i have this sort of horrible, sort of wonderful thing going through my head. i think it might be sort of scriptural, but not sure i could argue it with a theologian. it goes something like this:
i suspect my Father limits my success, or something like that, because He is protecting me from the pride i would develop, and related problems, if i were to be today all that i can be.
i think He'd rather have my CDs in a box on a corner shelf in the local house of prayer, and mostly in boxes in my basement and have me still have a relatively humble heart than be distributed in Family Bookstores nationwide and have me think i'm "something".
i think He'd rather see me overweight and acne faced than petite, pretty and having an affair.
i think He likes me singing at the least attended session of a small local conference and able to really sing to Him, more than being a "headliner" at a major national event, but just putting on a show because my heart is more aware of me than Him.
i think He'd just much rather have me writing this blog with my 22 friends reading it when they get the chance than having me have a book selling big at Amazon.com, if that's what it takes for me to stay near to Him.
in short, He knows my weakness. He knows how very quickly i turn, stumble, stray. He knows how quickly i would try to steal His glory, given the opportunity.
and i'm not saying i'm worthy of any of that other stuff anyway. there are many writers, many singers, many leaders. but my husband only has one wife (thankfully!) and my children only have one mom. my neighborhood only has one me.
the Word i heard this weekend at a conference at our church was (from Elisha and the widow who he helped by filling all the empty jars with oil): stay home, shut the door and pour yourself into the empty pots that you have there.
i am content. i am content to be home. i will write little songs for my kids to memorize verses for Awanas and for the children at church to learn scriptures in Sunday school (what an honor) and for the kids at camp to sing. if children learn my silly little songs and hide God's Word in their hearts, who knows what fruit those little seeds will produce??
i am content to pursue the Lordship of Christ in my little domain, His dominion over the smell in my bathrooms, over the dishes in my sink, over the laundry in the hallway, over the hearts and attitudes of my children, over the number of shoes and jackets lining the floor of the van, over my faithfulness to get allergy shots and dog poop (my eldest has a job picking up dog poop for a friend, something we are supposed to do weekly, and, well, you know).
i am content to pray in secret about secret things, to be a little hidden warrior for my King, fighting for my marriage, my family, my neighborhood, my church, my city, my nation.
hiddenness is my gift from my Father Who sees in secret. it is where i can bloom safely. and should He see fit to someday shine light on His masterpiece, me, may i be found mature enough to do the right thing and give Him all the glory.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
You're not the boss of me!
I am standing in the hallway at my church and a young lad, happens to be the pastor's son, is walking a few steps ahead of me, doing something he shouldn't do. I don't remember what it was, maybe just that he wasn't in the service, maybe he was picking at the corner of a bulletin board. Let's just say, he was not in danger and neither was anyone else. He was not doing any major destruction of property or person. He was just a kid, being a kid. If I had been his mother, I might have said something. But I was not in authority over him, didn't have a relationship with him, so I didn't say anything.
However, also in the hallway was another adult, who was no more connected to him than I, but who took it upon himself to correct him, with these words, "Zach (not his real name), I don't think your dad would want you to do that." Because he knew his dad, our pastor, he felt it was appropriate for him to correct his son. And I don't know that he knew the pastor beyond his being the pastor. Like, not to get together with his family socially, outside church.
I think this sort of thing happens a lot, and may be part of what makes it so rough to be a pastor's kid. It happens to my children also, partly because I was a worship leader for a long time, very visible, and also because I have so many children and they are easy to spot, as they look a lot alike. At camp a couple weeks ago, an adult who was trying to herd a bunch of children, calling them all "camper" not knowing their names, saw one of mine whose name she knew and addressed her by her name. Being singled out from all the other children who were just named "camper" made her feel like she was in trouble more than all the others.
Authority is a touchy subject. We don't have authority over someone just because we know their name or their dad's name. We don't have authority because we are bigger or older or more familiar than someone.
Authority comes from God. It is like electricity, there has to be a connection. You have to get authority from someone who has the authority to give authority. God gives authority to my husband, he shares it with me. When I am leaving the house, I give my authority to whoever I put in charge. My 12 year old son has no authority over my 9 year old daughter UNLESS I GIVE IT TO HIM. When he tries to exert it inappropriately, he gets this response: You're not the boss of me!
I do teach my children to respect adults, to honor them. But just because someone is an adult doesn't mean I want my children to do whatever they say. Not all adults have authority over my children. Only if I give it to them do they have it.
I want my children to understand authority because it has a direct impact on how they relate to God. We live in a church culture that sees God more as a Daddy/Lover/Friend, all of which are right and true, but we neglect to acknowledge Him, sometimes, as King and Lord. But He is that.
At this point in American society, there aren't really any absolutes - everything is negotiable. We do not respect those in authority. We've heard enough stories of corruption in government, police brutality, teachers having inappropriate relationships with students, pastors stumbling, even abusive parents, so we think all of those positions of authority are conditional on whether the leader merits our submission. We have forgotten how to submit to authority.
Because of this, we really don't know how to relate to a God who is King and Lord. It doesn't fit our grid. But we need a new grid. We need a paradigm shift. We need a new mindset. We need REVELATION.
God is God. There is no other. He made us. He made all things. He is in charge of all He made. He brought us into this world, He can take us out and make another to look just like us. He is the Boss of us.
Not only is does He have rights to lordship as Creator, He is something else that makes Him worthy of our submission. Holy. He is holy. That is a concept that is so very foreign to us. We use the word holy all the time, but have very little revelation of it.
It means other than. It means there is nothing like God. It means there is no wickedness, no blemish, no sin, no wrong-ness in Him. Ever. It is beyond our scope.
And it is this holiness that we have lost sight of that leads us to another idea about which we have no comprehension: The Fear of the Lord. What in the world does that mean? Our Bibles have started to translate that word "reverence". Because we don't relate to "fear". At all.
How do you fear Someone Who is the Essence of Goodness? How do you love Someone and fear Him at the same time? If He is a scary, fearsome God, why do we follow Him? How can He be merciful and loving and also be a judge?
But He is both. He is love, He is loving, His lovingkindness endures forever. His mercies are new every morning. And He is holy, and just, and righteous altogether.
The whole Bible is true, not just the parts we like or relate to are agree with. He is that Guy that wiped out Ananias and Sapphira for lying about their offering. He is that Guy who sent the Israelites to massacre various people groups living in the land He gave them. He is a righteous Judge. He is right to judge and all His judgements are right. He is holy, He is love.
And He is the boss of us.
However, also in the hallway was another adult, who was no more connected to him than I, but who took it upon himself to correct him, with these words, "Zach (not his real name), I don't think your dad would want you to do that." Because he knew his dad, our pastor, he felt it was appropriate for him to correct his son. And I don't know that he knew the pastor beyond his being the pastor. Like, not to get together with his family socially, outside church.
I think this sort of thing happens a lot, and may be part of what makes it so rough to be a pastor's kid. It happens to my children also, partly because I was a worship leader for a long time, very visible, and also because I have so many children and they are easy to spot, as they look a lot alike. At camp a couple weeks ago, an adult who was trying to herd a bunch of children, calling them all "camper" not knowing their names, saw one of mine whose name she knew and addressed her by her name. Being singled out from all the other children who were just named "camper" made her feel like she was in trouble more than all the others.
Authority is a touchy subject. We don't have authority over someone just because we know their name or their dad's name. We don't have authority because we are bigger or older or more familiar than someone.
Authority comes from God. It is like electricity, there has to be a connection. You have to get authority from someone who has the authority to give authority. God gives authority to my husband, he shares it with me. When I am leaving the house, I give my authority to whoever I put in charge. My 12 year old son has no authority over my 9 year old daughter UNLESS I GIVE IT TO HIM. When he tries to exert it inappropriately, he gets this response: You're not the boss of me!
I do teach my children to respect adults, to honor them. But just because someone is an adult doesn't mean I want my children to do whatever they say. Not all adults have authority over my children. Only if I give it to them do they have it.
I want my children to understand authority because it has a direct impact on how they relate to God. We live in a church culture that sees God more as a Daddy/Lover/Friend, all of which are right and true, but we neglect to acknowledge Him, sometimes, as King and Lord. But He is that.
At this point in American society, there aren't really any absolutes - everything is negotiable. We do not respect those in authority. We've heard enough stories of corruption in government, police brutality, teachers having inappropriate relationships with students, pastors stumbling, even abusive parents, so we think all of those positions of authority are conditional on whether the leader merits our submission. We have forgotten how to submit to authority.
Because of this, we really don't know how to relate to a God who is King and Lord. It doesn't fit our grid. But we need a new grid. We need a paradigm shift. We need a new mindset. We need REVELATION.
God is God. There is no other. He made us. He made all things. He is in charge of all He made. He brought us into this world, He can take us out and make another to look just like us. He is the Boss of us.
Not only is does He have rights to lordship as Creator, He is something else that makes Him worthy of our submission. Holy. He is holy. That is a concept that is so very foreign to us. We use the word holy all the time, but have very little revelation of it.
It means other than. It means there is nothing like God. It means there is no wickedness, no blemish, no sin, no wrong-ness in Him. Ever. It is beyond our scope.
And it is this holiness that we have lost sight of that leads us to another idea about which we have no comprehension: The Fear of the Lord. What in the world does that mean? Our Bibles have started to translate that word "reverence". Because we don't relate to "fear". At all.
How do you fear Someone Who is the Essence of Goodness? How do you love Someone and fear Him at the same time? If He is a scary, fearsome God, why do we follow Him? How can He be merciful and loving and also be a judge?
But He is both. He is love, He is loving, His lovingkindness endures forever. His mercies are new every morning. And He is holy, and just, and righteous altogether.
The whole Bible is true, not just the parts we like or relate to are agree with. He is that Guy that wiped out Ananias and Sapphira for lying about their offering. He is that Guy who sent the Israelites to massacre various people groups living in the land He gave them. He is a righteous Judge. He is right to judge and all His judgements are right. He is holy, He is love.
And He is the boss of us.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Set Apart
We had a day, seems like a long time ago, where we asked a number of older (read mature) women to share stuff they had learned in their lives in God about a particular subject. In one session three women shared what they thought they did right in raising their children. And I remember that the three of them had very different things they said. For example, my mother was hyper about how we looked (she was one of the women), regarding tattoos, piercings, even wearing the color black. Another mom had a bunch of boys, and I think all of them had something cool and spiritual embedded in their skin somewhere.
But that same mom talked about thinking probably one of the most significant thing they did in raising their children was that they left the country and were missionaries somewhere else for a significant part of their lives. They were set apart.
We chose, 8 years ago, to move to a part of town where we were and still are in the racial minority. There were several reasons for the move. Primarily, it was what we thought God wanted us to do. But one perk of the move was that we were set apart. We home school, everyone else in our neighborhood doesn't. We are (most of us anyway:) fair skinned, everyone else on our block is darker. We have 12 children, one mom and one dad, no one else has that sort of family.
Because we are not like everyone else in a number of ways, it seems to make sense to our children that we are not about what other people think, but are free to seek after what God wants. Our ties to this world are not quite as strong because we don't fit exactly anyway. It is easier for us to see that we are citizens of another Kingdom. We already are set apart.
I thought of this because today I heard about a friend who sent water with her children for their lunch at camp, rather than drinking the soda that is provided for them. It had never occurred to me! Not to drink the soda? It reminded me of Daniel and the boys in Babylon, not eating the king's meat or drinking the king's wine. It reminds me of Proverbs 23, think about what you are eating when you sit down with a ruler. And (although I don't really know why she is doing it) it strikes me as a way that her very young campers are set apart already.
It is as if that mom is saying: You can go, you can play, you can be part, but just because we are going doesn't mean we are going to automatically ingest and absorb and resemble everything we will experience. You are still in control of your decisions. You are still responsible for your actions. You are attending a camp, but you are still primarily a member of our family. My authority continues even when you are not in the same room with me.
Not drinking the soda that everyone else is drinking = set apart. Brilliant. It is training for that inevitable growing up thing that has to happen. It is practice following an invisible, higher authority than the one everyone else is following. It's also better for their little bodies. Bonus points!
But that same mom talked about thinking probably one of the most significant thing they did in raising their children was that they left the country and were missionaries somewhere else for a significant part of their lives. They were set apart.
We chose, 8 years ago, to move to a part of town where we were and still are in the racial minority. There were several reasons for the move. Primarily, it was what we thought God wanted us to do. But one perk of the move was that we were set apart. We home school, everyone else in our neighborhood doesn't. We are (most of us anyway:) fair skinned, everyone else on our block is darker. We have 12 children, one mom and one dad, no one else has that sort of family.
Because we are not like everyone else in a number of ways, it seems to make sense to our children that we are not about what other people think, but are free to seek after what God wants. Our ties to this world are not quite as strong because we don't fit exactly anyway. It is easier for us to see that we are citizens of another Kingdom. We already are set apart.
I thought of this because today I heard about a friend who sent water with her children for their lunch at camp, rather than drinking the soda that is provided for them. It had never occurred to me! Not to drink the soda? It reminded me of Daniel and the boys in Babylon, not eating the king's meat or drinking the king's wine. It reminds me of Proverbs 23, think about what you are eating when you sit down with a ruler. And (although I don't really know why she is doing it) it strikes me as a way that her very young campers are set apart already.
It is as if that mom is saying: You can go, you can play, you can be part, but just because we are going doesn't mean we are going to automatically ingest and absorb and resemble everything we will experience. You are still in control of your decisions. You are still responsible for your actions. You are attending a camp, but you are still primarily a member of our family. My authority continues even when you are not in the same room with me.
Not drinking the soda that everyone else is drinking = set apart. Brilliant. It is training for that inevitable growing up thing that has to happen. It is practice following an invisible, higher authority than the one everyone else is following. It's also better for their little bodies. Bonus points!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Why do little girls have to grow up to look like hookers?
I was saddened to see a young woman of maybe 16 recently who I hadn't seen since she was a little girl. And I was so sorry to see that she had grown from a lovely girl (with the kind of face that the rest of us put make up on to try to look like her), and now looked like if she happened to be standing on a certain corner in a certain part of town at the right time of night, I'm pretty sure she could get some work. Her clothing, posture, and face all said, "Come and get it."
It reminds me of a goofy song I wrote a long time ago but never did anything with. It's what happens when a married woman writes a song meant to be sung by a single guy. I can't record it myself, and can't find anyone else who will do it. Here are the words. I called it Putrefaction, from the N.A.S.B. version of Isaiah 3.
Putrefaction
Well when God created Eve, He saw that beautiful was she
The most beautiful of all His creation
And I know there waits for me one just as beautiful as she
One whose spirit is like myrrh, not putrefaction
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I can see you spent some time looking good on the outside
But did you pay enough attention to your soul?
You see, I'm looking for a bride who cares less about being mine
But has a zeal about belonging to the Lord
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
Daughter of Zion, don't use your charm
To buy love that you cannot hold
Seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness
Light your countenence with more than just
Makeup and gold
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
It reminds me of a goofy song I wrote a long time ago but never did anything with. It's what happens when a married woman writes a song meant to be sung by a single guy. I can't record it myself, and can't find anyone else who will do it. Here are the words. I called it Putrefaction, from the N.A.S.B. version of Isaiah 3.
Putrefaction
Well when God created Eve, He saw that beautiful was she
The most beautiful of all His creation
And I know there waits for me one just as beautiful as she
One whose spirit is like myrrh, not putrefaction
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I can see you spent some time looking good on the outside
But did you pay enough attention to your soul?
You see, I'm looking for a bride who cares less about being mine
But has a zeal about belonging to the Lord
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
Daughter of Zion, don't use your charm
To buy love that you cannot hold
Seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness
Light your countenence with more than just
Makeup and gold
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
The Octomom
I just need to go off about the Octomom.
On the one hand, kudos to her for not "medically selecting" which babies to put in the freezer, which to abort, and which to let live. Good. Not killing babies is good.
On the other hand, I just have to differentiate between her and me. I have 11 children that God gave me inside of a healthy marriage to one man, one at a time, spaced in His wisdom in an appropriate way. Granted, we did cheat on the 11th one. My sweetie that I didn't carry in my own body is artificially spaced 5 months from my youngest's birthday, a medical impossibility. But even then, it only happened because God and several humans said yes.
That is different than taking your body, removing your eggs and scientifically matching them up with God-Knows-Who's sperm and creating an unnatural number of children when you have no husband and so source of providing for the children.
So don't judge big families by the Octomom. Don't put married couples trusting God with their fertility on the same bus with an artificially inseminated mega family. God gave life to those babies too, and I'm sure He has a plan for them, because all children are a blessing. But I maintain that that isn't the most ideal way to receive those blessings.
That's all.
On the one hand, kudos to her for not "medically selecting" which babies to put in the freezer, which to abort, and which to let live. Good. Not killing babies is good.
On the other hand, I just have to differentiate between her and me. I have 11 children that God gave me inside of a healthy marriage to one man, one at a time, spaced in His wisdom in an appropriate way. Granted, we did cheat on the 11th one. My sweetie that I didn't carry in my own body is artificially spaced 5 months from my youngest's birthday, a medical impossibility. But even then, it only happened because God and several humans said yes.
That is different than taking your body, removing your eggs and scientifically matching them up with God-Knows-Who's sperm and creating an unnatural number of children when you have no husband and so source of providing for the children.
So don't judge big families by the Octomom. Don't put married couples trusting God with their fertility on the same bus with an artificially inseminated mega family. God gave life to those babies too, and I'm sure He has a plan for them, because all children are a blessing. But I maintain that that isn't the most ideal way to receive those blessings.
That's all.
7,000 freaks
Elijah the prophet was man just like us. It says so in Hebrews. I heard a teaching about him Friday night at our local house of prayer. He was a prophet to Israel during the reign of Ahab, er, Jezebel. God had said not to marry foreign wives because they will lead you astray and cause you to worship other gods. He did, and she did, and he did.
So Elijah was sent to be a prophet, in Ahab's face, to the extent that the king gave him a nickname, "the troubler of Israel." His official job title might have been "The Pain in the Royal Behind." He boldly spoke on God's behalf against a king (who had subjected himself to a queen) who was picking off the prophets of the Most High.
The final straw for Ahab the Hen Pecked came when Elijah and the prophets of Baal staged the showdown of the century, where the prophets of Baal practiced self mutilation and Jehovah God answered with fire. The people shouted, "The Lord, He is God," killed the prophets of Baal, and Elijah scored huge with the return of rain after 3.5 years.
After his roaring triumph, Elijah goes and hides in a kind of suicidal slump. (Don't judge him, that's how it usually feels after you pour yourself out on the altar.) But this is the thing that got my interest (fasten your seatbelts and prepare for a hard right turn): he said to the Lord, Jezebel has killed all the prophets, and I alone am left. And God said, there are yet 7,000 who have not bowed the knee to Baal nor kissed his face.
I've been struggling with confidence, not in what I'm doing, but in how everybody else feels about it. I've felt like the troubler of Israel. My children don't attend public or private school. My children don't go to youth group. They don't go to junior high Sunday school. They will not date or have boyfriends or girlfriends or be encouraged to fixate on anything that awakens love before it is time. When they are of marrying age, we will partner with them in praying for and (for the guys) pursueing or (for the girls) awaiting a Godly courtship. We are encouraging our sons to pursue a future that equips them to provide for a wife and as many children as the Lord blesses them with. We are encouraging our daughters to follow God's leading, but without going into debt, to stay at home as long as they want to, and to put all their trust in the Lord and their daddy for their futures.
We are training our daughters to pursue the inner beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, without a whole lot of external adornment. And we're ridiculous about it. So much of today's fashion is designed to emphasize necklines and bottoms. We're running away from it.
We're teaching our boys (and girls) to guard their eyes and minds and hearts, and to save all their imaginings and touchings and kisses for their one bride (groom). But our entire culture, from very young, gears for attracting and obsessing about the opposite gender.
Because these are our convictions, and the Word says that bad company corrupts good morals, and that you become like those you are with, we are very picky about who we spend lots of with, especially time without close supervision. We are trusting God to provide relationships for us, but we will not spend great amounts of time with friends who are not like minded.
And so few are like minded. It feels like Elijah - I alone am left - sometimes. But I have that story as my commission. 7,000 who have not bowed the knee or kissed the face. Hidden and set apart. In a culture filled with idolatry, immorality, we are hiding 12 set apart unto the Lord.
So ridicule me. Mock me. Talk to each other about socialization and how weird my kids are becoming. Me and my socially awkward offspring (may God give me a dozen more) are going to build a little house of prayer, and hide God's Word in our hearts and learn to love Him and each other better. Don't take in personally, we're not judging you. We're not mad at you. We're praying for you and blessing you and asking God to give you all the wisdom you need for the task He has given YOU. But as for me and my house, we will be freaks.
So Elijah was sent to be a prophet, in Ahab's face, to the extent that the king gave him a nickname, "the troubler of Israel." His official job title might have been "The Pain in the Royal Behind." He boldly spoke on God's behalf against a king (who had subjected himself to a queen) who was picking off the prophets of the Most High.
The final straw for Ahab the Hen Pecked came when Elijah and the prophets of Baal staged the showdown of the century, where the prophets of Baal practiced self mutilation and Jehovah God answered with fire. The people shouted, "The Lord, He is God," killed the prophets of Baal, and Elijah scored huge with the return of rain after 3.5 years.
After his roaring triumph, Elijah goes and hides in a kind of suicidal slump. (Don't judge him, that's how it usually feels after you pour yourself out on the altar.) But this is the thing that got my interest (fasten your seatbelts and prepare for a hard right turn): he said to the Lord, Jezebel has killed all the prophets, and I alone am left. And God said, there are yet 7,000 who have not bowed the knee to Baal nor kissed his face.
I've been struggling with confidence, not in what I'm doing, but in how everybody else feels about it. I've felt like the troubler of Israel. My children don't attend public or private school. My children don't go to youth group. They don't go to junior high Sunday school. They will not date or have boyfriends or girlfriends or be encouraged to fixate on anything that awakens love before it is time. When they are of marrying age, we will partner with them in praying for and (for the guys) pursueing or (for the girls) awaiting a Godly courtship. We are encouraging our sons to pursue a future that equips them to provide for a wife and as many children as the Lord blesses them with. We are encouraging our daughters to follow God's leading, but without going into debt, to stay at home as long as they want to, and to put all their trust in the Lord and their daddy for their futures.
We are training our daughters to pursue the inner beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, without a whole lot of external adornment. And we're ridiculous about it. So much of today's fashion is designed to emphasize necklines and bottoms. We're running away from it.
We're teaching our boys (and girls) to guard their eyes and minds and hearts, and to save all their imaginings and touchings and kisses for their one bride (groom). But our entire culture, from very young, gears for attracting and obsessing about the opposite gender.
Because these are our convictions, and the Word says that bad company corrupts good morals, and that you become like those you are with, we are very picky about who we spend lots of with, especially time without close supervision. We are trusting God to provide relationships for us, but we will not spend great amounts of time with friends who are not like minded.
And so few are like minded. It feels like Elijah - I alone am left - sometimes. But I have that story as my commission. 7,000 who have not bowed the knee or kissed the face. Hidden and set apart. In a culture filled with idolatry, immorality, we are hiding 12 set apart unto the Lord.
So ridicule me. Mock me. Talk to each other about socialization and how weird my kids are becoming. Me and my socially awkward offspring (may God give me a dozen more) are going to build a little house of prayer, and hide God's Word in our hearts and learn to love Him and each other better. Don't take in personally, we're not judging you. We're not mad at you. We're praying for you and blessing you and asking God to give you all the wisdom you need for the task He has given YOU. But as for me and my house, we will be freaks.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
On staying cool and being cool
I live in a place where it is always pretty hot in the summer, but this summer is exceptional. It is not hot. Not merely hot. It is dang hot. The difference between hot and dang hot is that when it is hot, you want a cold drink, you want air conditioning, you want to go swimming. When it is dang hot, you just want to die.
I have a friend from Kentucky who told me a log time ago (and regrets telling me, because I quote her every summer and attribute it to her) that when asked how hot it is, back home they say, "It's hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's *butt* on the fourth of July in *hades*. We have changed that this week to say it is now hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's butt on the fourth of July in a volcano on the sun. Which entirely accurate, but it is how we feel.
Now, I am an unregistered member of the polar bear club. I love swimming so much that I will swim in Lake Michigan in May in the 50's. I will get into a snow fed mountain stream that literally makes your feet hurt. When I go to the beach I have to wear swim wear because I can't help but wade my way in to all wet. I cannot stay in a canoe. But I don't have easy access to any regular swimming here. So I've been taking showers in the coldest cold water we have, but alas! It is only luke warm.
But there is also winter where I live. And I know for certain that it will come again, and there will be a day, not too many weeks away, that I will be sick and tired of being cold and convinced that I will never be warm again. It will be so cold that I'm afraid to go to the bathroom at night (for whatever reason, the air and heat work worst in my bedroom, nay, in my bathroom, so in the summer, there is no hotter place, and in the winter, no seat is as cold as my toilet seat). I know that will happen again.
I have spent a significent portion of the last 3 weeks at our church's camp. To clarify - it is not a camp you go to in another town and sleep in dirty cabins and get eaten by mosquitoes and eat eggs that seem like they never, ever came from a chicken. Rather, it is a camp because it is a way bigger deal than VBS and costs more and has way more attitude and consumes your life. You go in the morning and come home in the afternoon and just lay on the couch pretty much dead, moving only to eat huge amounts of food or move to a bed.
And at that camp, I've come into contact with lots of school aged children and little ones and adults and teenagers. The school aged children are the campers that the camp is for. The little ones are there because parents like me refuse to take them home because life is miserable without our big people. The adults do things like teaching and guiding and protecting. And the teens are what really make the thing happen.
I have 2 teenagers of my own, and a few more that are nearly teenagers. We don't groan because of our teenagers. We like them a lot. They are among our best friends. No kidding. They're terrific.
But teenagers that don't live at my house make me nervous, self conscious, and very aware that I am not cool. Not only am I not cool, I've never been cool, not even when I was a teenager, and being around them reminds me of it. I'm so not cool, I don't even know what they call it now. What we called cool, I'm sure there's a new term for it, a word or phrase that means you have that thing where you say the right thing all the time and are so popular that you don't have to second guess yourself and wish you hadn't said what you said or did what you did or wore what you wore.
Confidence.
I taught at said camp about confidence all three weeks (comical, isn't it?), but, as is usually the case, I learned about it as I went. I learned that God doesn't measure me like I measure me. He doesn't judge me based on what I look like or am now. He sees the long view. You know, the one I don't have access to except in glimpses He shows me that I have to receive in faith? That long view.
I learned that I only need to listen to what He says about me because He judges rightly, His judgements are true, and I can trust Him.
And I am in a more secure place today because He has been speaking to me lately about who He made me to be. And that's exciting. It's so exciting, it will probably be a different blog. But for the first time in a while, maybe ever, I'm pretty sure of me just and only because I'm quite certain of Him. (that reminds me of a winnie the pooh quote, "I just wanted to be sure of you.")
So even though I am not remotely cool on any level, neither temperature nor image, I am quite at peace. And I'll take peace over cool any day.
I have a friend from Kentucky who told me a log time ago (and regrets telling me, because I quote her every summer and attribute it to her) that when asked how hot it is, back home they say, "It's hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's *butt* on the fourth of July in *hades*. We have changed that this week to say it is now hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's butt on the fourth of July in a volcano on the sun. Which entirely accurate, but it is how we feel.
Now, I am an unregistered member of the polar bear club. I love swimming so much that I will swim in Lake Michigan in May in the 50's. I will get into a snow fed mountain stream that literally makes your feet hurt. When I go to the beach I have to wear swim wear because I can't help but wade my way in to all wet. I cannot stay in a canoe. But I don't have easy access to any regular swimming here. So I've been taking showers in the coldest cold water we have, but alas! It is only luke warm.
But there is also winter where I live. And I know for certain that it will come again, and there will be a day, not too many weeks away, that I will be sick and tired of being cold and convinced that I will never be warm again. It will be so cold that I'm afraid to go to the bathroom at night (for whatever reason, the air and heat work worst in my bedroom, nay, in my bathroom, so in the summer, there is no hotter place, and in the winter, no seat is as cold as my toilet seat). I know that will happen again.
I have spent a significent portion of the last 3 weeks at our church's camp. To clarify - it is not a camp you go to in another town and sleep in dirty cabins and get eaten by mosquitoes and eat eggs that seem like they never, ever came from a chicken. Rather, it is a camp because it is a way bigger deal than VBS and costs more and has way more attitude and consumes your life. You go in the morning and come home in the afternoon and just lay on the couch pretty much dead, moving only to eat huge amounts of food or move to a bed.
And at that camp, I've come into contact with lots of school aged children and little ones and adults and teenagers. The school aged children are the campers that the camp is for. The little ones are there because parents like me refuse to take them home because life is miserable without our big people. The adults do things like teaching and guiding and protecting. And the teens are what really make the thing happen.
I have 2 teenagers of my own, and a few more that are nearly teenagers. We don't groan because of our teenagers. We like them a lot. They are among our best friends. No kidding. They're terrific.
But teenagers that don't live at my house make me nervous, self conscious, and very aware that I am not cool. Not only am I not cool, I've never been cool, not even when I was a teenager, and being around them reminds me of it. I'm so not cool, I don't even know what they call it now. What we called cool, I'm sure there's a new term for it, a word or phrase that means you have that thing where you say the right thing all the time and are so popular that you don't have to second guess yourself and wish you hadn't said what you said or did what you did or wore what you wore.
Confidence.
I taught at said camp about confidence all three weeks (comical, isn't it?), but, as is usually the case, I learned about it as I went. I learned that God doesn't measure me like I measure me. He doesn't judge me based on what I look like or am now. He sees the long view. You know, the one I don't have access to except in glimpses He shows me that I have to receive in faith? That long view.
I learned that I only need to listen to what He says about me because He judges rightly, His judgements are true, and I can trust Him.
And I am in a more secure place today because He has been speaking to me lately about who He made me to be. And that's exciting. It's so exciting, it will probably be a different blog. But for the first time in a while, maybe ever, I'm pretty sure of me just and only because I'm quite certain of Him. (that reminds me of a winnie the pooh quote, "I just wanted to be sure of you.")
So even though I am not remotely cool on any level, neither temperature nor image, I am quite at peace. And I'll take peace over cool any day.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Messed up.
This week we went to our church's day camp. So our little crew of home bodies was out and about from 7:45 a.m. till nearly 5 every day. We packed 60 or so lunches (at least one of the small people was committed to packing his own, er, "lunch" even though a big person had done it for him), washed everyone's uniform each night, took dimes on "dime day" and swim suits and towels on water day. We washed just enough dishes to get by, used disposable diapers, and were singularly triumphant in avoiding fast food all but one day.
Those were our successes.
We neglected our little world dreadfully, otherwise. We once again have a laundry hall rather than a laundry room, no counter space in the kitchen, and my bedroom resembles a clearing house of everyone's belongings. This morning was full of mournful cries, including but not limited to: can't find my crocs, can't find any shirts, don't have any clean underwear.
The eldest: I can't remember the last time our house was this dirty.
I cleaned the non-garbage disposal drain and found that something had sprouted, a seed of some kind. I should put it in dirt and see who it turns out to be.
Other things seem to have sprouted, as well. Like, the idea that life should be fun all day every day. Or, the notion that work is someone else's job. The little ones think they need to have shoes on before breakfast is over, they shouldn't let mom out of their sight, and first time obedience is a thing of yesteryear.
And everyone is exhausted.
Including me. I noticed one middle of the night that (t.m.i. alert) I had hardly any pee in me. It dawned on me that for days running, I had been drinking coffee and not water.
The principle was profound. I drank to feel better, not to be better. So I was worse. And the cycle continued. My body was needing hydration, and I was mistaking the cues.
Yesterday, I had the brilliant idea (sarcasm.) of going to visit friends who live an hour away. It really was fun. And it really was stupid. My family needed to stay home and do nothing. We did the opposite.
I seem to have a messed up way of handling hard. I'm tired, so I drink diuretics. I'm lonely, so I eat. I'm frustrated, so I yell and scream.
Take a deep breath. Take a big drink of water. Take a small nap. Start over.
Children will do chores. Babies will take naps. Laundry will be cleaned, and sorted, and put away. Dishes will be done. The Bible will be read. Training will happen. And gradually, we will return to our version of normal and our rendition of order.
Those were our successes.
We neglected our little world dreadfully, otherwise. We once again have a laundry hall rather than a laundry room, no counter space in the kitchen, and my bedroom resembles a clearing house of everyone's belongings. This morning was full of mournful cries, including but not limited to: can't find my crocs, can't find any shirts, don't have any clean underwear.
The eldest: I can't remember the last time our house was this dirty.
I cleaned the non-garbage disposal drain and found that something had sprouted, a seed of some kind. I should put it in dirt and see who it turns out to be.
Other things seem to have sprouted, as well. Like, the idea that life should be fun all day every day. Or, the notion that work is someone else's job. The little ones think they need to have shoes on before breakfast is over, they shouldn't let mom out of their sight, and first time obedience is a thing of yesteryear.
And everyone is exhausted.
Including me. I noticed one middle of the night that (t.m.i. alert) I had hardly any pee in me. It dawned on me that for days running, I had been drinking coffee and not water.
The principle was profound. I drank to feel better, not to be better. So I was worse. And the cycle continued. My body was needing hydration, and I was mistaking the cues.
Yesterday, I had the brilliant idea (sarcasm.) of going to visit friends who live an hour away. It really was fun. And it really was stupid. My family needed to stay home and do nothing. We did the opposite.
I seem to have a messed up way of handling hard. I'm tired, so I drink diuretics. I'm lonely, so I eat. I'm frustrated, so I yell and scream.
Take a deep breath. Take a big drink of water. Take a small nap. Start over.
Children will do chores. Babies will take naps. Laundry will be cleaned, and sorted, and put away. Dishes will be done. The Bible will be read. Training will happen. And gradually, we will return to our version of normal and our rendition of order.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Tired of me
Sorry I haven't written very much lately. I'm kind of tired of me. Tired of thinking my thoughts, tired of hearing myself talk, not interested in seeing myself write.
It's funny, because today I taught a couple hundred kids about confidence. And I don't have any right now.
I made 2 points: you can be confident because God made you, and He delights in you. Why doesn't that help me? I know God made me. I believe He delights in me. But I don't. I don't delight in me. I'm not very impressed with me at all.
Which isn't the same. God isn't "impressed" with me. He delights in me.
It's just hard to fathom. I'm so riddled with issues, past and present, so critical, so out of control, so overwhelmed and underequipped. How can He possibly delight in me. Heck, I don't know how He even tolerates me, let alone delights. I simply don't get it.
No wonder the children all had a blank look today. I don't get it myself.
The example I used with them was the way I feel about my children. I have an unfathomable love for each of my 12 humans. And I have the blessing of parents who, though critical of me, delight in me as well. I know what it feels like to have my parent's love.
But I have trouble connecting the dots.
God made me and loves me, yes, but then I sin, and I lack most of the fruits of the Spirit, and I talk too much, . . . and I know Jesus' blood covers my sin, but wouldn't that make God even more irritated with me - like He's saying, "My Son gave His life, for this?!" Like God has paid the ransom for my sin, and I'm pretty sure He has buyer's remorse.
Sometimes, even though I am sure all of my children are a treasure and a gift from the Lord, I'm pretty convinced that they, or really I am the bane of everyone's existence, that any hospitality anyone shows us is motivated out of pity, that no one actually enjoys being with us/me.
He delights in me. Seriously? Honestly? I can barely stand to look in the mirror. Getting dressed causes emotional trauma. He delights in me? This is beyond my quite vivid imagination. I cannot comprehend that the perfect can possibly delight in me, the epitome of imperfection.
God made me and He delights in me. I'm going to have to just concede on this, and try to meditate on it for eternity. Maybe someday when I'm 70 I will begin to comprehend something of the love of God. I pray that I'll get a glimpse.
Because obviously, I'm not going to be much good at communicating God's love to people who don't know it if I don't grasp it myself.
But I don't. Not really. Not today. Not right now.
It's funny, because today I taught a couple hundred kids about confidence. And I don't have any right now.
I made 2 points: you can be confident because God made you, and He delights in you. Why doesn't that help me? I know God made me. I believe He delights in me. But I don't. I don't delight in me. I'm not very impressed with me at all.
Which isn't the same. God isn't "impressed" with me. He delights in me.
It's just hard to fathom. I'm so riddled with issues, past and present, so critical, so out of control, so overwhelmed and underequipped. How can He possibly delight in me. Heck, I don't know how He even tolerates me, let alone delights. I simply don't get it.
No wonder the children all had a blank look today. I don't get it myself.
The example I used with them was the way I feel about my children. I have an unfathomable love for each of my 12 humans. And I have the blessing of parents who, though critical of me, delight in me as well. I know what it feels like to have my parent's love.
But I have trouble connecting the dots.
God made me and loves me, yes, but then I sin, and I lack most of the fruits of the Spirit, and I talk too much, . . . and I know Jesus' blood covers my sin, but wouldn't that make God even more irritated with me - like He's saying, "My Son gave His life, for this?!" Like God has paid the ransom for my sin, and I'm pretty sure He has buyer's remorse.
Sometimes, even though I am sure all of my children are a treasure and a gift from the Lord, I'm pretty convinced that they, or really I am the bane of everyone's existence, that any hospitality anyone shows us is motivated out of pity, that no one actually enjoys being with us/me.
He delights in me. Seriously? Honestly? I can barely stand to look in the mirror. Getting dressed causes emotional trauma. He delights in me? This is beyond my quite vivid imagination. I cannot comprehend that the perfect can possibly delight in me, the epitome of imperfection.
God made me and He delights in me. I'm going to have to just concede on this, and try to meditate on it for eternity. Maybe someday when I'm 70 I will begin to comprehend something of the love of God. I pray that I'll get a glimpse.
Because obviously, I'm not going to be much good at communicating God's love to people who don't know it if I don't grasp it myself.
But I don't. Not really. Not today. Not right now.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Even in the presence of the King?
I am, among other things, a worship leader.
Once I was trying to have more men model worship in our church. We have several men on different worship teams, but the vast majority of them play an instrument. The few that do not play an instrument serve as singers. But I was hoping to get some men who are manly men, not necessarily musically inclined, to come an model worship. Men who are expressive in their relationship to God, not because they are expressive by nature, but because they really respond to the Lord when they encounter Him.
So I was on a quest, asking these godly, manly worshipping men to come on the platform with me and just do what they do, no microphone, but where people could see them. I was turned down flat. The reason given: I think it would just be too distracting with all those people looking at me.
That was understandable. But my problem was, look, buddy, I have to deal with those distractions every time I get up there.
There are so many distractions for people serving on the platform. Who is that? I've never seen him before. I need to remember to pick up this thing and drop that thing off. Did I close the garage door? I wonder if she is still mad at me? Am I flat? Is my skirt long enough? The lights are hot. I can't hear the bass. The drums are too loud. I can't hear myself. What do these words mean? I am so sick of this song. I sound terrible. I sound fantastic!
But isn't that true for everyone? Don't we all feel a barage of distractions during worship?
Last night I had the huge privilege of playing keyboard along side a favorite worship leader and friend, Mr. Chris DuPre. And I was fighting all the usual battles. And I felt the struggle between self-awareness and true worship. And I thought I heard, or felt, or was aware of another battle. A battle waged on my behalf.
Because, as I've said before, I not only believe in a real God, but also in a real satan. A real enemy who really hates God and gets at Him any way he can, often by taking shots at His beloved. And I think I heard my King, my Bridegroom, the Lover of my soul say to my enemy that line that King Ahaserous chastised Haman with long ago.
"Will you even assault the queen in the presence of the King?" Will you even try to wound and distract and take down my bride, even as she has come to worship me?
And it helped me to simply ignore everything but the face of my Jesus.
It was profound. I don't know that it will mean as much to anyone else, but for me, to know that He fights for me, that all power is His, that I have nothing to fear, that He wants all of me. I am content.
Once I was trying to have more men model worship in our church. We have several men on different worship teams, but the vast majority of them play an instrument. The few that do not play an instrument serve as singers. But I was hoping to get some men who are manly men, not necessarily musically inclined, to come an model worship. Men who are expressive in their relationship to God, not because they are expressive by nature, but because they really respond to the Lord when they encounter Him.
So I was on a quest, asking these godly, manly worshipping men to come on the platform with me and just do what they do, no microphone, but where people could see them. I was turned down flat. The reason given: I think it would just be too distracting with all those people looking at me.
That was understandable. But my problem was, look, buddy, I have to deal with those distractions every time I get up there.
There are so many distractions for people serving on the platform. Who is that? I've never seen him before. I need to remember to pick up this thing and drop that thing off. Did I close the garage door? I wonder if she is still mad at me? Am I flat? Is my skirt long enough? The lights are hot. I can't hear the bass. The drums are too loud. I can't hear myself. What do these words mean? I am so sick of this song. I sound terrible. I sound fantastic!
But isn't that true for everyone? Don't we all feel a barage of distractions during worship?
Last night I had the huge privilege of playing keyboard along side a favorite worship leader and friend, Mr. Chris DuPre. And I was fighting all the usual battles. And I felt the struggle between self-awareness and true worship. And I thought I heard, or felt, or was aware of another battle. A battle waged on my behalf.
Because, as I've said before, I not only believe in a real God, but also in a real satan. A real enemy who really hates God and gets at Him any way he can, often by taking shots at His beloved. And I think I heard my King, my Bridegroom, the Lover of my soul say to my enemy that line that King Ahaserous chastised Haman with long ago.
"Will you even assault the queen in the presence of the King?" Will you even try to wound and distract and take down my bride, even as she has come to worship me?
And it helped me to simply ignore everything but the face of my Jesus.
It was profound. I don't know that it will mean as much to anyone else, but for me, to know that He fights for me, that all power is His, that I have nothing to fear, that He wants all of me. I am content.
Friday, July 01, 2011
How you do it: meals
(Redundancy warning: if you've really read this whole blog, skip ahead).
In this era of reality TV that include Jon, Kate, the Gosslings and the Duggars, people are a little fascinated by a noticeably large family like ours. They have a variety of responses, which sometimes includes a barage of questions they wish they could ask the famous people. But sometimes they just say 'I don't know how you do it, I can barely handle my x number of kids!'
So a while ago I began an attempt to answer that question with a series of blogs. So here is one about chow time. I'm not saying this is a good way to do things. It's just how we do things.
I cut pizza with a pizza cutter. Not just into pieces of pizza, but into bites for littles. Sometimes I cut the very edge of the crust off so they can't tell which bites are *crust* bites. I also cut pancakes, waffles, and quesadillas with a pizza cutter.
I microwave tacos for small people with cheese and meat just enough to melt the cheese. The cheese becomes the glue that holds the taco together.
I cut little kids hot dogs long ways into quarters, then slice them.
I add a little baby cereal to baby food so it has a thicker texture and is easier to feed them.
Bananas can be subdivided into thirds longways, great fingerfoods for babies.
I don't buy juice very much. I prefer my kids to drink water and eat fruit. And I don't serve drinks with meals at all. If they want one, I let them get it. And I encourage cup sharing.
I feed my almost one year olds with soggy left behind cereal.
I deliberately make my oatmeal too thick and add milk to cool it.
When I pack lunches I buy big bags of chips or '-ito's (any snack that ends with ito, Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos, and divide them into small bags. Or I make 'lunchables' with meat, cheese and crackers. Before our church's camp, when I'll make 11 lunches a day, I will make several packs up before the week starts. Then each morning I just throw them together. In brown paper bags.
I make baby food in my vita-mix. I just throw fresh fruit or veggies or both into it with water and blend. It makes more than I need, but I pour what I don't use into an ice cube tray in the freezer. I add a little baby oatmeal and formula (formula is optional) to it for thickness. I used green bell pepper and granny smith apple together. It was good, different, but fresh and I thought better than packaged stuff and easy. Before I had a vita-mix I had a mini-food processor, but I steamed the food first.
For a while I had a child who was allergic to eggs, and learned that a smashed egg-sized portion of banana could take the place of an egg in pancakes.
Babies who chew can eat anything you can smash with your fingers, and plain cheerios (not apple or frosted or honey nut) is good finger food. Also rice chex and crackers that melt easily.
You can slip a good number of carrots into a fruit smoothy and if your blender is worthy, no one will know.
When I make pancakes, sometimes I make bigger ones at first, then make small ones for 'seconds'. That way we don't have as many abandoned half-eaten eye-stomach disproportions.
I guess that's what I have for now. If you want to add a helpful meal tip of your own feel free.
In this era of reality TV that include Jon, Kate, the Gosslings and the Duggars, people are a little fascinated by a noticeably large family like ours. They have a variety of responses, which sometimes includes a barage of questions they wish they could ask the famous people. But sometimes they just say 'I don't know how you do it, I can barely handle my x number of kids!'
So a while ago I began an attempt to answer that question with a series of blogs. So here is one about chow time. I'm not saying this is a good way to do things. It's just how we do things.
I cut pizza with a pizza cutter. Not just into pieces of pizza, but into bites for littles. Sometimes I cut the very edge of the crust off so they can't tell which bites are *crust* bites. I also cut pancakes, waffles, and quesadillas with a pizza cutter.
I microwave tacos for small people with cheese and meat just enough to melt the cheese. The cheese becomes the glue that holds the taco together.
I cut little kids hot dogs long ways into quarters, then slice them.
I add a little baby cereal to baby food so it has a thicker texture and is easier to feed them.
Bananas can be subdivided into thirds longways, great fingerfoods for babies.
I don't buy juice very much. I prefer my kids to drink water and eat fruit. And I don't serve drinks with meals at all. If they want one, I let them get it. And I encourage cup sharing.
I feed my almost one year olds with soggy left behind cereal.
I deliberately make my oatmeal too thick and add milk to cool it.
When I pack lunches I buy big bags of chips or '-ito's (any snack that ends with ito, Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos, and divide them into small bags. Or I make 'lunchables' with meat, cheese and crackers. Before our church's camp, when I'll make 11 lunches a day, I will make several packs up before the week starts. Then each morning I just throw them together. In brown paper bags.
I make baby food in my vita-mix. I just throw fresh fruit or veggies or both into it with water and blend. It makes more than I need, but I pour what I don't use into an ice cube tray in the freezer. I add a little baby oatmeal and formula (formula is optional) to it for thickness. I used green bell pepper and granny smith apple together. It was good, different, but fresh and I thought better than packaged stuff and easy. Before I had a vita-mix I had a mini-food processor, but I steamed the food first.
For a while I had a child who was allergic to eggs, and learned that a smashed egg-sized portion of banana could take the place of an egg in pancakes.
Babies who chew can eat anything you can smash with your fingers, and plain cheerios (not apple or frosted or honey nut) is good finger food. Also rice chex and crackers that melt easily.
You can slip a good number of carrots into a fruit smoothy and if your blender is worthy, no one will know.
When I make pancakes, sometimes I make bigger ones at first, then make small ones for 'seconds'. That way we don't have as many abandoned half-eaten eye-stomach disproportions.
I guess that's what I have for now. If you want to add a helpful meal tip of your own feel free.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Tribute to my children's daddy
It is a couple days before Father's Day, and so I wanted to take a moment to honor the man of my dreams.
He is tall (well, tall to me anyway), fair, and easy on the eyes. He is more handsome every year. He has wonderful blue eyes and a fantastic smile.
He is an excellent worker. I tell him that if I had a company, I would want to fill it with employees like him. He is conscientious and diligent. He never makes excuses, and even when he has a good one, he doesn't use it. He takes good care of people and things. He is always gentle and kind.
He is passionate, especially about God. He has a look that he gets, when I know he has heard from the Lord. It is at those moments I love him the most, and am glad to follow him anywhere.
He is a great daddy. He loves his children tirelessly, denying himself over and over again to fix a bike or computer, to go back for something forgotten, to carry a sleeping child (or four) to bed, up and down the same flight of stairs several times.
His favorite way to spend an evening is snuggled on the couch with a kid on each side and a couple on his lap watching a movie with them, listening to them laugh and watching them dance during the credits. He doesn't have a desire to get away from them. He loves his children.
And even though I know I am his helpmeet, I have to say what a gift he is to me.
Thankful for my husband.
He is tall (well, tall to me anyway), fair, and easy on the eyes. He is more handsome every year. He has wonderful blue eyes and a fantastic smile.
He is an excellent worker. I tell him that if I had a company, I would want to fill it with employees like him. He is conscientious and diligent. He never makes excuses, and even when he has a good one, he doesn't use it. He takes good care of people and things. He is always gentle and kind.
He is passionate, especially about God. He has a look that he gets, when I know he has heard from the Lord. It is at those moments I love him the most, and am glad to follow him anywhere.
He is a great daddy. He loves his children tirelessly, denying himself over and over again to fix a bike or computer, to go back for something forgotten, to carry a sleeping child (or four) to bed, up and down the same flight of stairs several times.
His favorite way to spend an evening is snuggled on the couch with a kid on each side and a couple on his lap watching a movie with them, listening to them laugh and watching them dance during the credits. He doesn't have a desire to get away from them. He loves his children.
And even though I know I am his helpmeet, I have to say what a gift he is to me.
Thankful for my husband.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Love and Admonition
Bring your children up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. That's what it says, probably in Proverbs, though I'm not going to look it up right now.
I was thinking about those two words.
Nurture. Tenderness. Mercy and kindness. Hugs and kisses. Holding when hurt, listening, compassion, understanding. My little one has a hurt toe, I hold him as long as he lets me. My young adult daughter is having a tough day, I hug her until she's done crying and talking. Feeding, diaper changing, clothing, bedding, bandaging. Nurturing.
Admonition. Correcting. Training. Shepherding their hearts. Pruning. Directing and redirecting and redirecting. Giving boundaries and reinforcing them. Disciplining. My 3 year old son is fighting with his 5 yr old sister continually, he is spending time in a chair and learning this is unacceptable. My older daughters are having difficulty completing their work, they will miss the movie tonight. I will discipline the ones I love.
But I also want them to know His nurture and admonition through my parenting. I want to point them to His beauty and love and compassion when they are sad or hurt or scared. I want to direct them to His statues, His perfect law, His righteousness, His holiness.
But His law is a tutor to point us back to His cross, His mercy, His everlasting love. I hold up His standards, unachievable, and then show them the way to repentence. I don't give them an easy attainable set of rules. I want to set the bar high. In fact, it's not my bar. I'm a steward. They belong to Him. So we have to use His laws.
Honor your mother and father. Be ye kind one to another, forgiving one another as Christ has forgiven you. Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth except that which is useful for building up and edification. Do not sin in your anger. He who hates instruction is stupid. Love your enemies.
Those things are hard. Especially to a 3 year old. But they are the law. The little kid version is this: I have them hold up two fingers. Obey and be kind. How do you solve problems with a sibling? Hold up two fingers. First, speak kindly to them. If that doesn't work, call in help.
What I'm asking of them is hard. It's impossible. But that means we have ample opportunity to practice repenting, practice being forgiven and asking for help. We are wearing a path to the cross.
The love and the admonition (and the love) of the Lord.
I was thinking about those two words.
Nurture. Tenderness. Mercy and kindness. Hugs and kisses. Holding when hurt, listening, compassion, understanding. My little one has a hurt toe, I hold him as long as he lets me. My young adult daughter is having a tough day, I hug her until she's done crying and talking. Feeding, diaper changing, clothing, bedding, bandaging. Nurturing.
Admonition. Correcting. Training. Shepherding their hearts. Pruning. Directing and redirecting and redirecting. Giving boundaries and reinforcing them. Disciplining. My 3 year old son is fighting with his 5 yr old sister continually, he is spending time in a chair and learning this is unacceptable. My older daughters are having difficulty completing their work, they will miss the movie tonight. I will discipline the ones I love.
But I also want them to know His nurture and admonition through my parenting. I want to point them to His beauty and love and compassion when they are sad or hurt or scared. I want to direct them to His statues, His perfect law, His righteousness, His holiness.
But His law is a tutor to point us back to His cross, His mercy, His everlasting love. I hold up His standards, unachievable, and then show them the way to repentence. I don't give them an easy attainable set of rules. I want to set the bar high. In fact, it's not my bar. I'm a steward. They belong to Him. So we have to use His laws.
Honor your mother and father. Be ye kind one to another, forgiving one another as Christ has forgiven you. Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth except that which is useful for building up and edification. Do not sin in your anger. He who hates instruction is stupid. Love your enemies.
Those things are hard. Especially to a 3 year old. But they are the law. The little kid version is this: I have them hold up two fingers. Obey and be kind. How do you solve problems with a sibling? Hold up two fingers. First, speak kindly to them. If that doesn't work, call in help.
What I'm asking of them is hard. It's impossible. But that means we have ample opportunity to practice repenting, practice being forgiven and asking for help. We are wearing a path to the cross.
The love and the admonition (and the love) of the Lord.
Monday, June 13, 2011
5 minutes in the morning
First of all, I really should apologize for the redundancy I am certain is rampant in this blog. I'm probably cyclical, so that if you have read back to a certain date, I begin to repeat myself. So, if I've said all this before, sorry. I just write what's on my mind, and I don't always remember what was on my mind before.
I suppose this falls in the "how do you do it" category, although no one really asks me, "Hey, how can we have a great marriage like yours?" Actually, they make flippant comments like, "Don't you guys have heat?" or, "Don't you have a tv?" or, "It figures you have a lot of kids, your bed is so small." Stuff like that.
But we do have a good marriage, I think, or, at least, a better marriage than we began with, and a better marriage than we once had. There are a couple things that have made our marriage a good place to be that are maybe worth mentioning, since some 60% of marriages end in divorce, and only 10% are happily married. So here is my salient wisdom. Who am I kidding? I don't even know what salient means.
1. Access. Intimacy is not a favor my husband has to earn, not a privilege to give and take away, not a weapon I use to get what I want from him. The Bible clearly says I am his and he is mine. Only in the case of fasting is it appropriate for me to turn him away. Certainly we need to work through other marriage issues, but not in that context. I can say, "Honey, I would really enjoy our time at night together more if we were able to have a little more eye contact during the day," or whatever it is I need to say. But I belong to him. God will help me work through whatever issues and help me to forgive, even if a situation stands unresolved. I know that's hard. But God is really that big. Really.
2. Honor. I will honor my husband to his face, in front of others and behind his back. He is a gift given to me by God, actually, the other way around. I will honor him in my heart and to my children. I will speak well of him and kindly to him. When he has areas that need improvement, from my point of view (because I also have so many areas that need it), I will speak to him respectfully and will pray for him, also with respect. But I leave whatever changing of my spouse that needs to be done in the hands of God.
3. Pray. We started praying together before he leaves for work each day a few years ago. And it has made all the difference in the world. I don't know why. Well, I mean, I guess I know why. We connect. In that 5 minutes before the throne, before the day really gets rolling, even with a kid or 4 interrupting each sentence, we commune with each other and the Lord, bring our needs before the King, lift each other up for the day's labor and ask God to bless. Our prayer is full of blessing. I bless him, his work, his relationships, his time in the car. I pray for God to be his conscious companion, for him to be wise and win souls, to have opportunity to give account for the hope that is in him. I pray for him to have creative inspiration from the Lord on how to solve problems and deal with people at his work. I pray that God would speak to him about our family and would teach him how best to lead it. I honor him in the place of prayer.
Five minutes. Every morning. Makes a world of difference.
I suppose this falls in the "how do you do it" category, although no one really asks me, "Hey, how can we have a great marriage like yours?" Actually, they make flippant comments like, "Don't you guys have heat?" or, "Don't you have a tv?" or, "It figures you have a lot of kids, your bed is so small." Stuff like that.
But we do have a good marriage, I think, or, at least, a better marriage than we began with, and a better marriage than we once had. There are a couple things that have made our marriage a good place to be that are maybe worth mentioning, since some 60% of marriages end in divorce, and only 10% are happily married. So here is my salient wisdom. Who am I kidding? I don't even know what salient means.
1. Access. Intimacy is not a favor my husband has to earn, not a privilege to give and take away, not a weapon I use to get what I want from him. The Bible clearly says I am his and he is mine. Only in the case of fasting is it appropriate for me to turn him away. Certainly we need to work through other marriage issues, but not in that context. I can say, "Honey, I would really enjoy our time at night together more if we were able to have a little more eye contact during the day," or whatever it is I need to say. But I belong to him. God will help me work through whatever issues and help me to forgive, even if a situation stands unresolved. I know that's hard. But God is really that big. Really.
2. Honor. I will honor my husband to his face, in front of others and behind his back. He is a gift given to me by God, actually, the other way around. I will honor him in my heart and to my children. I will speak well of him and kindly to him. When he has areas that need improvement, from my point of view (because I also have so many areas that need it), I will speak to him respectfully and will pray for him, also with respect. But I leave whatever changing of my spouse that needs to be done in the hands of God.
3. Pray. We started praying together before he leaves for work each day a few years ago. And it has made all the difference in the world. I don't know why. Well, I mean, I guess I know why. We connect. In that 5 minutes before the throne, before the day really gets rolling, even with a kid or 4 interrupting each sentence, we commune with each other and the Lord, bring our needs before the King, lift each other up for the day's labor and ask God to bless. Our prayer is full of blessing. I bless him, his work, his relationships, his time in the car. I pray for God to be his conscious companion, for him to be wise and win souls, to have opportunity to give account for the hope that is in him. I pray for him to have creative inspiration from the Lord on how to solve problems and deal with people at his work. I pray that God would speak to him about our family and would teach him how best to lead it. I honor him in the place of prayer.
Five minutes. Every morning. Makes a world of difference.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Fasting for kids
The Bible talks about solemn assemblies and fasts as things that include children and even nursing babies. I would love to know what that looked like exactly.
But fasting is something we do in our house, sometimes to take part in a corporate fast with our church, sometimes when we are making a big decision, or even because dad says that is what we are going to do. So here is what it looks like in our family.
We have done a lot of different things. Most often, the young ones fast sweets or technology. Sometimes this means no desserts, and sometimes it means we really go without sugar for a period of time. Technology means no t.v. or movies or playing games on computer or Wii or hand held devices (my phone!). Usually we still use the phone to talk and the computer to do school.
That can be tough for littles, especially depending on how much they do that stuff. They ask frequently for whatever they are missing. And that moment of asking is the golden opportunity to pray together. Here is what our echoed prayer might sound like (for a 2-5 year old):
Dear Jesus, Dear Jesus,
I want to watch TV. I want to watch TV.
I really like TV. I really like . . .
But mommy says You are better than TV.
And I want to know You better.
Please help me know You more.
Please help me know You are better than TV.
Amen
Something like that.
We have done longer fasts that were tiered. Maybe the first week we start with no TV, the second week we add no desserts, the third week we don't have sugar at all, and the last three days we just eat rice or oatmeal.
My older children this time said, we don't want to do a kid fast. We want to do something more. So they are trying a Daniel fast. One is doing bread and nuts with it. The other one tried just fruits and veggies and then added nuts. Another is fasting lunch each day; he doesn't eat between breakfast and supper.
Another couple are going to do no sugar until the last day, and then try to really fast that day.
Throughout the week, one of my jobs is to continually steer their attention away from what they and each other are not eating or drinking and toward the Lord. This is a big effort, and a constant one, but it is a good battle to fight and worth it.
We continue to live a normal life, do what we would normally do. School, chores, responsibilities all still have to happen. And attitudes need adjusted as well. I frequently send the big ones out of the kitchen and to their rooms with their Bibles or to their instruments to play it out.
Another difficult thing is when not everyone fasts the same thing. It is best if we prefer each other and don't openly eat what someone else is fasting. But that is not entirely possible, and is really part of the fast, part of the training.
But the hardest thing for me is that I am fasting more than whatever I choose to fast. Because if a big kid is only eating fruit and veggies, I'm not going to ask him/her to cut a toddler's pizza. I'm on my own in a lot of ways this week. I will ask them to suck it up sometimes (because I have to and it is a good skill to learn) but I am not asking as much as I normally do.
In fact, I barely even knew what I would fast this week. I'm fasting husband and big helpers. I'm fasting the sugar and coffee, isn't that enough?
We often, during a fast, have a family meeting each evening. It helps us remember why we're fasting, it gives us something to do instead of watching t.v. [disclaimer: we rarely watch actual programs on tv; but we do allow small people to watch a dvd or netflix thing in the evening more often than we should], and it provides a forum to talk about if we're hearing from God and praying and worshipping together. And I felt last night, listening to what my big kids were hearing from God, that I will get out of this what I put into it. So I'm kind of combining what my biggest kids are doing, modified for a nursing mom: eating fruits, veggies, lean protein, dairy, and skipping lunch.
There are lots of different ways to fast, and whatever you fast, if you miss whatever you're fasting, it is a real fast. I think fasting for small people is a good thing to learn/experience. I think it gets them ready to do it better when they are old enough to get it more. It teaches them, and us, to make our flesh submit to our spirits. And that's good. It's a fight worth fighting.
But fasting is something we do in our house, sometimes to take part in a corporate fast with our church, sometimes when we are making a big decision, or even because dad says that is what we are going to do. So here is what it looks like in our family.
We have done a lot of different things. Most often, the young ones fast sweets or technology. Sometimes this means no desserts, and sometimes it means we really go without sugar for a period of time. Technology means no t.v. or movies or playing games on computer or Wii or hand held devices (my phone!). Usually we still use the phone to talk and the computer to do school.
That can be tough for littles, especially depending on how much they do that stuff. They ask frequently for whatever they are missing. And that moment of asking is the golden opportunity to pray together. Here is what our echoed prayer might sound like (for a 2-5 year old):
Dear Jesus, Dear Jesus,
I want to watch TV. I want to watch TV.
I really like TV. I really like . . .
But mommy says You are better than TV.
And I want to know You better.
Please help me know You more.
Please help me know You are better than TV.
Amen
Something like that.
We have done longer fasts that were tiered. Maybe the first week we start with no TV, the second week we add no desserts, the third week we don't have sugar at all, and the last three days we just eat rice or oatmeal.
My older children this time said, we don't want to do a kid fast. We want to do something more. So they are trying a Daniel fast. One is doing bread and nuts with it. The other one tried just fruits and veggies and then added nuts. Another is fasting lunch each day; he doesn't eat between breakfast and supper.
Another couple are going to do no sugar until the last day, and then try to really fast that day.
Throughout the week, one of my jobs is to continually steer their attention away from what they and each other are not eating or drinking and toward the Lord. This is a big effort, and a constant one, but it is a good battle to fight and worth it.
We continue to live a normal life, do what we would normally do. School, chores, responsibilities all still have to happen. And attitudes need adjusted as well. I frequently send the big ones out of the kitchen and to their rooms with their Bibles or to their instruments to play it out.
Another difficult thing is when not everyone fasts the same thing. It is best if we prefer each other and don't openly eat what someone else is fasting. But that is not entirely possible, and is really part of the fast, part of the training.
But the hardest thing for me is that I am fasting more than whatever I choose to fast. Because if a big kid is only eating fruit and veggies, I'm not going to ask him/her to cut a toddler's pizza. I'm on my own in a lot of ways this week. I will ask them to suck it up sometimes (because I have to and it is a good skill to learn) but I am not asking as much as I normally do.
In fact, I barely even knew what I would fast this week. I'm fasting husband and big helpers. I'm fasting the sugar and coffee, isn't that enough?
We often, during a fast, have a family meeting each evening. It helps us remember why we're fasting, it gives us something to do instead of watching t.v. [disclaimer: we rarely watch actual programs on tv; but we do allow small people to watch a dvd or netflix thing in the evening more often than we should], and it provides a forum to talk about if we're hearing from God and praying and worshipping together. And I felt last night, listening to what my big kids were hearing from God, that I will get out of this what I put into it. So I'm kind of combining what my biggest kids are doing, modified for a nursing mom: eating fruits, veggies, lean protein, dairy, and skipping lunch.
There are lots of different ways to fast, and whatever you fast, if you miss whatever you're fasting, it is a real fast. I think fasting for small people is a good thing to learn/experience. I think it gets them ready to do it better when they are old enough to get it more. It teaches them, and us, to make our flesh submit to our spirits. And that's good. It's a fight worth fighting.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Crazy
Last week was crazy. My husband has been fasting, which tends to mean he disappears around meal time. Then Monday and Tuesday my older kids were at a training. Often times in our big family, if you extract a kid or two or three, the rest of them mellow out considerably. Not so this time. The younger nine were pretty much all maniacs.
Then today we began a family fast of sorts. Which means we are doing several fasts, a liquid, a Daniel, a modified Daniel, some no sugar, one skipping lunch, some no sweets. I am not even sure what I'm fasting. I have been fasting having a husband. Now I think I'm just fasting normal.
So today, right after I returned from Aldi where I bought what must have seemed like a months supply of fruits and veggies for the Daniels, with my supermom shirt on and wacky pigtails in my hair (to stay cool)(as opposed to hot, not hip-cool), our standardized tests came in the mail. Nine of them.
We're trying desperately to finish school for the summer. Having increased our family by two this year, we are really scraping in an effort to have a summer break. So we are doing testing and the motivated ones are still doing school after.
Crazy.
Tomorrow an appliance repairman is coming to fix my dishwasher. Isn't it sad that I am going to be up late making sure I don't have a pile of dirty dishes?
Summer is crazy. I don't know why. There are, I guess, millions of cicadas flying around the county (though not by our house) and my kids are either terrorized by them or obsessed with them. My oldest son wants to tie a string around one and fly it.
I have mostly weaned the 2 year old. But here is how I'm not crazy. I'm not potty training her. Not yet. Not ready to have her be in charge of when and where. Not yet.
I am crazy in another way. When things get really bad, really crazy, I sing. "He delights in you. He delights in you. He delights in you. He delights in you. Let the heavens be glad, let the earth rejoice. Tell all the world that Jesus is King. Blessed be the Lord, our Father and God, from everlasting!"
Now that's crazy!
Then today we began a family fast of sorts. Which means we are doing several fasts, a liquid, a Daniel, a modified Daniel, some no sugar, one skipping lunch, some no sweets. I am not even sure what I'm fasting. I have been fasting having a husband. Now I think I'm just fasting normal.
So today, right after I returned from Aldi where I bought what must have seemed like a months supply of fruits and veggies for the Daniels, with my supermom shirt on and wacky pigtails in my hair (to stay cool)(as opposed to hot, not hip-cool), our standardized tests came in the mail. Nine of them.
We're trying desperately to finish school for the summer. Having increased our family by two this year, we are really scraping in an effort to have a summer break. So we are doing testing and the motivated ones are still doing school after.
Crazy.
Tomorrow an appliance repairman is coming to fix my dishwasher. Isn't it sad that I am going to be up late making sure I don't have a pile of dirty dishes?
Summer is crazy. I don't know why. There are, I guess, millions of cicadas flying around the county (though not by our house) and my kids are either terrorized by them or obsessed with them. My oldest son wants to tie a string around one and fly it.
I have mostly weaned the 2 year old. But here is how I'm not crazy. I'm not potty training her. Not yet. Not ready to have her be in charge of when and where. Not yet.
I am crazy in another way. When things get really bad, really crazy, I sing. "He delights in you. He delights in you. He delights in you. He delights in you. Let the heavens be glad, let the earth rejoice. Tell all the world that Jesus is King. Blessed be the Lord, our Father and God, from everlasting!"
Now that's crazy!
Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes.
I've had prodigals on my mind a lot lately. Thinking about children of friends who have taken a walk. Thinking about young people who were raised by parents who did everything they knew to do. Kids who grew up in church, who knew God, and walked. Away.
Most families have at least one who goes his or her own way. That's normal. I mean, even Jesus lost one disciple, right?
It doesn't matter. It's like saying that someone who has a miscarriage should just enjoy the children she has. Losing a child before they're born or losing a child to the world both equal heart break.
And I've been afraid. I have a lot to lose. And I'm looking at these older parents and wondering how, if they lost a kid or two, who am I kidding? Why do I think I can do better?
Now, in the same way I hope my children will learn from my journey, my mistakes, and improve on the model they were shown, certainly I can learn from those who have gone before me. They both set an example of what to do right and they give wisdom about what they would like to have done better.
And I can learn from those rare families who haven't lost any. I am walking in their footsteps, standing on their shoulders. I'm drafting. But drafting is dangerous. If I follow someone so closely, I can't see what's ahead. No, I have to have my head up and be able to see what is ahead myself.
Now, I live in a city where there are a few growing houses of prayer, places where people from any denomination can come and pray, open many if not 24 hours a day. And I have a little unofficial half set, an hour once a week when I go play the piano and sing to God. Usually there's almost no one there. That's fine with me. If people show up, my attention is sometimes a little divided.
So yesterday, at my little Tuesday 3 o'clock moment, I was singing to Him. It happened to be the monthly 'Global Bridegroom Fast', the first Mon-Wed of each month, so I was singing about longing for Him, yearning for Him. Even so, come. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. The Spirit and the Bride say come.
And when I sing that, come, I am longing and asking for Him to come and return and take His Bride (the church), to be with Him face to face. But I am also asking Him to come here, come now, come heal, come deliver. And I was singing to Him to return the hearts of the fathers to their children and the hearts of the children to their fathers.
He is the Father of the prodigals. He is watching and waiting. He never rests.
And this is the revelation I received, which may not sound like anything as I try to communicate it here, but was perhaps one of the most significant moments of my life. I will not win my children to Him by what I do or do not do (not that I shouldn't or won't do everything I can). He will win them because of WHO HE IS.
Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. In one of my favorite movies, Newsies, one of the newsies, a news boy in New York City, early 1900's, is telling another, new newsie that headlines are not what sells the newspapers in New York. They do. The boys on the street hawking the papes are what makes the money.
God is God. He will draw all men unto Himself. I will continue to pray, believe me, I will, that each of my children, and the sons and daughters my friends have lost, will have a revelation of Him. That the Word planted in their hearts would spring up and bear fruit. That their Creator would call them and draw them and lead them out into the wilderness if nessessary to turn their hearts to Him.
I will guard the gates - the ways different influences come into my children's lives. I will feed them good things, mind, body and spirit. I will give them every opportunity I can to encounter Him who my soul loves. But it is ultimately He who will draw them to Himself.
And He will.
I can't describe the peace I felt and still feel at that knowledge. It is possible that some of mine will take a good hard look at the man Jesus and reject Him outright. But He is magnificent. He is astounding. He is holy.
I think holy is the word I come around to when I'm trying to describe the indescribable. God is so . . . so . . . so . . . holy. I hope with each day, each hour, that my children will encounter One so lovely that they can not help but to love Him. And that His Awesomeness will burn in their hearts so deeply that if they walk away someday, that He will draw them back.
It's not me. It's Him. Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. I can't save them. I can't win them. I can't draw them. He can. He does. He will.
Most families have at least one who goes his or her own way. That's normal. I mean, even Jesus lost one disciple, right?
It doesn't matter. It's like saying that someone who has a miscarriage should just enjoy the children she has. Losing a child before they're born or losing a child to the world both equal heart break.
And I've been afraid. I have a lot to lose. And I'm looking at these older parents and wondering how, if they lost a kid or two, who am I kidding? Why do I think I can do better?
Now, in the same way I hope my children will learn from my journey, my mistakes, and improve on the model they were shown, certainly I can learn from those who have gone before me. They both set an example of what to do right and they give wisdom about what they would like to have done better.
And I can learn from those rare families who haven't lost any. I am walking in their footsteps, standing on their shoulders. I'm drafting. But drafting is dangerous. If I follow someone so closely, I can't see what's ahead. No, I have to have my head up and be able to see what is ahead myself.
Now, I live in a city where there are a few growing houses of prayer, places where people from any denomination can come and pray, open many if not 24 hours a day. And I have a little unofficial half set, an hour once a week when I go play the piano and sing to God. Usually there's almost no one there. That's fine with me. If people show up, my attention is sometimes a little divided.
So yesterday, at my little Tuesday 3 o'clock moment, I was singing to Him. It happened to be the monthly 'Global Bridegroom Fast', the first Mon-Wed of each month, so I was singing about longing for Him, yearning for Him. Even so, come. Come quickly, Lord Jesus. The Spirit and the Bride say come.
And when I sing that, come, I am longing and asking for Him to come and return and take His Bride (the church), to be with Him face to face. But I am also asking Him to come here, come now, come heal, come deliver. And I was singing to Him to return the hearts of the fathers to their children and the hearts of the children to their fathers.
He is the Father of the prodigals. He is watching and waiting. He never rests.
And this is the revelation I received, which may not sound like anything as I try to communicate it here, but was perhaps one of the most significant moments of my life. I will not win my children to Him by what I do or do not do (not that I shouldn't or won't do everything I can). He will win them because of WHO HE IS.
Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. In one of my favorite movies, Newsies, one of the newsies, a news boy in New York City, early 1900's, is telling another, new newsie that headlines are not what sells the newspapers in New York. They do. The boys on the street hawking the papes are what makes the money.
God is God. He will draw all men unto Himself. I will continue to pray, believe me, I will, that each of my children, and the sons and daughters my friends have lost, will have a revelation of Him. That the Word planted in their hearts would spring up and bear fruit. That their Creator would call them and draw them and lead them out into the wilderness if nessessary to turn their hearts to Him.
I will guard the gates - the ways different influences come into my children's lives. I will feed them good things, mind, body and spirit. I will give them every opportunity I can to encounter Him who my soul loves. But it is ultimately He who will draw them to Himself.
And He will.
I can't describe the peace I felt and still feel at that knowledge. It is possible that some of mine will take a good hard look at the man Jesus and reject Him outright. But He is magnificent. He is astounding. He is holy.
I think holy is the word I come around to when I'm trying to describe the indescribable. God is so . . . so . . . so . . . holy. I hope with each day, each hour, that my children will encounter One so lovely that they can not help but to love Him. And that His Awesomeness will burn in their hearts so deeply that if they walk away someday, that He will draw them back.
It's not me. It's Him. Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. I can't save them. I can't win them. I can't draw them. He can. He does. He will.
Monday, June 06, 2011
Mercy
I have a new song, but can't figure out where and when to play it. It is called 'Mercy', but it starts out all about judgement and wrath.
I have this image in my mind of Esther every time I hear the song 'Majesty' (not the Jack Hayford one, the Delirious one). I see her, you know, in this long beautiful gown, looking a little kinda Julia Roberts vulnerable, you know, approaching the throne, knowing she is transgressing the law, hoping against hope that there is enough love there to keep her alive.
She finds mercy. He extends his scepter and she touches it. Intimacy. Intimacy that breeds intimacy - a private banquet. Which breeds another intimate dinner. But that leads to petition.
That's the image I have of us in the house of prayer. We are worthy of judgement before a holy God. Righteous One, You are worthy to judge. Holy One, we are worthy of wrath. Without defense, without excuse, will not the God of all the earth judge rightly? Yeah. He will judge rightly.
We are Abraham, God's friend, saying to Him, pleading with Him, yes I know You are right to judge, but would you spare the city for the sake of fifty, for forty, for thirty, for twenty, for ten? We are Daniel saying WE, God, WE have transgressed Your law. WE have sinned.
And in Joel, we see that question, Who Knows But He May Relent? We repent. We repent and rend our hearts, who knows but He may relent? We humble ourselves before Your mercy. Walking, slowly, hesitantly, but confident in love, confident in Him, and He reaches out His scepter. He reaches out in love and intimacy and mercy.
Would You extend Your scepter to a people who once loved You?
Would You release Your mercy to a nation who once feared You?
Mercy.
I have this image in my mind of Esther every time I hear the song 'Majesty' (not the Jack Hayford one, the Delirious one). I see her, you know, in this long beautiful gown, looking a little kinda Julia Roberts vulnerable, you know, approaching the throne, knowing she is transgressing the law, hoping against hope that there is enough love there to keep her alive.
She finds mercy. He extends his scepter and she touches it. Intimacy. Intimacy that breeds intimacy - a private banquet. Which breeds another intimate dinner. But that leads to petition.
That's the image I have of us in the house of prayer. We are worthy of judgement before a holy God. Righteous One, You are worthy to judge. Holy One, we are worthy of wrath. Without defense, without excuse, will not the God of all the earth judge rightly? Yeah. He will judge rightly.
We are Abraham, God's friend, saying to Him, pleading with Him, yes I know You are right to judge, but would you spare the city for the sake of fifty, for forty, for thirty, for twenty, for ten? We are Daniel saying WE, God, WE have transgressed Your law. WE have sinned.
And in Joel, we see that question, Who Knows But He May Relent? We repent. We repent and rend our hearts, who knows but He may relent? We humble ourselves before Your mercy. Walking, slowly, hesitantly, but confident in love, confident in Him, and He reaches out His scepter. He reaches out in love and intimacy and mercy.
Would You extend Your scepter to a people who once loved You?
Would You release Your mercy to a nation who once feared You?
Mercy.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Weaning, stretching and other types of training
It's not easy, and I'm not going to lie to you. It's ugly here. The 2 year old insists on taking off her diaper. Okay, I say, then it's time to potty train. Which, in my opinion, goes hand in hand with weaning. It just seems like a logical break. You are two, you are old enough to take off and put on pants, you are old enough to say, 'baby all done', and 'I want to nurse, other side', you are old enough to be done. I know there are die hard la leche gals who say, don't ask, don't refuse . . . but this child will continue to nurse until I refuse. Especially since she is watching baby brother continue.
So all day the first day she asked, and all day I said no, that I would nurse her at bedtime. And there was sadness in the land each time I said no. But then, guess what? At bedtime she curled up in my arms while I read the bedtime story (Missionary Stories with the Millers, from Sonlight Core 1) and DID NOT ASK TO NURSE. She never cuddles without nursing!
She has nursed in the morning and at bedtime for the last 2 days (partly for my comfort) but is accepting the change.
Potty training is not going well, I think. But that's partly my fault. The best way I know of to potty train is cold turkey, naked, and staying at home. Especially for a little fart like her - she knows when she has pooped and has peed, but not when she is pooping or peeing, let alone when she is about to poop or pee. And they figure it out best naked.
My problem is that I didn't really want to start until after the last day of soccer, which is tomorrow. (Because I know from experience that trying to take a little one all the way to the bathroom, which, by some international law of soccer MUST be at least a quarter mile away, before they have done something they don't even know they have to do yet is a virtual impossibility and can dampen the hopes of the most experienced potty trainers.) But she insists on taking the diaper off. So we're starting.
My other problem is that I sometimes leave the house or leave that child in the care of her siblings or father, who, if frustrated, would put a diaper on a five-year-old if he thought she might have an accident while in his care.
So I have not been able to fully commit to the cold-turkey-naked-stay-at-home plan. As a result, she knows nothing except that when she sits on the pot we give her chocolate chips and that after she sits for a random amount of time, she should use tissue which she calls a towel to wipe somewhere below her belly button and drop the tissue in the toilet and flush.
My second daughter is in a delightful pre-teen life phase. Being a brilliant and experienced mother of a dozen, I had the phenomenal idea of having her take on two really difficult things at the same time. She has started lessons on her instrument (on a limited basis because it is expensive) and has had to learn and do stretches on orders from her P.T., which stands for physical terrorist, for the purpose of increasing/maintaining the stretchiness of her Achilles tendons (recently acquired by wearing a series of casts, which we do not wish to repeat - all because of being a toe-walker).
I'm basically spending most of my days torturing her. In the process of dealing with all that horror, 5 different sets of stretches, 2 sets of orthotics (day and night), and at least a half an hour of being forced to play scales and riffs over and over, I have learned that her work ethic is less zealous than I had assumed. This calls into question many other assumptions about her education. At the same time, her motivation to do all those other things I'm assuming she's doing well has gone down to low.
So we are in training. We are training to comfort without nursing, training to not walk on our tip toes, training to put our pee and poo in the pot, training to play mixolydian and phrygian scales. And I am on day 3 (is it only 3?) of reading my Bible each day. The stretching is pervasive.
Stretching and training and relearning something you've done wrong all your life is hard. I tried on swimming suits last night. The one I wore last season was pre-pregnancy, 38 or so lbs less. Not gonna work this time. I walked into the dressing room, clothes still on, and nearly gasped. I thought and almost said to my daughter, 'you let me leave the house like this?' All those mirrors provided a vision of pure agony. Egads. I've never been so mortified by my own reflection. Grotesque.
But I'm not making another vow right now. I have made a commitment to read the Bible every day. I hope that washing my spirit with the Word will flow into healthier habits, that I will take care of the body God made for me by drinking more water, by eating more veggies, by eating only what I need because my spirit is stronger and healthier for the time spent with my Maker. But my focus and hope is set in Him, not in making changes myself. As desperately as I want to look different than I do, I will set my heart and fix my gaze on a higher prize.
Stretching is painful. Sometimes we have to be made to do it. Weaning ourselves off of something we gain comfort from is difficult. Sometimes we have to be forced to do it. Learning to walk and live differently is difficult. Sometimes we have to be forced to do it. All discipline seems unpleasant for the moment. But afterward it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.
So all day the first day she asked, and all day I said no, that I would nurse her at bedtime. And there was sadness in the land each time I said no. But then, guess what? At bedtime she curled up in my arms while I read the bedtime story (Missionary Stories with the Millers, from Sonlight Core 1) and DID NOT ASK TO NURSE. She never cuddles without nursing!
She has nursed in the morning and at bedtime for the last 2 days (partly for my comfort) but is accepting the change.
Potty training is not going well, I think. But that's partly my fault. The best way I know of to potty train is cold turkey, naked, and staying at home. Especially for a little fart like her - she knows when she has pooped and has peed, but not when she is pooping or peeing, let alone when she is about to poop or pee. And they figure it out best naked.
My problem is that I didn't really want to start until after the last day of soccer, which is tomorrow. (Because I know from experience that trying to take a little one all the way to the bathroom, which, by some international law of soccer MUST be at least a quarter mile away, before they have done something they don't even know they have to do yet is a virtual impossibility and can dampen the hopes of the most experienced potty trainers.) But she insists on taking the diaper off. So we're starting.
My other problem is that I sometimes leave the house or leave that child in the care of her siblings or father, who, if frustrated, would put a diaper on a five-year-old if he thought she might have an accident while in his care.
So I have not been able to fully commit to the cold-turkey-naked-stay-at-home plan. As a result, she knows nothing except that when she sits on the pot we give her chocolate chips and that after she sits for a random amount of time, she should use tissue which she calls a towel to wipe somewhere below her belly button and drop the tissue in the toilet and flush.
My second daughter is in a delightful pre-teen life phase. Being a brilliant and experienced mother of a dozen, I had the phenomenal idea of having her take on two really difficult things at the same time. She has started lessons on her instrument (on a limited basis because it is expensive) and has had to learn and do stretches on orders from her P.T., which stands for physical terrorist, for the purpose of increasing/maintaining the stretchiness of her Achilles tendons (recently acquired by wearing a series of casts, which we do not wish to repeat - all because of being a toe-walker).
I'm basically spending most of my days torturing her. In the process of dealing with all that horror, 5 different sets of stretches, 2 sets of orthotics (day and night), and at least a half an hour of being forced to play scales and riffs over and over, I have learned that her work ethic is less zealous than I had assumed. This calls into question many other assumptions about her education. At the same time, her motivation to do all those other things I'm assuming she's doing well has gone down to low.
So we are in training. We are training to comfort without nursing, training to not walk on our tip toes, training to put our pee and poo in the pot, training to play mixolydian and phrygian scales. And I am on day 3 (is it only 3?) of reading my Bible each day. The stretching is pervasive.
Stretching and training and relearning something you've done wrong all your life is hard. I tried on swimming suits last night. The one I wore last season was pre-pregnancy, 38 or so lbs less. Not gonna work this time. I walked into the dressing room, clothes still on, and nearly gasped. I thought and almost said to my daughter, 'you let me leave the house like this?' All those mirrors provided a vision of pure agony. Egads. I've never been so mortified by my own reflection. Grotesque.
But I'm not making another vow right now. I have made a commitment to read the Bible every day. I hope that washing my spirit with the Word will flow into healthier habits, that I will take care of the body God made for me by drinking more water, by eating more veggies, by eating only what I need because my spirit is stronger and healthier for the time spent with my Maker. But my focus and hope is set in Him, not in making changes myself. As desperately as I want to look different than I do, I will set my heart and fix my gaze on a higher prize.
Stretching is painful. Sometimes we have to be made to do it. Weaning ourselves off of something we gain comfort from is difficult. Sometimes we have to be forced to do it. Learning to walk and live differently is difficult. Sometimes we have to be forced to do it. All discipline seems unpleasant for the moment. But afterward it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.
Monday, May 30, 2011
What am I supposed to remember on Memorial Day?
It is funny/sad that sometimes we forget what it was we were supposed to be remembering on a day called Memorial Day. Every day in my e-mail box I get a little tiny bit of American History from a man named Bill Federer, in the form of an "American Minute". So rather than try to paraphrase down his answer to that question, which is already both concise and eloquent, I'm just going to quote it. If you want to receive these little history nuggets, you can go to www.americanminute.com.
American Minute with Bill Federer
May 30
Southern women scattered spring flowers on the graves of both the
Northern and Southern soldiers who died during the Civil War.
This was the origin of Memorial Day, which in 1868 was set on MAY 30.
In 1968, it was moved to the last Monday in May.
From the Spanish-American War, to World Wars I and II, Korea,
Vietnam, Desert Storm, War against Islamic Terror, up through the
present, all who gave their lives to preserve America's freedom are
honored on Memorial Day.
Beginning in 1921, the tradition has been for Presidents to lay a
wreath on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which is guarded 24 hours a
day, 365 days a year.
The number 21 being the highest salute, the sentry takes 21 steps,
faces the tomb for 21 seconds, turns and pauses 21 seconds, then
retraces his steps.
Inscribed on the Tomb is the phrase:
"HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER KNOWN BUT TO GOD."
In his 1923 Memorial Address, President Calvin Coolidge stated:
"There can be no peace with the forces of evil. Peace comes only
through the establishment of the supremacy of the forces of good.
That way lies through sacrifice...'Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
American Minute with Bill Federer
May 30
Southern women scattered spring flowers on the graves of both the
Northern and Southern soldiers who died during the Civil War.
This was the origin of Memorial Day, which in 1868 was set on MAY 30.
In 1968, it was moved to the last Monday in May.
From the Spanish-American War, to World Wars I and II, Korea,
Vietnam, Desert Storm, War against Islamic Terror, up through the
present, all who gave their lives to preserve America's freedom are
honored on Memorial Day.
Beginning in 1921, the tradition has been for Presidents to lay a
wreath on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which is guarded 24 hours a
day, 365 days a year.
The number 21 being the highest salute, the sentry takes 21 steps,
faces the tomb for 21 seconds, turns and pauses 21 seconds, then
retraces his steps.
Inscribed on the Tomb is the phrase:
"HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER KNOWN BUT TO GOD."
In his 1923 Memorial Address, President Calvin Coolidge stated:
"There can be no peace with the forces of evil. Peace comes only
through the establishment of the supremacy of the forces of good.
That way lies through sacrifice...'Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
The New Face of Procrastination
When I was in Mrs. Needham's 1st grade class, procrastination meant having her tip my desk over in front of the class to reveal a whole semester's seat work, crumpled and incomplete, many assignments not even started, staying inside and missing recess, weeping for humiliation with my head on my desk.
In Mrs. Groom's second grade (yes, second grade) class, procrastination meant peeing my pants three times the same day. It also meant that at home, I could frequently be seen tearing at break neck speed from one end of the house to the other having waited until the last possible second to relieve my poor exploding bladder, knocking furniture, toys, people and potted plants out of my way in my desperation, leaving a path of destruction behind me like an elephant stampede in the jungle.
In high school and college, it meant sleepless nights and papers and projects turned in at or after the deadline, eventually taking an incomplete in couple of classes, only to then procrastinate again till the last possible day of the full year's extension to finish the required coursework.
As an adult it means doing laundry and dishes only when out of socks, underwear, and spoons. It means that tonight I got down to the last 10 diapers and the last 1/4 cup laundry soap before washing the other 80 or so diapers and making another batch of soap.
The mystery remains the same: Why do I do this to myself?
I don't know, but I have to say, it doesn't bother me as much as it used to, nor, I suppose, as it ought to. It does bother me when I see my husband ironing and rummaging through a basket of socks at 6:30 a.m. trying to get to work with a crisp shirt and two socks that match. But I have a life that allows for my delinquency. That is both good and bad. It means my stress level is not very high. I have a great deal of built in flexibility and very little external accountability. Most of the time, we get by. And most of the time, no one really cares.
Except my husband/best friend. I add stress to his life, which I want not to do.
It seems that I will only do what I am made to do, what I have to do. I know this about myself. It is my nature to only do what is required of me (again, how humiliating). The diapers and dishes don't bother me, much, except that I am setting a poor example for my children. But the bigger things, the important things, the things I am committed to with all my heart and soul, but not with my life and calendar, how will I get to those things? When will I do the things I long to do? What will it take? (I have often thought that the reason God put stink in the diapers is so we would be compelled to get the waste off their bums and as far away from ourselves as possible.)
My husband is a professional geek (read: computer guy) and lives in a world of artificial deadlines. There is a huge volume of stress created by the setting up of a timeline that is based merely on the fact that someone said it would be done by such and such a date. Did they know what they were talking about? Did they foresee and allow for this or that going wrong?
But they get a lot done that way. It's how business works. The motivation there is the reputation of the department, and ultimately, keeping your job.
I don't have that. I have a husband and children who have needs, but even they are gracious and/or have adapted to my issues. But as one who belongs to Christ, I think the highest motivation to do something is because I am told in the Bible to let my yes be yes and my no be no. Which makes resolutions and goals, promises and vows a very serious thing.
I made a commitment to the Lord years ago to brush and floss the teeth He gave me each night. I keep that pledge unto Him. Even on nights when I've already fallen asleep, and don't want that nasty minty freshness in my mouth, I still almost always do it for one reason. I told Him I would. Sometimes I decide I'm not going to, I'm just going to take the night off, and then I remember, I told Him I would do it. So I almost always do.
There are so many things I would like to change about me, so many ways I'd like to live differently. If I were to make a rash vow right now about all of them, I would sign myself up for failure. Change is hard. What one thing do I want to give Him today? If I could change one thing . . . I can.
Seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. Even under this category, there are several sub-categories. It's not like you can just tick it off, 'sought Kingdom? check!', from your list. What does that mean? In what way can I seek His Kingdom each day, what can I give Him, what can I make a commitment to?
Measurable goal: I think right now the best thing I can commit to Him to do is to read my Bible every day. My husband does this. My daughter does it. So that's it. Each day, Lord, I will brush and floss the teeth You made for me, and, each day I will read Your Word and commune with You over the breaking of that Bread of Life. I'm not setting up an artificial deadline (though that probably wouldn't hurt), like reading my Bible through in a year. I am simply saying to You that my yes will be yes. Yes, Lord, I will read Your Word. I will abide in it. I will soak it up. So help me, God. Please.
In Mrs. Groom's second grade (yes, second grade) class, procrastination meant peeing my pants three times the same day. It also meant that at home, I could frequently be seen tearing at break neck speed from one end of the house to the other having waited until the last possible second to relieve my poor exploding bladder, knocking furniture, toys, people and potted plants out of my way in my desperation, leaving a path of destruction behind me like an elephant stampede in the jungle.
In high school and college, it meant sleepless nights and papers and projects turned in at or after the deadline, eventually taking an incomplete in couple of classes, only to then procrastinate again till the last possible day of the full year's extension to finish the required coursework.
As an adult it means doing laundry and dishes only when out of socks, underwear, and spoons. It means that tonight I got down to the last 10 diapers and the last 1/4 cup laundry soap before washing the other 80 or so diapers and making another batch of soap.
The mystery remains the same: Why do I do this to myself?
I don't know, but I have to say, it doesn't bother me as much as it used to, nor, I suppose, as it ought to. It does bother me when I see my husband ironing and rummaging through a basket of socks at 6:30 a.m. trying to get to work with a crisp shirt and two socks that match. But I have a life that allows for my delinquency. That is both good and bad. It means my stress level is not very high. I have a great deal of built in flexibility and very little external accountability. Most of the time, we get by. And most of the time, no one really cares.
Except my husband/best friend. I add stress to his life, which I want not to do.
It seems that I will only do what I am made to do, what I have to do. I know this about myself. It is my nature to only do what is required of me (again, how humiliating). The diapers and dishes don't bother me, much, except that I am setting a poor example for my children. But the bigger things, the important things, the things I am committed to with all my heart and soul, but not with my life and calendar, how will I get to those things? When will I do the things I long to do? What will it take? (I have often thought that the reason God put stink in the diapers is so we would be compelled to get the waste off their bums and as far away from ourselves as possible.)
My husband is a professional geek (read: computer guy) and lives in a world of artificial deadlines. There is a huge volume of stress created by the setting up of a timeline that is based merely on the fact that someone said it would be done by such and such a date. Did they know what they were talking about? Did they foresee and allow for this or that going wrong?
But they get a lot done that way. It's how business works. The motivation there is the reputation of the department, and ultimately, keeping your job.
I don't have that. I have a husband and children who have needs, but even they are gracious and/or have adapted to my issues. But as one who belongs to Christ, I think the highest motivation to do something is because I am told in the Bible to let my yes be yes and my no be no. Which makes resolutions and goals, promises and vows a very serious thing.
I made a commitment to the Lord years ago to brush and floss the teeth He gave me each night. I keep that pledge unto Him. Even on nights when I've already fallen asleep, and don't want that nasty minty freshness in my mouth, I still almost always do it for one reason. I told Him I would. Sometimes I decide I'm not going to, I'm just going to take the night off, and then I remember, I told Him I would do it. So I almost always do.
There are so many things I would like to change about me, so many ways I'd like to live differently. If I were to make a rash vow right now about all of them, I would sign myself up for failure. Change is hard. What one thing do I want to give Him today? If I could change one thing . . . I can.
Seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. Even under this category, there are several sub-categories. It's not like you can just tick it off, 'sought Kingdom? check!', from your list. What does that mean? In what way can I seek His Kingdom each day, what can I give Him, what can I make a commitment to?
Measurable goal: I think right now the best thing I can commit to Him to do is to read my Bible every day. My husband does this. My daughter does it. So that's it. Each day, Lord, I will brush and floss the teeth You made for me, and, each day I will read Your Word and commune with You over the breaking of that Bread of Life. I'm not setting up an artificial deadline (though that probably wouldn't hurt), like reading my Bible through in a year. I am simply saying to You that my yes will be yes. Yes, Lord, I will read Your Word. I will abide in it. I will soak it up. So help me, God. Please.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Better than 10 sons
This is what they said about Ruth. She was better to Naomi than 10 sons.
Before I say more, I should clarify that these are my lofty ideals, and I highly doubt that my mother in law would actually say that I am better to her than 10 sons. It is simply my heart's desire.
I wish to be and pray to be such a blessing to the woman who gave life to my husband that she and all who know her would say of me that I am better to her than ten sons.
Here are some specific things I am trying to do toward that goal:
I am trying to turn any and all negative emotions into prayers for blessing, for healing, for her to know God's love for her, His presence, for His Word to come alive when she reads it and for her to be reminded of it when she is away from it, for Him to bless her work, her plants, her marriage, and her relationships. I pray that my children would be a blessing to her. Especially when the enemy reminds me of our differences, I try to lift her up to the Lord and ask His blessing on her.
(Bunny trail: I am actually convicted to do that any time my extremely critical brain points out some flaw or weakness in someone else - to immediately bathe that person in prayer, prayer that lifts him or her up and doesn't tear down, knowing that Jesus loves that person who is on my nerves or who I'm judging, and so, in my prayers, I am blessing them and praying God would teach them and grow and strengthen them however He sees fit - I'm not telling Him what is wrong with them, I'm praying the same things I pray for myself or my children - wisdom, peace, mercy, nearness of God, joy in Him, etc)
I am trying to honor her desires. I am not trying necessarily to please her, because we are different enough that pleasing her is probably not always realistic. But I do desire to honor her wishes, values, and ways of doing things as much as possible.
Finally, I am trying to never make my husband choose between my happiness and hers. There are times when he is in this position, but I hope to never put him there. If I am not pleased with the way something turns out, I try very much to keep my disappointment between me and the Lord, and not put my beloved in a place where he has to make an impossible choice.
Now he's a smart guy, and I'm a sub-par actor, so he often is aware of my struggle. But I'm still trying to affirm him as husband, and make sure he doesn't feel like I'm mad at him because he's trying to be a good son. My mother-in-law is most pleased with me when she sees that her son is happy and loved by me. She doesn't want me to try to please her. She wants me to please her son.
It is possible that I have, in reality, caused more pain than joy over the last 20+ years, but I have learned a lot through the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship, and am probably a better person for it.
And so, like Ruth, I hope that I can be a blessing to her as well. But to be honest, as a mother of 6 sons, I can't imagine anything, especially me, being better than 10 of them.
Before I say more, I should clarify that these are my lofty ideals, and I highly doubt that my mother in law would actually say that I am better to her than 10 sons. It is simply my heart's desire.
I wish to be and pray to be such a blessing to the woman who gave life to my husband that she and all who know her would say of me that I am better to her than ten sons.
Here are some specific things I am trying to do toward that goal:
I am trying to turn any and all negative emotions into prayers for blessing, for healing, for her to know God's love for her, His presence, for His Word to come alive when she reads it and for her to be reminded of it when she is away from it, for Him to bless her work, her plants, her marriage, and her relationships. I pray that my children would be a blessing to her. Especially when the enemy reminds me of our differences, I try to lift her up to the Lord and ask His blessing on her.
(Bunny trail: I am actually convicted to do that any time my extremely critical brain points out some flaw or weakness in someone else - to immediately bathe that person in prayer, prayer that lifts him or her up and doesn't tear down, knowing that Jesus loves that person who is on my nerves or who I'm judging, and so, in my prayers, I am blessing them and praying God would teach them and grow and strengthen them however He sees fit - I'm not telling Him what is wrong with them, I'm praying the same things I pray for myself or my children - wisdom, peace, mercy, nearness of God, joy in Him, etc)
I am trying to honor her desires. I am not trying necessarily to please her, because we are different enough that pleasing her is probably not always realistic. But I do desire to honor her wishes, values, and ways of doing things as much as possible.
Finally, I am trying to never make my husband choose between my happiness and hers. There are times when he is in this position, but I hope to never put him there. If I am not pleased with the way something turns out, I try very much to keep my disappointment between me and the Lord, and not put my beloved in a place where he has to make an impossible choice.
Now he's a smart guy, and I'm a sub-par actor, so he often is aware of my struggle. But I'm still trying to affirm him as husband, and make sure he doesn't feel like I'm mad at him because he's trying to be a good son. My mother-in-law is most pleased with me when she sees that her son is happy and loved by me. She doesn't want me to try to please her. She wants me to please her son.
It is possible that I have, in reality, caused more pain than joy over the last 20+ years, but I have learned a lot through the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship, and am probably a better person for it.
And so, like Ruth, I hope that I can be a blessing to her as well. But to be honest, as a mother of 6 sons, I can't imagine anything, especially me, being better than 10 of them.
Reasons
I have been thinking about something, mulling it over, and it goes something like this: There is, I think, only one reason to do or not do anything. I do what I do because I want to do it. All my other reasons for not doing something, if I really want to do it, are mere obstacles to overcome.
This past weekend, there was a conference that I wanted to go to. Now, there have been many things, over the years, that we have not tried to do because it was too hard, the kids wouldn't get enough sleep, etc. And now, with a dozen children between the ages of 3 months and 14 years, I just decided, we're going to go. I want my kids there, I want to be there. It will be hard, but everything is hard, and some things are worth the hard.
My friend told me about a wedding she attended last week. The mother of the bride was an exceptional person, in that she had been paralyzed at the age of 17, has limited use of her upper body, gets around in a specialized chair, and yet has given birth to and raised two children, and last week danced, in her chair, at her daughter's wedding.
At the conference I was at, the speaker talked about how the Israelites built a tabernacle in the wilderness. They had no food, but they built a smelting furnace to melt the gold they used to make the objects for the tabernacle. It was a ridiculous enterprise to undertake in the middle of the wilderness in a survival camp for more than a million people. But they did it.
I have reasons, good ones, to just get by, to not try, to accomplish little. But I desire to write songs, to write words, to worship, to read my Bible, to fellowship with God and humans, to have a home that welcomes my husband, to educate and disciple my children, to have a healthy body, to obey God and be a faithful wife, mother, friend, and steward. So even though I have many reasons to sit on my couch and just be a lump, I will endeavor to get a move on and be the person I believe I'm called to be. There are obstacles to overcome, but they are just that, and not reasons to give up, and overcome them, I will.
This past weekend, there was a conference that I wanted to go to. Now, there have been many things, over the years, that we have not tried to do because it was too hard, the kids wouldn't get enough sleep, etc. And now, with a dozen children between the ages of 3 months and 14 years, I just decided, we're going to go. I want my kids there, I want to be there. It will be hard, but everything is hard, and some things are worth the hard.
My friend told me about a wedding she attended last week. The mother of the bride was an exceptional person, in that she had been paralyzed at the age of 17, has limited use of her upper body, gets around in a specialized chair, and yet has given birth to and raised two children, and last week danced, in her chair, at her daughter's wedding.
At the conference I was at, the speaker talked about how the Israelites built a tabernacle in the wilderness. They had no food, but they built a smelting furnace to melt the gold they used to make the objects for the tabernacle. It was a ridiculous enterprise to undertake in the middle of the wilderness in a survival camp for more than a million people. But they did it.
I have reasons, good ones, to just get by, to not try, to accomplish little. But I desire to write songs, to write words, to worship, to read my Bible, to fellowship with God and humans, to have a home that welcomes my husband, to educate and disciple my children, to have a healthy body, to obey God and be a faithful wife, mother, friend, and steward. So even though I have many reasons to sit on my couch and just be a lump, I will endeavor to get a move on and be the person I believe I'm called to be. There are obstacles to overcome, but they are just that, and not reasons to give up, and overcome them, I will.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Update: 8 months
Eight months ago we became the tentative parents of our eleventh child, given to us by the Lord through adoption. I talked to someone recently about adoption, someone who also had a number of children biologically, and she asked me the same question I asked another adoptive parent when I was thinking about adoption: Does your adopted child really feel like your child?
The answer is a resounding yes. She is mine. As if she were flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Lying in my arms right now, sleeping, her beautiful long eyelashes, her hand reached up touching my face, being sure of me, she is mine. She reaches for me from other people's arms. She lights up when she sees me and quiets when she hears me sing. She cries when I walk away and explodes with joy when I come back. She is my daughter.
She has part of my heart all day and all night. Her eternity is, in part, my responsibility. And she fits just right under my chin.
It is strange to think, and too high for me, that God made her with the reproductive cells of people who didn't intend to make a child, and knit her in a womb of one who felt she could not best be her mother, and formed her from eternity in His heart for me. I am her mother. She is my daughter, my child, my pride and joy, my love, my treasure.
In some ways she is different than my other children. Her tender skin and hair need a different kind of care. Her hunger is satisfied not by milk made by me. And when she cries it breaks my heart. My other kids can cry, and I am okay with it. Not her. Her cry puts me on high alert from anywhere. I will not let her cry. Not when there is something she needs that I can give her.
I'm not saying I spoil her, or that she won't learn to wait for things - in a family our size, she will not forever remain the happy center of the universe. But having been there when she was born and tiny and not breathing, she has my heart. I love this baby girl.
I make a continuous effort to make sure I still get her as often as possible. This is tricky because technically she doesn't need me, and her fussy, cranky, always hungry baby brother does. She can go to anyone. She is a happy, content, easy girl. But even though she is easy to please, she really wants me, loves me, her mama. She is happiest with me or her daddy. So if you happen to be close by, and are wanting a baby to hold, it is easy to give her to you, I know she won't fuss, but I'd rather give you him. Because even though she doesn't need my milk, she needs ME.
Because I am hers, and she is mine.
The answer is a resounding yes. She is mine. As if she were flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Lying in my arms right now, sleeping, her beautiful long eyelashes, her hand reached up touching my face, being sure of me, she is mine. She reaches for me from other people's arms. She lights up when she sees me and quiets when she hears me sing. She cries when I walk away and explodes with joy when I come back. She is my daughter.
She has part of my heart all day and all night. Her eternity is, in part, my responsibility. And she fits just right under my chin.
It is strange to think, and too high for me, that God made her with the reproductive cells of people who didn't intend to make a child, and knit her in a womb of one who felt she could not best be her mother, and formed her from eternity in His heart for me. I am her mother. She is my daughter, my child, my pride and joy, my love, my treasure.
In some ways she is different than my other children. Her tender skin and hair need a different kind of care. Her hunger is satisfied not by milk made by me. And when she cries it breaks my heart. My other kids can cry, and I am okay with it. Not her. Her cry puts me on high alert from anywhere. I will not let her cry. Not when there is something she needs that I can give her.
I'm not saying I spoil her, or that she won't learn to wait for things - in a family our size, she will not forever remain the happy center of the universe. But having been there when she was born and tiny and not breathing, she has my heart. I love this baby girl.
I make a continuous effort to make sure I still get her as often as possible. This is tricky because technically she doesn't need me, and her fussy, cranky, always hungry baby brother does. She can go to anyone. She is a happy, content, easy girl. But even though she is easy to please, she really wants me, loves me, her mama. She is happiest with me or her daddy. So if you happen to be close by, and are wanting a baby to hold, it is easy to give her to you, I know she won't fuss, but I'd rather give you him. Because even though she doesn't need my milk, she needs ME.
Because I am hers, and she is mine.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
On the idea of writing a book . . .
I have wanted to write a book since probably the third grade. Actually, I wrote a book then. Maybe it was second grade. You know, the "young authors" thing. I did that. So I have always liked writing.
Writing on paper (even virtual paper) is different than writing songs. (at least that is what I think tonight) When I write songs, I want to play them and have people hear them. When I write on paper, there is more value to thoughts communicated, even if they are not read. I'm sure others would disagree, and maybe I would disagree on a different day.
So writing a book in this day and age, the Age of the Kindle, Nook, and iPad, is relatively cheap and easy. You don't have to prove your value or concept. You pay a relatively small amount, format the thing and voila! You have authored an ebook that your 10 closest friends, your mom, and your Auntie Evelyn can all buy for a buck ninety nine, of which you get 40 percent or something. Or for a little more, I think you can do a print-as-you-go deal, where the company only prints a book if someone buys one. I think those books are more expensive than they would otherwise be, but it is an option if your Auntie Evelyn doesn't own an above mentioned electronic book-replacement device. (I do have an Auntie Evelyn, by the way, and I don't think she does.)
So, taking the difficulty and expense and possibility of rejection out of the picture, I am then faced with other questions: Why would I write a book? What do I have to say that hasn't been said already? What would I call it? And the most important question is, what would the cover look like?
For years, since I started calling myself the amazing supermom, I thought I'd write a book and call it, "The Adventures of the Amazing Supermom, and other, humbler tales". Turns out there are several Supermom books out there, and most seem to be about women who have jobs and kids. Not me.
(To clarify: I am the Amazing Supermom because I can find something in a drawer even if it under something else, because I know how to change the toilet paper roll after it runs out, because I can flip pancakes while nursing (left side only), and because I can nurse two babies and give a bottle to a third while helping with a Geometry proof.)(And because I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me, even when I'm tired, even when I've got pukers, or mess-makers, or whiners, even when I'm hormonal {when am I not hormonal, is there another way to be?}, even when I don't feel loved or listened to, even in the van when everyone's fighting and I have to mute the radio every one and a half minutes to try to solve a problem 3 rows away that I can barely hear well enough to understand, even then, I can do all things - and the hard times just make me dig deeper to find His strength.)
So I think I would write about that. About leaning, and about stuff I've learned, and about the craziness, and about the glory of it all.
But I don't know what to call it. I said, what about 12 kids in 14 years, and Eldest thought that was the most boring title ever. And the cover has to communicate what the book is, as a thumbnail. Really. How much can you actually communicate in a thumbnail?
Anyway it is a lurking idea.
Writing on paper (even virtual paper) is different than writing songs. (at least that is what I think tonight) When I write songs, I want to play them and have people hear them. When I write on paper, there is more value to thoughts communicated, even if they are not read. I'm sure others would disagree, and maybe I would disagree on a different day.
So writing a book in this day and age, the Age of the Kindle, Nook, and iPad, is relatively cheap and easy. You don't have to prove your value or concept. You pay a relatively small amount, format the thing and voila! You have authored an ebook that your 10 closest friends, your mom, and your Auntie Evelyn can all buy for a buck ninety nine, of which you get 40 percent or something. Or for a little more, I think you can do a print-as-you-go deal, where the company only prints a book if someone buys one. I think those books are more expensive than they would otherwise be, but it is an option if your Auntie Evelyn doesn't own an above mentioned electronic book-replacement device. (I do have an Auntie Evelyn, by the way, and I don't think she does.)
So, taking the difficulty and expense and possibility of rejection out of the picture, I am then faced with other questions: Why would I write a book? What do I have to say that hasn't been said already? What would I call it? And the most important question is, what would the cover look like?
For years, since I started calling myself the amazing supermom, I thought I'd write a book and call it, "The Adventures of the Amazing Supermom, and other, humbler tales". Turns out there are several Supermom books out there, and most seem to be about women who have jobs and kids. Not me.
(To clarify: I am the Amazing Supermom because I can find something in a drawer even if it under something else, because I know how to change the toilet paper roll after it runs out, because I can flip pancakes while nursing (left side only), and because I can nurse two babies and give a bottle to a third while helping with a Geometry proof.)(And because I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me, even when I'm tired, even when I've got pukers, or mess-makers, or whiners, even when I'm hormonal {when am I not hormonal, is there another way to be?}, even when I don't feel loved or listened to, even in the van when everyone's fighting and I have to mute the radio every one and a half minutes to try to solve a problem 3 rows away that I can barely hear well enough to understand, even then, I can do all things - and the hard times just make me dig deeper to find His strength.)
So I think I would write about that. About leaning, and about stuff I've learned, and about the craziness, and about the glory of it all.
But I don't know what to call it. I said, what about 12 kids in 14 years, and Eldest thought that was the most boring title ever. And the cover has to communicate what the book is, as a thumbnail. Really. How much can you actually communicate in a thumbnail?
Anyway it is a lurking idea.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
4.5 lbs
In 6 days I have lost 4.5 lbs. I have eaten less. Except on Thursday. I binged on Thursday. It was a birthday, the anniversary of becoming the mother of 10. And it didn't feel good, and eating better on Friday did feel good. Weird.
And today, sitting in church, even though I still weigh 243 lbs, that's Two Hundred, Forty-Three Pounds, I felt thin. Isn't that ridiculous? That stupid little four and one half pounds didn't make me look different, didn't make my clothes fit different, didn't make going up the stairs feel any better, but it made something inside me feel a little less hideous, a little less out of control, a little less obese.
I would like to start walking or lifting or stair climbing or something, but I haven't yet. I'm doing sparkpeople.com again, counting calories and nutrition, putting in my water and fruit&veggie intake.
My eldest daughter is my inspiration. I want to be someone she can respect, not be embarrassed of. I want to be someone I can respect too.
I've often heard people say that something doesn't taste as good as skinny feels. And my response has been, I haven't got a clue how skinny feels. But today, near the height of ridiculousness, I feel a little skinnier.
There are, in my kitchen, about 25 chocolate, fudge filled mini cupcakes. 93 calories each. I've had two. There were enough for all of us to have four apiece. I am not going to eat any more. Normally I would give everyone else 3 and eat a dozen myself. Not kidding. They're little. One here, one there.
I haven't really had much coffee this week. It just hasn't tasted that good. And I have avoided sugar, for the most part. I feel less inclined to binge without it. I've had a little, but it feels good to exercise my self-control muscle.
I know it will continue to be hard, and sometimes harder, and maybe sometimes impossible. But I want to do this and I need to do this and I have to do this.
And today, sitting in church, even though I still weigh 243 lbs, that's Two Hundred, Forty-Three Pounds, I felt thin. Isn't that ridiculous? That stupid little four and one half pounds didn't make me look different, didn't make my clothes fit different, didn't make going up the stairs feel any better, but it made something inside me feel a little less hideous, a little less out of control, a little less obese.
I would like to start walking or lifting or stair climbing or something, but I haven't yet. I'm doing sparkpeople.com again, counting calories and nutrition, putting in my water and fruit&veggie intake.
My eldest daughter is my inspiration. I want to be someone she can respect, not be embarrassed of. I want to be someone I can respect too.
I've often heard people say that something doesn't taste as good as skinny feels. And my response has been, I haven't got a clue how skinny feels. But today, near the height of ridiculousness, I feel a little skinnier.
There are, in my kitchen, about 25 chocolate, fudge filled mini cupcakes. 93 calories each. I've had two. There were enough for all of us to have four apiece. I am not going to eat any more. Normally I would give everyone else 3 and eat a dozen myself. Not kidding. They're little. One here, one there.
I haven't really had much coffee this week. It just hasn't tasted that good. And I have avoided sugar, for the most part. I feel less inclined to binge without it. I've had a little, but it feels good to exercise my self-control muscle.
I know it will continue to be hard, and sometimes harder, and maybe sometimes impossible. But I want to do this and I need to do this and I have to do this.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Something I am pondering . . .
I was reading the last part of Isaiah 58 the other day, where he talks about the Sabbath, and it made me wonder, not for the first time, why "Remember the Sabbath" is the only commandment we deleted. I guess it is because Jesus had so many skirmishes with the pharisees about healing on the Sabbath, and the apostles let the New Testament church off the hook in some ways, but this passage makes me think we are missing something if we just forget the whole thing.
I think we would do well to remember the Sabbath. I don't know what this should look like. I think it is like bringing your tithe in, there is a blessing to be found for those who keep it. It just doesn't make sense that it was such a big deal in the Old Testament, and that it is simply a delete now.
Just thinking about it.
I think we would do well to remember the Sabbath. I don't know what this should look like. I think it is like bringing your tithe in, there is a blessing to be found for those who keep it. It just doesn't make sense that it was such a big deal in the Old Testament, and that it is simply a delete now.
Just thinking about it.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Trying again
This blog thing is funky, because realizing that anybody is reading threatens the integrity of writing for my own sake. I write because it is good for me to write. It helps me think, helps me process, helps me work through things. This is a post like that, so feel very free to not read it.
Today was my first day of trying again to be a healthier me. I ate in a pretty healthy way. Maybe a few extra bites of trail mix, but other than that, I did well. I drank plenty of water and ate what my body needed. No comfort food.
So I'm feeling rather uncomfortable. Empty. Sad. Sometime soon I will feel strong. But not now. I feel weak.
I just went and played my freshly tuned piano (first time in at least 4 years) while my husband and children listened. Most of my kids haven't heard me really play. So tonight I played Mozart, Beethovan, Bach, and Keith Green's Prodigal Son Suite.
It helped.
It helped to play the music I played when I was young and strong and confident. I can't go back to being twenty. But I can pursue the better version of me, that is healthy, strong, dare I say disciplined.
My piano was full of dust, dice, a match box car, and a number of other bonus features. The piano tuner completely dismantled it. It was fascinating. And I have to say I had no idea how bad it sounded. Until she was done. And I nearly cried. It was beautiful. It played the way it was meant to play.
I guess that is what I need. A complete dismantling, cleaning, tuning, retuning, oiling, fixing. This season I feel a little dismantled. That's okay, but I've been leaning hard on the comfort foods. And now that's gone. And that's hard. I know I need to learn to lean on my Beloved, on Jesus . . . finding more power than I'd ever dream. But tonight a handful of chocolate chips sounds ever so much more appealing.
Today was my first day of trying again to be a healthier me. I ate in a pretty healthy way. Maybe a few extra bites of trail mix, but other than that, I did well. I drank plenty of water and ate what my body needed. No comfort food.
So I'm feeling rather uncomfortable. Empty. Sad. Sometime soon I will feel strong. But not now. I feel weak.
I just went and played my freshly tuned piano (first time in at least 4 years) while my husband and children listened. Most of my kids haven't heard me really play. So tonight I played Mozart, Beethovan, Bach, and Keith Green's Prodigal Son Suite.
It helped.
It helped to play the music I played when I was young and strong and confident. I can't go back to being twenty. But I can pursue the better version of me, that is healthy, strong, dare I say disciplined.
My piano was full of dust, dice, a match box car, and a number of other bonus features. The piano tuner completely dismantled it. It was fascinating. And I have to say I had no idea how bad it sounded. Until she was done. And I nearly cried. It was beautiful. It played the way it was meant to play.
I guess that is what I need. A complete dismantling, cleaning, tuning, retuning, oiling, fixing. This season I feel a little dismantled. That's okay, but I've been leaning hard on the comfort foods. And now that's gone. And that's hard. I know I need to learn to lean on my Beloved, on Jesus . . . finding more power than I'd ever dream. But tonight a handful of chocolate chips sounds ever so much more appealing.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
An actual parade
So here is the summary of my mother's day, having given myself several pep talks before hand: I received my final gift for the National Holiday week between birthday and mother's day, a shirt with the superman shaped crest with tasm (the amazing super mom) in it, with my blogspot address on the back, which was pretty cool. On the front, my husband affirmed me as a mom, on the back, as a human.
It went somewhat predictably down hill from there. A bowl of my favorite cereal for breakfast, we got everybody ready in matching shirts, travelled to my sister in law's home, ate the frozen pizzas, birthday gifts for sk10, including a dress that didn't match all of us (oh well) which she subsequently dirtied in a way that would inspire a Tide commercial, or that oxi-clean guy, pizza, bbq potato chip dust, fruit roll up, chocolate pudding and grape soda. Then we left.
My husband, who has really outdone himself all week, picked up on my sullen mood, and was understandably discouraged, having really laid it on the line. He also understood that even though the week was good, mother's day itself was in fact a let down. We were both understanding, but it really bummed him out that I was bawling, and I felt like a failure because I couldn't appreciate all he had done for me (sounds just like the battle I anticipated, doesn't it?).
Eventually, because we arrived at the town we were going to eat lunch, I pulled it together and stopped crying (gave myself a royal headache, by the way). I received, because my husband loves me and truly wants to please me, the best fast food that particular small town has to offer, and it was delightful.
We were sitting outside the restaurant, all the kids in matching shirts still, me nursing a baby, a daughter feeding another baby a bottle, people driving by, and I just thought, what a powerful testimony on mother's day of life and the blessing of the Lord. And of course, sitting there drinking my hazelnut iced McCoffee, I was again thankful that I am surely one of the most blessed women alive.
The trip home was much better than the way there. We got everything inside without any major meltdowns. We played outside for a bit with neighbors. We came in and I plopped on the couch, nursing one baby, giving a bottle to another, and, no kidding, my children came before me with their homemade mother's day cards looking for all the world just like a parade.
The cards were great, and I do feel appreciated. My favorite was from my eldest, saying how glad she is that I am her mom and her friend.
I loved that parade.
It went somewhat predictably down hill from there. A bowl of my favorite cereal for breakfast, we got everybody ready in matching shirts, travelled to my sister in law's home, ate the frozen pizzas, birthday gifts for sk10, including a dress that didn't match all of us (oh well) which she subsequently dirtied in a way that would inspire a Tide commercial, or that oxi-clean guy, pizza, bbq potato chip dust, fruit roll up, chocolate pudding and grape soda. Then we left.
My husband, who has really outdone himself all week, picked up on my sullen mood, and was understandably discouraged, having really laid it on the line. He also understood that even though the week was good, mother's day itself was in fact a let down. We were both understanding, but it really bummed him out that I was bawling, and I felt like a failure because I couldn't appreciate all he had done for me (sounds just like the battle I anticipated, doesn't it?).
Eventually, because we arrived at the town we were going to eat lunch, I pulled it together and stopped crying (gave myself a royal headache, by the way). I received, because my husband loves me and truly wants to please me, the best fast food that particular small town has to offer, and it was delightful.
We were sitting outside the restaurant, all the kids in matching shirts still, me nursing a baby, a daughter feeding another baby a bottle, people driving by, and I just thought, what a powerful testimony on mother's day of life and the blessing of the Lord. And of course, sitting there drinking my hazelnut iced McCoffee, I was again thankful that I am surely one of the most blessed women alive.
The trip home was much better than the way there. We got everything inside without any major meltdowns. We played outside for a bit with neighbors. We came in and I plopped on the couch, nursing one baby, giving a bottle to another, and, no kidding, my children came before me with their homemade mother's day cards looking for all the world just like a parade.
The cards were great, and I do feel appreciated. My favorite was from my eldest, saying how glad she is that I am her mom and her friend.
I loved that parade.
Rules of Engagement
These are the rules I try to fight by in marriage battles.
1. Always remember to never use the words 'always' or 'never' in a fair fight.
2. No spear throwing, meaning, if a spear (insult or accusation) is thrown at you, don't pick it up and throw it back.
3. If what you are about to say will tear your house down rather than build it up, don't say it.
4. Deal with the current issue, not with a list of historic issues. If you are bringing up history, you have unforgiveness problems.
5. Don't bother to make a joke in a fight. If one or both of you is hurting, the sense of humor function is probably turned off, and attempted humor may make more pain.
6. Don't fight angry. Work the anger and emotions out between you and God, then talk about the problem when you are in control of your emotions.
7. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8. Go for the win-win-win. If you feel better but your spouse is laying bleeding on the floor, you have not won anything.
9. A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.
10. Wait until a good time to talk. It is not only appropriate to call for a cooling off period, it is critical.
11. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Or, put another way, I desperately need Christ to have mercy on me, therefore, I will extend mercy to others, including and especially my husband.
12. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven you.
13. Hope in God, Who is faithful, and Who gave you your spouse. Nothing is too hard for Him. The heart of the king is in the hand of the Lord, and He turns it whichever way He wants it to go.
14. You have an enemy, and you are not married to him.
15. Read Proverbs often. Daily if possible.
16. After you fight, make up. You know what I mean. Do it.
1. Always remember to never use the words 'always' or 'never' in a fair fight.
2. No spear throwing, meaning, if a spear (insult or accusation) is thrown at you, don't pick it up and throw it back.
3. If what you are about to say will tear your house down rather than build it up, don't say it.
4. Deal with the current issue, not with a list of historic issues. If you are bringing up history, you have unforgiveness problems.
5. Don't bother to make a joke in a fight. If one or both of you is hurting, the sense of humor function is probably turned off, and attempted humor may make more pain.
6. Don't fight angry. Work the anger and emotions out between you and God, then talk about the problem when you are in control of your emotions.
7. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8. Go for the win-win-win. If you feel better but your spouse is laying bleeding on the floor, you have not won anything.
9. A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.
10. Wait until a good time to talk. It is not only appropriate to call for a cooling off period, it is critical.
11. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Or, put another way, I desperately need Christ to have mercy on me, therefore, I will extend mercy to others, including and especially my husband.
12. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven you.
13. Hope in God, Who is faithful, and Who gave you your spouse. Nothing is too hard for Him. The heart of the king is in the hand of the Lord, and He turns it whichever way He wants it to go.
14. You have an enemy, and you are not married to him.
15. Read Proverbs often. Daily if possible.
16. After you fight, make up. You know what I mean. Do it.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Taking captives
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl. More than almost anything, the boy wanted to make the girl happy. He wanted her to feel loved, wanted, appreciated. But alas, he was unable to do so, at least not all the time.
The fault was not his. And it was not entirely hers. The fault lay with the enemy of their souls. An enemy that had hated long before they were created, that hated their Creator in fact. But the Creator was so strong, and the enemy, being a mere creation himself, was far to weak to get to the Creator. But the creation, specifically the boy and the girl, were within his reach.
And reach he did. He reached into their hearts and minds and fought with his most powerful weapon: lies. Also known as half truths, his lies were so powerful, they earned him the title 'father of lies'. The lies would seep into their hearts as if they were their very own thoughts. And the girl thought these thoughts and owned these thoughts, thoughts like: the boy doesn't want to listen to me; the boy just wants to play with his toys; the boy doesn't care how I feel; this will never get better; I should just give up.
And the lies threatened to take over, morning after morning. But the girl was not completely helpless. She had a powerful weapon as well. Because the Creator had not left her alone. He had said He was always with her and would never forsake her. In fact, He said she need only resist the enemy and he would flee from her. But He had instructed her to take her thoughts captive. Capturing thoughts, though it sounds simple, is very difficult. In fact, it requires the skilled help of the Creator to accomplish it.
So, the girl, remembering the Words hidden in her heart, reached out with the faith that the Creator was stronger than her enemy, and said the magic words: help please, it's too hard, I can't. And to her wonder and amazement, the pain that had just been crushing her tender heart and mind began to melt away. The lies didn't seem true anymore. She remembered that the day was a good day and she had much to be thankful for.
In fact, while the reader may be impressed at the girl's creative ability to hide the exact nature of the cause of the tiff she had with the boy, the fact is, though it hurt so badly at the time, she no longer remembers.
The fault was not his. And it was not entirely hers. The fault lay with the enemy of their souls. An enemy that had hated long before they were created, that hated their Creator in fact. But the Creator was so strong, and the enemy, being a mere creation himself, was far to weak to get to the Creator. But the creation, specifically the boy and the girl, were within his reach.
And reach he did. He reached into their hearts and minds and fought with his most powerful weapon: lies. Also known as half truths, his lies were so powerful, they earned him the title 'father of lies'. The lies would seep into their hearts as if they were their very own thoughts. And the girl thought these thoughts and owned these thoughts, thoughts like: the boy doesn't want to listen to me; the boy just wants to play with his toys; the boy doesn't care how I feel; this will never get better; I should just give up.
And the lies threatened to take over, morning after morning. But the girl was not completely helpless. She had a powerful weapon as well. Because the Creator had not left her alone. He had said He was always with her and would never forsake her. In fact, He said she need only resist the enemy and he would flee from her. But He had instructed her to take her thoughts captive. Capturing thoughts, though it sounds simple, is very difficult. In fact, it requires the skilled help of the Creator to accomplish it.
So, the girl, remembering the Words hidden in her heart, reached out with the faith that the Creator was stronger than her enemy, and said the magic words: help please, it's too hard, I can't. And to her wonder and amazement, the pain that had just been crushing her tender heart and mind began to melt away. The lies didn't seem true anymore. She remembered that the day was a good day and she had much to be thankful for.
In fact, while the reader may be impressed at the girl's creative ability to hide the exact nature of the cause of the tiff she had with the boy, the fact is, though it hurt so badly at the time, she no longer remembers.
I love a parade.
Actually, I don't. But it is a better title than "Mother's Day Eve".
What I love is being celebrated. Or more accurately, feeling appreciated. A year of changing and rinsing and washing and drying and stuffing diapers. A year of making meal after meal that is as big as many people make for a holiday, two or three times a day. I've bought and put away groceries, I've ironed shirts, I've matched socks, I've taught school till my voice was ragged. I've been to doctor appointments, music lessons, and dog poop collection excursions. I've labored and given birth. I've gotten up in the middle of the night and nursed and cleaned up poop, pee and vomit. I have worked hard for no money and very little appreciation. I deserve an ever-loving parade.
But I also have a mother. And my husband has a mother. And we are in Indiana celebrating our mothers. And while the week (roughly) between my birthday and Mother's Day, known at our house as the National Holiday, has been a great week of celebrating my existence, it was not a week of saying thanks. I still had to do all the same work, I just ate more chocolate. Birthdays are different than Mother's Day. Birthdays are about celebrating the birthday girl or boy. Mother's Day and Father's Day are about saying thank you for things you normally take for granted. Take a break, Mom. Put your feet up, Mom. Thanks, Mom.
Tomorrow, in celebration of Mother's Day, I will get up before I'm done sleeping, wake my children up and dress them quickly, snarf a breakfast of cereal and milk, and drive an hour and a half to meet up with my in-laws, where we will eat frozen pizza and pretend to be excited while my mother-in-law pretends to be surprised to see us, even though my father-in-law spilled the beans days ago. Then I will spend the rest of the day riding in the big van, listening to children watch the movie, ask to go to the bathroom, complain about where they are sitting and the placement of their siblings heads and be out-loud thirsty, hungry and especially uncomfortable.
[Bunny trail: my youngest son, sk12 (S is an initial, K is kid, 12 is the number of child I'm talking about) has, since birth had what I affectionately call strep butt. He had a rectal strep infection, something I didn't know existed, and was therefore miserable. He is now less miserable, but still doesn't like riding in the van - which has been the case for a number of my children. In fact, I am beginning to be suspicious that some of my non-van-happy kids are actually in the infant stages of carsickness.]
At any rate, youngest son cries for most of the 6 or so hour van trip, and on the way here, there were 1.5 hours construction, which I assume will be there on the way home as well. When we get home we will have a dozen crabby children, laundry to do and put away, and a large general mess.
I may, when we drive through McDonald's on the way home, get a special drink from the McCafe. Might even get an apple pie.
None of this sounds Mother's Day-ish to me. I don't want to sound ungrateful. My husband has been focused on appreciating me all week. Tomorrow is just a day. I hope our mothers feel loved and honored tomorrow. I hope they like the plant and homemade cards we give them. I hope to honor them. But honoring is complicated as an adult.
What does it mean to honor my mother and husband's mother at this phase of life? Does it mean making them happy? That hardly seems like something I should take responsibility for. Does it mean always doing what they want? What does it look like to honor your mother as a grownup? I suspect it requires a substantial reduction in the amount of eye-rolling I sometimes do. It probably means that when I have an issue with one of them that the enemy is rubbing my face in, I should choose to bless and forgive and not have a list, long or short, of pet peeves and grievances against one or the other of them. It probably means lifting them up in prayer whenever I think of them, especially negatively.
Like, for example, tomorrow, when I'm in the big van, listening to my children complain and eating my cold cheeseburger and drinking my lukewarm McLatte, all so that I could be with my mother this weekend and not surprise my husband's mother for Mother's Day. No parade after all.
What I love is being celebrated. Or more accurately, feeling appreciated. A year of changing and rinsing and washing and drying and stuffing diapers. A year of making meal after meal that is as big as many people make for a holiday, two or three times a day. I've bought and put away groceries, I've ironed shirts, I've matched socks, I've taught school till my voice was ragged. I've been to doctor appointments, music lessons, and dog poop collection excursions. I've labored and given birth. I've gotten up in the middle of the night and nursed and cleaned up poop, pee and vomit. I have worked hard for no money and very little appreciation. I deserve an ever-loving parade.
But I also have a mother. And my husband has a mother. And we are in Indiana celebrating our mothers. And while the week (roughly) between my birthday and Mother's Day, known at our house as the National Holiday, has been a great week of celebrating my existence, it was not a week of saying thanks. I still had to do all the same work, I just ate more chocolate. Birthdays are different than Mother's Day. Birthdays are about celebrating the birthday girl or boy. Mother's Day and Father's Day are about saying thank you for things you normally take for granted. Take a break, Mom. Put your feet up, Mom. Thanks, Mom.
Tomorrow, in celebration of Mother's Day, I will get up before I'm done sleeping, wake my children up and dress them quickly, snarf a breakfast of cereal and milk, and drive an hour and a half to meet up with my in-laws, where we will eat frozen pizza and pretend to be excited while my mother-in-law pretends to be surprised to see us, even though my father-in-law spilled the beans days ago. Then I will spend the rest of the day riding in the big van, listening to children watch the movie, ask to go to the bathroom, complain about where they are sitting and the placement of their siblings heads and be out-loud thirsty, hungry and especially uncomfortable.
[Bunny trail: my youngest son, sk12 (S is an initial, K is kid, 12 is the number of child I'm talking about) has, since birth had what I affectionately call strep butt. He had a rectal strep infection, something I didn't know existed, and was therefore miserable. He is now less miserable, but still doesn't like riding in the van - which has been the case for a number of my children. In fact, I am beginning to be suspicious that some of my non-van-happy kids are actually in the infant stages of carsickness.]
At any rate, youngest son cries for most of the 6 or so hour van trip, and on the way here, there were 1.5 hours construction, which I assume will be there on the way home as well. When we get home we will have a dozen crabby children, laundry to do and put away, and a large general mess.
I may, when we drive through McDonald's on the way home, get a special drink from the McCafe. Might even get an apple pie.
None of this sounds Mother's Day-ish to me. I don't want to sound ungrateful. My husband has been focused on appreciating me all week. Tomorrow is just a day. I hope our mothers feel loved and honored tomorrow. I hope they like the plant and homemade cards we give them. I hope to honor them. But honoring is complicated as an adult.
What does it mean to honor my mother and husband's mother at this phase of life? Does it mean making them happy? That hardly seems like something I should take responsibility for. Does it mean always doing what they want? What does it look like to honor your mother as a grownup? I suspect it requires a substantial reduction in the amount of eye-rolling I sometimes do. It probably means that when I have an issue with one of them that the enemy is rubbing my face in, I should choose to bless and forgive and not have a list, long or short, of pet peeves and grievances against one or the other of them. It probably means lifting them up in prayer whenever I think of them, especially negatively.
Like, for example, tomorrow, when I'm in the big van, listening to my children complain and eating my cold cheeseburger and drinking my lukewarm McLatte, all so that I could be with my mother this weekend and not surprise my husband's mother for Mother's Day. No parade after all.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Dancing is for . . .
Girls? Sissies?
I go to one of those churches where people dance. Which is to say, it is culturally appropriate to dance at my church. Or at least, we say it is. Really, it is culturally appropriate for children to dance. Especially girls. And some women. And men who are either extremely confident, passionate, or weird.
But really, most people don't. Wouldn't feel comfortable. Most of the time.
I fit into the category of "some women" and I do dance sometimes. Sometimes I can't help but dance. Not that I'm a particularly good dancer. And as Chris Farley proved in the old SNL Chip'n'dale's skit with Patrick Swayzee, even if fat people are good at dancing (and I said already that I'm not) it still doesn't look very good. Still I dance, especially with my children.
My older sons are out-growing dancing. Which means my younger sons will never probably do it.
The interesting thing to me is this: in many other cultures (specifically, I'm thinking about the Masai in Kenya and Native Americans), do you know who dances? The warriors. Those headed into battle. Those who have returned from battle victorious. The men.
And I'm just musing here, but perhaps men NOT dancing now is actually the result of the effeminization of men in our culture. Perhaps the men don't dance now because they are not man enough to dance.
Is dancing in worship just for the children, the women, the weak and the weird? No, dancing is for the mighty, the strong, the warriors. It's an upside down kingdom, to be sure. Strength in weakness and all that. But seriously, guys, come on. Sometime, when you feel it rising up in you, just man up and dance.
I go to one of those churches where people dance. Which is to say, it is culturally appropriate to dance at my church. Or at least, we say it is. Really, it is culturally appropriate for children to dance. Especially girls. And some women. And men who are either extremely confident, passionate, or weird.
But really, most people don't. Wouldn't feel comfortable. Most of the time.
I fit into the category of "some women" and I do dance sometimes. Sometimes I can't help but dance. Not that I'm a particularly good dancer. And as Chris Farley proved in the old SNL Chip'n'dale's skit with Patrick Swayzee, even if fat people are good at dancing (and I said already that I'm not) it still doesn't look very good. Still I dance, especially with my children.
My older sons are out-growing dancing. Which means my younger sons will never probably do it.
The interesting thing to me is this: in many other cultures (specifically, I'm thinking about the Masai in Kenya and Native Americans), do you know who dances? The warriors. Those headed into battle. Those who have returned from battle victorious. The men.
And I'm just musing here, but perhaps men NOT dancing now is actually the result of the effeminization of men in our culture. Perhaps the men don't dance now because they are not man enough to dance.
Is dancing in worship just for the children, the women, the weak and the weird? No, dancing is for the mighty, the strong, the warriors. It's an upside down kingdom, to be sure. Strength in weakness and all that. But seriously, guys, come on. Sometime, when you feel it rising up in you, just man up and dance.
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