nailed, naked, to a cross while people gamble for your clothes? Not me. But he also said, “Not my will, but Yours, be done.” He accepted his crown—a crown of thorns—out of duty, out of service, and most importantly, out of love.  

I’ve always admired Queen Elizabeth. This show, while I know there is much fictionalization, has only increased my admiration. Her job requires much more than wearing pretty clothes and waving to crowds. Her job is to offer a calm voice of wisdom when others shout nonsense. Her job is to show compassion to those who are overlooked and ignored. Her job is to be the perfect blend of grace, mercy, and justice.  

Her job, as the head of the Church of England, is to be God’s representative. I believe she does it quite well.  

Though we may not be kings and queens, and we may not have audience with rulers and heads of state, our job description is the same. As Christ followers, we are given crowns to wear—crowns of righteousness. We are to wear our crowns with dignity and grace as we offer calm wisdom in the chaos. We are to be compassionate, loving, kind. We are His ambassadors, here on earth.  

As I watch new episodes, I can’t help but whisper, “Long live the queen.” Even more, I pray I’ll emulate her dedication as I represent my King.  

“Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day–and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing,” 2 Timothy 4:8.  

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We recently welcomed a new member into the Green family. Her name is Rosie, and she’s worth every penny we paid for her. She’s small, round, and cute, and she works really hard.

She is a robot vacuum cleaner.

I know many of you reading this have had your own Rosie for years, but I could never justify the cost. After all, how long does it really take to vacuum the house with an upright? (24 minutes and 12 seconds, in case you’re wondering.) Plus, when I vacuum, I can count that as daily exercise. Can’t I?

Except, I hate to vacuum. So I postpone the task until I know company is coming.

I recently read a friend’s social media post about how much she loved her robot vacuum, and I felt envious. (Don’t even get me started on the evils of social media and how it makes us all feel like we’re missing out.) She listed the brand and style, and I went immediately to Amazon to see if I could afford one. It was nearly $500! No thank you.

Still, a girl can dream, can’t she? I clicked on the reviews and read oh, so many of the nearly 5,000 4 and 5-star ratings. That’s when my life changed for the better.

One sensible user raved about her vacuum, but offered this advice. “The reason this one costs so much is because it has voice command and connects to Smart House devices such as Alexa. If you want the same vacuum without all the bells and whistles for a much lower price, check out older versions from this company.”

Brilliant idea! After a bit more research, I found it. A robot vacuum that does just that: vacuums. Lickety-split I placed the item in my cart and voila! Three days later, Rosie arrived in a box on my front porch.

(Now, I must digress and remind you that after more than a year, we’re still doing construction on our home, adding an apartment so my mom can move in with us. Those of you who have ever lived in your home during construction know the amount of dust created could coat the Sahara desert several times over.)

So on Day 1, Rosie ran for four hours and vacuumed my home twice. I emptied her dustbin thrice. I’m not sure how much time she saved me, since I followed her around and watched, fascinated, while she zigged and zagged under furniture and around obstacles, then returned to her charging dock like she knew exactly where she was going. If I zigged and zagged like that, I’d end up somewhere between Kickapoo and Kilkenny.

Day 2, I decided to run her again for good measure. She didn’t seem to mind, and for the most part, I ignored her. I emptied her dustbin once more, and the floor looked refreshingly clean.

Day 3, I gave Rosie a rest.

Day 4, I ran her again because, why not?

All that to say, if you come to my house unexpectedly, you’ll be fooled into thinking I’ve actually done housework. Good job, Rosie!

One of the great things about this purchase is that Rosie had nothing to do with the dust in my home. She hasn’t created one single mess or caused one bit of disarray. Still, she works tirelessly to make my home clean.

It reminds me of what Christ did for us. He was without sin… yet he did the hard work to clean up after all my messes. Because of Him, I can stand before God pure, gleaming, white. Christ did what I wasn’t able to do for myself.

Today, when Rosie cleans up after my messes yet again, I’ll remember to be grateful… for robot vacuum cleaners, and for the love of Christ that looks beyond my fault and takes care of my need.

“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” 2 Corinthians 5:21

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This is not my usual tone and style, but someone close to me encouraged me to share. I’ve gone through a really hard few weeks, and I recently wrote this poem to God. It’s honest. It’s raw.

God is big enough to take our questions, our hurt, even our anger. What He DOESN’T want is our silence. If you’re going through a difficult time, if you question God’s love for you, TELL HIM. Talk to Him. If you struggle with anxiety and depression, you’re not alone. It happens to the best of us. And even when it feels like God’s forsaken you, He hasn’t. He’s there, working behind the scenes, to bring you through the storm.

When Satan’s voice shouts, listen for God’s whisper. He’s right there, and His love for you is never-ending. I promise.

–Renae

Feels Like Forsaken

by Renae Brumbaugh Green

May 13, 2021

You said You’d never leave me,

You’d never walk away

I’d never be forgotten

That You would always stay

You said You’d go before me

You said that You would send

A comforter, a teacher,

A closer-than-brother friend.

What happened to those words, my Lord?

Right now, I feel alone.

At this moment, pain is deep

I long for death to come.

In this moment, I don’t feel You

You seem so far away

Right now I feel forgotten

Useless and betrayed

Right now it hurts to take in air

Each heartbeat like a knife

Each moment an eternity

Of never-ending strife

Lord, You’ll always have my love

My heart is Yours to see.

But if it’s honest prayers you want…

This feels like forsaken to me.

I don’t know what You’re doing.

I don’t like it at all.

I cannot understand how you would

Let my spirit fall.

You said that You are love defined

You promised You are good.

So to those promises I cling,

If only by a thread.

Abba, Father, Daddy,

You’re the only One who can

Bless me with those good things

That come only from Your hand

I don’t deserve Your goodness

I’m sinful to the core

But Father, in Your Son I trust

And You have called me Yours

So Abba, please remember me

Don’t turn Your face away

Show me I belong to You

Smile at me today

The things I want so deeply

Are things that You want, too

For my family to love me

For my children to love You

To have a job where I can shine

Your light in a dark place

To walk each day so close to You

That I can see Your face

Father, don’t You hear my cries?

Have You turned Your face away?

I stand upon Your promises

And Your unending grace.

Father, I am weak and sad

I’m begging You to see

Prove me wrong, my Lord, my God

This feels like forsaken to me.

“Be strong and courageous, for you shall go with this people into the land that the LORD has sworn to their fathers to give them, and you shall put them in possession of it. It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.” – Deuteronomy 31:6-8

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Last week, I learned something so incredible, so life-changing, I can hardly speak of it. I don’t know whether to leap and dance and spin for joy or weep and wail and tear my clothes because I went so long without knowing.

Y’all.You can make up your bed while you’re still in it.

I’m not kidding. Apparently a few really smart, genius-type people have been hoarding this information from the rest of us for decades. Centuries, even. Last week, while binge-watching organizational videos (as opposed to actually organizing stuff, but that’s a whole ‘nother article) I ran across a video of a lady showing us how to make our beds. While we’re in it. I worry for her safety, once the bed-making super villains learn she released this information to the public.

In the video, she demonstrated by lying in her bed. She pulled the sheet over her and straightened it as best she could on either side of her. Then she pulled the blanket up and did the same thing. Layer by layer she went, ironing out the covers with her hands while she stretched and yawned.

Then—and this is the amazing part—she slid out of bed, between the already-straight covers. All she had to do was smooth a few wrinkles, straighten the pillows, and voila! Her bed was made.

I was skeptical at first. But the next morning I tried it. Lo and behold, it worked! Two minutes, tops, as opposed to the seven-and-a-half minutes it took before. And it looked like a picture shoot from Good Housekeeping. (The bed. Not the rest of the room.)

Mind. Blown.

It makes me wonder how many other things I’ve been doing the hard way, when there’s a totally easy way to do it. How much time have I wasted, struggling, when I didn’t have to? How often did I not even try, simply because I didn’t think I had the time or the energy to finish?

Too much of my life has been wasted on doing things the hard way. It’s really because of my pride… I think my way is the best way, and I don’t like others telling me I need to change. So I trudge on, carrying a heavy load, struggling to make things work, losing sleep, lugging around stress and anxiety, when there’s an easier way.

Christ said we can cast all our cares, our burdens, our anxieties, our fears, our worries… all the hard stuff… on Him. His shoulders are broad, and He wants to carry it for us. The most difficult thing in my existence is a mere featherweight to Him. Yet I hang onto it because… I don’t know why. Because I’m stubborn, I guess.

Not only will He carry our loads for us, but He’ll show us an easier way. Oh, we’ll still have struggle. But when we follow Christ’s teaching and live by His examples of love, kindness, and compassion, we don’t end up with nearly as many regrets. We still have stuff to haul, problems to face, issues to handle. But without the added burden of bad choices and missed opportunities, those loads become easier and lighter, and they diminish sooner.

I’m still pondering this newfound knowledge. Fortunately for me, I can ponder it an extra five and a half minutes each morning, lying in my bed.

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” Matthew 11:29-30.  

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Happy Valentine’s Day!

I have to brag a moment and tell you all that I have the sweetest sweetheart around. We have a lot of fun together, and we’re known to be a little bit silly at times. Hard to believe, I’m sure. Below you can listen to a song we wrote together a few years ago. I sang all the parts, one at a time, and I remember him distinctly saying, “Try to sound like a dumb blonde.” I gave it my best shot.

Enjoy!

–Renae

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Valentine’s Day is what I like to call the “un-holiday” holiday. You don’t get a day off work, but if you’re not careful, you’ll still gain five pounds. There’s just so. Much. Chocolate. Plus there’s my favorite—those little candy hearts with messages on them. Those are the best.

I remember Valentine’s Day in elementary school when we got to set aside our regular work for a little while, break out the Elmer’s glue, and make a big ol’ red-and-pink-and-white construction paper mess on the floor. We decorated white paper lunch sacks with our names, and used cut-out-hearts in all sizes to create flowers and people and animals and whatever else struck our eight-year-old creative-genius minds. Then our teacher taped our hand-crafted mailboxes to the chalk tray, so we could add our store-bought Valentine cards and heart-shaped lollipops and heart-festooned pencils and stickers and, well, you get the idea.

We also made the heart-shaped Valentine men and women with the construction-paper accordion arms and legs, and hung them with string from the ceiling, all over the room. If you’ve never made an accordion-legged Valentine person, please go to the store right now, buy some construction paper, and make one. Then sign your name and give it to that special someone, and I promise, he or she will be delighted.

During my teen and college years, I spent my Valentine’s Days with a different kind of Valentine man. Boys, really. A new one every year, for a very long time. It’s a little embarrassing when I remember how many of those boys pledged their undying love for me. I’d smile and take the chocolate and roses. They usually didn’t last very long—the boys or the chocolates.

I’m happy to say I’ve found a lasting Valentine. Rick is my best friend. He makes me laugh. He encourages me, and makes me feel like I can accomplish anything I want. And he shows me every day, in so many ways, that he loves me. I am truly blessed.

But there’s one Valentine who trumps even Rick. On my first Valentine’s Day, He was there. At those grade school parties? He was there. He went on every date with me, and held me through every broken heart. He pledged his eternal love for me before I was born, and he’s never left me for a moment.

He laughs with me in the good times. He cries with me in the low times. He’s sent me more than a dozen roses; he’s grown fields of wildflowers for my pleasure. He is the definition of love, and though he’s a king, and could have anyone he wants, he chose me.

He wants me, on Valentine’s Day and every other day. He loves me with an everlasting love, and he shows it in a thousand ways. And I’ll let you in on a Valentine’s Day secret: He loves you too. He is madly in love with you, and more than anything, he wants to be yours.

Look around this week, and listen closely. You’ll find a shower of love notes from God. And you’ll hear him whisper, “Be Mine.”

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness,” Jeremiah 31:3.

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As I write this, I’m sitting in my antique cushioned rocking chair in the corner of my spare bedroom/study, listening to the soft rat-a-tat-tat of rain on my roof. The sound soothes me, like a mother humming a lullaby; it reminds me that in spite of the monsters, life is good. I am loved. And everything will be okay.

These past weeks have proven the monsters are real. COVID-19 is real. We’ve all faced difficulties, but this pandemic has left even the most experienced among us scratching our heads. There’s not a soul living on this earth today who can remember anything like this.

So how do we reconcile these two truths? Monsters are real. It will be okay.

I’ve thought a lot about this during my stretched-out shelter-in-place quarantine. Each time my fretful, over-anxious brain tries to convince me the world is coming to an end and we’re all gonna get Corona and die, I hear another voice. A soft voice, whispered, but clearly audible: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world,” John 16:33.

In that one verse, Jesus gives the ultimate spoiler. He tells us the end of the story, so we can watch the movie of our lives with confidence. It’s gonna get dicey, but He wins. Good wins. Love wins. He tells us this so we won’t worry. He tells us this so we won’t freak out. He tells us this so we can have peace, even when the monster thrashes and roars and claws at our doors.

During our confinement, the people in the Green household have watched a lot of Marvel movies. Some I’ve seen before; others are new to me. Yet, in each one, I can have confidence in two things: 1. I will, at some point during the film, hug my knees to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut because I’m scared and, 2. In the end, the good guys will win. It seems Marvel took their play-by-play from God’s Word.

As a writer, I know an easy life makes a boring story. It’s the hardships, the tragedies, the monsters that make an interesting plot structure. God is an author, too, and He longs to turn our lives into a creative masterpiece. “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God,” Hebrews 12:2.

Today, whenever I feel anxious, I’ll remind myself of the spoiler. I’ll pray for the doctors and nurses and front-liners in this war against an unknown enemy, and I’ll pray for its victims. And while I pray, I’ll grab the popcorn, hug my knees to my chest, and squeeze my eyes shut. And I’ll keep watching, because even though this particular action/adventure is running longer than I want it to, I already know how it ends. I already know who wins. I already know . . .

It will be okay.

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus,” Philippians 4:6-7.

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