I hate my face

and the rest of me as well. But mostly my face. The rosacea is taking over. I took a picture with my phone of me and my youngest daughter, and she looks so beautiful, and I look so very crappy.

I have to be honest here on this blog called the amazing super mom. I have not felt remotely amazing or anything like super in quite some time. The daily grind is really bringing me down. I don't like the look of me or the feel of me.

I was reading a facebook conversation recently, started by a young woman who was confidently stating her updated religious views. She said she is a deist, she believes in God. She likes the idea of a rescuer but has decided that the Bible isn't trustworthy because of translation issues someone told her about. But what she wants is a life that isn't based on rules and a constant trying to measure up, but instead a life that flows out of love.

And I thought, that's what being a Christian is. Or is supposed to be. It is supposed to be a life that flows in and out of the immense love of God. Jesus, living the life He lived, dying on the cross and rising again was all about revealing the love of God. It was about setting us free from all those rules and guilt into living a life flowing in that mighty love.

The facebook poster had not seen that love in the churches she'd been part of or in the Christians she knew apparently. She certainly wouldn't see it in me. Why is that? I've been a Christian for 30+ years. In my brain I know that Jesus loves me. I know I am free. I know I am beautiful to Him. I know He is right and I am wrong.

But when I look in the mirror or hear myself talk or think about how I act, I do not love me.

When I am with Him, focused on Him, listening to Him, I remember. And though I don't feel beautiful, I know He is, and I enjoy Him there. But even that revelation is hard to cling to when I get back to the blow-by-blow of being a human. Harsh words spoken, blank stares from formerly friendly faces, criticism, failure, just the normal uphill battles we all face, all these things wage war on that lovely peace that passes understanding.

I want to be one of those women who carry with them the grace of having looked myself in the face and seen what Jesus sees, of having gone through the fire but not been burned, of having been with Jesus so often and so deeply and authentically that nothing, no nothing, interferes in my nestled existence.

I want to be so saturated with the glorious, universe-sized love of the Almighty that it slimes everyone I come in contact with, in a good way.

But I'm not that girl today. I'm just me. Tripping along, bumping into stuff and people. I feel small (in a fat sort of way) and weak and offensive and insufficient and ugly. And far, far away from the arms of my Beloved Jesus, though they are ever so near.

My very favorite image of Jesus in the Bible is when John the disciple was leaning back on Him during the last supper. There was turmoil, unrest, Jesus was talking about things like being crucified and tortured and betrayed, and John simply leaned back.

There is a quote in one of the Winnie the Pooh stories when the Piglet calls out to Pooh, and Pooh asks what he wants, and Piglet replies, "Nothing, I just wanted to be sure of you." That's the height of my faith this morning. I don't have all the answers. I'm not floating in a sea of the love of God. I can't probably inspire any athiests or agnostics to believe by my lifestyle or world view. I'm just hanging on. I know Him. I know He loves me. But it has not seeped into my all day, every day.

I'm just leaning back, just wanting to be sure of Him who my heart loves.

Monday

New week, new start, fresh attitude. I don't feel particularly motivated, but today is Monday. I better get my game on or it's going to be a very draggy week. I'm digging around, trying to find some mojo, trying to fan some kind of flame from the seemingly cool motivational embers in the fireplace of my heart (pretty poetic, eh).

I don't have much. Just a vague memory of who I want to be someday, a deeply buried thought that I have the Spirit that raised Christ from the dead in me, and 12 really loud, distracted children who, if I don't pull it together, will sit around all day nibbling the stuff from the bottom of the box of shredded miniwheats and making miniature fishing poles out of paperclips. That doesn't seem like enough. Now is when I miss coffee.

I had a healthy breakfast, scrambled eggs with spinach, cheese and ham. I've taken my vitamins. That's 2 points. Several children are starting their new week's k.p. duties (others are fighting over what their new duties are, and one is playing heart and soul on the piano). That's a start.

I am reminded of one of my favorite things, St. Patrick's Breastplate. It first became special to me when I was pregnant with my 3rd child, when the oldest was 2.5, and I was pretty sure life was ending and that I would grocery shop online and never leave the house again. He was due around or on St. Patrick's Day. And I was researching about Patrick and his name (not that my husband ever really considered the name Patrick or Patricia, but I was brainstorming) and ran across it, it's also called the Deer's Cry, and probably wasn't maybe really even written by St. Patrick, but here it is. I'm grabbing hold.

I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through the belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness Of the Creator of Creation.
I arise today Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism, Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial, Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension, Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.
I arise today Through the strength of the love of Cherubim, In obedience of angels, In the service of archangels, In hope of resurrection to meet with reward, In prayers of patriarchs, In predictions of prophets, In preaching of apostles, In faith of confessors, In innocence of holy virgins, In deeds of righteous men. I arise today Through the strength of heaven: Light of sun, Radiance of moon, Splendor of fire, Speed of lightning, Swiftness of wind, Depth of sea, Stability of earth, Firmness of rock.
I arise today Through God's strength to pilot me: God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me, God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear me, God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guard me, God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me, God's host to save me From snares of devils, From temptations of vices, From everyone who shall wish me ill, Afar and anear, Alone and in multitude.
I summon today all these powers between me and those evils, Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul, Against incantations of false prophets, Against black laws of pagandom Against false laws of heretics, Against craft of idolatry, Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards, Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul. Christ to shield me today Against poison, against burning, Against drowning, against wounding, So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness, Of the Creator of Creation.

Appropriate joy

I got on BabyCenter last night. Hadn't been on in months, really not since finding out our youngest didn't have Downs syndrome. I don't have time and, when I'm not pregnant, that's just not somewhere I want to be. But pregnant, and not sleeping (why?), somehow I feel compelled to go to those type of sites.

So there is a group for moms due in August of this year, and there is a question, how old are you and how many kids do you have. 135 responses. A few older than 40, none with more than 4 children, many relieved to be having their last before age 30.

One lady said she was 58 and having her 13th, but was just kidding. Because of course she couldn't have a baby at 58, and of course she could't be having her 13th. Ha ha. That would be ridiculous.

And I thought, do I post?

I don't know why I care. I don't know why what anybody thinks matters to me. But it does. It does impact me. Am I alone in this? I feel people's acceptance or rejection of my pregnancy as I would their acceptance or rejection of my child.

And it isn't just people who think having 13 is as ridiculous as having a baby at 58. It is people who are grieving themselves because they have longed and prayed for a pregnancy, and why do I get to be pregnant, again, and they are not? No one says it, and maybe, by God's grace, they aren't even thinking it.

But I am. I'm glad to be pregnant but I would give anything for each of them to be.

Some people are concerned about my weight, or my other children, or my health, or our finances. But all of that concern, even if it is legitimate, amounts to disapproval. And my weakness is that I take that stuff in.

I used to really get a kick out of telling people how many kids I had in how many years. But over the years all the negativity beats it out of me, until, I just want to stay home. It takes the joy out of pregnancy, takes the excitement out of telling people, takes the fun out of looking pregnant.

I feel physically great, as good as I ever have felt when pregnant. I am healthy. I am strong. I am as thrilled about being pregnant as I have ever been. This baby is as greatly longed for and anticipated and desired as any of my babies has ever been. I'm not very tired, not very uncomfortable, not puking, not nauseaus.

Why don't I feel happier? I do not want to accept on my child's behalf that he or she is less stunningly amazing, less stupendously delightful, less phenomenonally, once-in-a-lifetime miraculously wonderful than every other baby due in August of 2012. God making a human is simply one of the most wonderful things He ever does. And, though I don't know why, and I certainly don't know why He maybe didn't yet in some of my precious friends' wombs, somehow, miraculously, He did and is in me.

This baby, this event, this miracle is worthy of all the joy I can muster, worthy of cute T-shirts and maternity clothes and shouting from the rooftops.

God, why are there so many who think it is ridiculous or laughable or wrong for me to rejoice over a precious new life, simply because I have already celebrated a dozen other times? Why are there wombs hungry for life when mine overflows? Why is joy that is so very appropriate so hard to come by? Please give life to these friends of mine. You are good, show forth Your goodness. And please, let people see the joy that You and I take in each conception, in each spirit, in each pregnancy, in each life.

I did post.

I said, I'm 40, will be 41 when baby is born, our 13th. Not kidding.

Angry

I got angry today. Angry enough to make a phone call. Angry enough to call my congresshumans. I called and talked to their respective flunkies and let them know, in no uncertain terms that I am NOT okay with any portion of my health insurance premiums going to help anybody kill a baby.

And I need someone to help me with the government civics end of this thing, because it seems to me that Congress may have the authority to require my health insurance company to require me to do that - although it would be gravely wrong and desperately against the founders' intentions for them to do so - but I don't understand how the president, who I thought was the executive and not legislative branch, has the authority to say that.

Unreal. I guess they passed something that gave him the room to do that.

I get a lot of call-your-senator e-mails. They always make me feel guilty, but rarely do they make me feel anything strong enough to do something about it.

I would love to be the kind of person (my husband is) who acts out of conviction, not out of emotion. But there are a lot of times I have conviction, but not enough emotion to follow through with it.

And I wander through life, wondering, what will it take to get me worked up enough, for long enough, to do some of the things I have conviction about. Many things I do. But there are others for which my commitment to my conviction waxes and wanes based on, I don't know, the phases of the moon? Well, I might write more, but I didn't make enough quesadillas, and the sound my daughter is making is enough to make me get up and follow through on the conviction I have about feeding my children supper.

The Amazing Supermom cooks!

When I am eating in a healthy fashion, which I am so far today, although Papa John's is on the menu tonight, and I have no plan, there is a smallish list of healthy wonderful things I like to eat that are delicious and completely healthy for my pregnant (or otherwise) self. So here is one.

Healthy chicken salad on bell pepper

Whatcha need: About 3/4 cup cooked shredded chicken (no pressure, but the tastier the chicken, the tastier the chicken salad)
A cleaned finely chopped stalk of celery
1/2 cup cottage cheese, low fat if you like
A bell pepper, halved with the junk scraped out
Some chopped walnuts, optional

Whatcha do: (in case it isn't obvious)
Mix everything but the bell pepper together in a bowl and stuff it in the bell pepper or maybe two, with a little salt and pepper

I would have hated this whole thing before going off sugar, by the way, but now, though I'm not excited while making it because what I really want is a bowl of crunchy raisin bran, it is really delicious and satisfying, full of veggies and protein for me.

Empty(er) nest

Right this moment, 5 of my children are at 2 different birthday parties, 2 are sleeping and one is upstairs doing a chore. Leaving 4 with me. Sort of. One of the four is deeply engaged in a well earned computer turn, conquering trolls, I believe, and a second is longingly looking over his shoulder.

My house feels very quiet and empty.

In an hour, all but 2 will be here, awake, and hungry. But those 2 will not return until tomorrow. And my house, even teeming with 10 young people, will feel "alone and in the winter" until they return.

Sure, we'll eat less food tonight, there will doubtless be less fighting, and the girls will not have to talk as loud to make themselves heard. Not worth it. I miss them. We all do.

And I wonder again, for the thousandth time, if a day will come when I don't feel like a part of my heart has gone walking around somewhere outside my body.

It's not that I don't have anything else to do. There are socks to match, dishes to do, songs to compose and record someday, maybe even a book to write. There are lots of fun and/or meaningful things I could see doing someday. And be content doing them. But the reality, I suspect, is that my favorite times will always be when my children are with me, and that the times when they are all here will happen less and less.

I just really like them. That's why I keep having them. I like them as babies, as toddlers, as little punks, as preteens, as young adults. They keep getting better and better. I love their faces and smiles and jokes and songs and games.

Thanks, God, for letting me be my children's mama. Thank You for today and tomorrow. Thanks for the hugs and kisses, the sick day snuggles, the battles to learn new things and the confidence acquired in the process. Thanks for letting me see bits of fruit. Make me a wise steward of what You trust me with. They are Yours, not mine. And I am also Yours.

Hormones

Quote from daughter number 3 on a particularly tough day, "I told them I have hormones, and they didn't even CARE!"

Hormones are raging at my house, and it's not just me. I have 2 teenagers who have leveled off and are mostly delightful. But I have 3 pre-teens who are each and all a huge mess. And I, myself, am a mess. Together, well, there is a good amount of screaming, crying, and flat out despair. We are all more vulnerable to those particular fabrications of the enemy that creep up mostly when we are tired. As my 4th daughter used to say, "nobody's mad at me".

I'm reaping what I'm sowing, of course. Me. I am one big fat example of not self control. And I do mean fat. Sugar free chocolate is not my friend. Instead of creatively digging into the goodness God has provided in healthy veggies and proteins, my carb craving machine is all fired up and I'm out of control. My attitude is lousy.

I don't know if I've ever felt uglier. My rosacea is pretty bad. Make up helps, but not enough to make me want to do it every day. It just makes me look like a covered up bumpy mess instead of a red angry bumpy mess. I am the proud owner of some very expensive night serum, which I put on when I remember, day or night. But even if it would really work I'm not consistent enough to really fix it. I'm too lazy to wear contacts every day, and my glasses are bent and scratched.

I have often thought I am the biggest loser and the duggars rolled into one, but what I really need is an extreme makeover and clean sweep episode as well.

So in the midst of all this vomitous suckiness, I had my little devotional set at the house of prayer today. 2 sometimes wonderful hours with me, Jesus, a piano, a microphone and a handful of people coming in and out. And for a few significant moments, it was just me and Him. And, incredibly, as it turns out, He still really loves me and likes me and wants to be with me and is pleased with me and isn't firing me and wants me to try again and promises to help me. Isn't that just unbelievable?!

So somehow, tomorrow morning, I hope to convey some of that wonderful, matchless grace of Jesus (sing it if you know it ... "deeper than the mighty rolling sea") to all the other walking hormones. And perhaps, by that matchless grace, we'll all survive the week.

Flunking Afro Hair

I struggle, often, especially around African-American strangers, with being a peach mom of a brown daughter. More specifically, I wrestle with being the straight haired, pressed for time mother with soon to be a dozen other children of a girl with marvelously curly black hair that I can either train to be worn "free" and get endless feedback and disapproving looks from said African-American strangers, or I (or eldest daughter) can learn to and devote many future hours to significant styling routines.

Eventually, my course will be determined by her preferences. But for now, it is mostly about not putting too much effort into hair that will have her breakfast, lunch, and dinner smeared into it within hours, counterbalanced with the desire to not have other people think I suck, and should have adopted a child with easier hair.

The very great reality here, however, is that she is my DAUGHTER. She is mine. She is engraved in my heart. Whether or not her hair style pleases others, she is completely and totally my own child. I will try to pull it together on the hair front. But I must never connect that particular skill set with my qualification as her mama.

What other people think of my parenting is not my gradecard. My gradecard is grace and favor and peace from the One Who delights in me and delights to give me good gifts. He is faithful and able to give me everything I need to be the mama He made me to be, for each of my overwhelming and larger than my time and confidence allows children. I am not big, strong, wise, capable enough, nor do I have enough time, but He is, and He does. Hollar back.

resolved:

I have a half written song called 'new day's resolution', which, ironically, I will likely never finish. It goes,

This is my new day's resolution
I'm gonna write more and sing right
And put some cream on my wart at night
I'm gonna talk less and listen more
And self-control the slamming of the doors

If New Year's Eve is the only occasion for saying, "It's time to try harder," then we are really kidding ourselves, aren't we?

But this isn't about your ordinary, run of the mill, self-improvements. This is about pregnancy/labor/delivery. Yes, I'm only 10ish weeks, but as I am pregnant, there's nothing I'd rather really talk about, so, here are the things I am hoping for with this dozenth pregnancy. (drumroll, please)

This stands to be my healthiest, thinnest, and therefore, lowest blood pressurest (just when you thought the grammar couldn't get any worse) pregnancy. I hope very much to stay on course living without sugar and caffeine, which I don't need, without empty carbs, which I also don't need, and with lots of protein and veggies and water, which I do.

The only way, really, to pull that monkeyshine off, is to stay in very near proximity to my Jesus, Who meets my emotional/hormonal need for comfort on a moment by moment basis. I am trying to read His Word more and What To Expect When You're Expecting and prego blogs and Babycenter.com and Childbirth.org articles and birth stories way less. (I've probably read What To Expect 25 times, parts of it more, could ace a quiz on it).

(less firmly resolved, but convinced of the need) I would really, really, honestly really like to try to move my butt a couple times a day for a few minutes a day, to the tune of 10 whole minutes on the treadmill, or walking up and down my stairs a dozen times, or taking the dog up the block to potty. Even once a day. Would like to try.

About labor, as always, would like to not be induced. This could happen! I can keep my weight down, walk, take the bp meds if necessary, and just let labor start. For those of you who have not quite memorized each of my numerous birth stories, I have only had 2, count 'em, two babies without the glorious blessing of pitocin. That is for sure a goal.

Either way, I am definitely looking for some changes in the labor and delivery. I am resolved not to care if the doctor makes it. I will not focus on the ever pressing question, "Are you feeling any pressure?" ("By the time I feel pressure, there likely isn't time for him to get here without the help of a transporter beam.") I am resolved to focus on each individual contraction as another step toward my baby. I don't care if it takes a couple days. I will not rush or be hurried through one of my favorite things.

And I have regretted every epidural experience but the first. I can do it without it. One contraction at a time, I can do it. I will dance and pray and worship my way through, not asking how long it will take, just enjoying (er, sort of) the journey. I won't get to have many more babies. Giving birth is one of my very favoritest things. I will cherish it. This is something God and I, and my husband, toward the end, do together.

I will eat healthyish in the hospital, and will not, so help me God, gain back all my pre-delivery weight in the weeks that follow the birth. This may mean deciding to pitch, rather than making it my personal mandate to finish off the marvelous vat of pasta con broccoli that my children have undervalued. I don't even know how to tell people what to bring, but I will figure it out by then. Veggie trays, salads without fruits, soups, if desserts, small amounts.

I will nurse whenever and for however long this baby wants to nurse. Even non stop, at first.

I guess that's a lot. I always think, at the beginning of pregnancy, how can I do better? This is how. Here's to the healthiest pregnancy ever (for me)! Cheers!

indulgence vs denial

So I've been in this season of indulgence. I'm not eating sugar, not having (much) caffeine. But instead of living in a place where I am set apart for the Lord, drawing near to Him, forsaking legitimate earthly pleasures for the gaining of great eternal treasure, instead I've been walking out the equivalent of an "obedient" child *stomping* up to her room, slamming doors and kicking small children out of the way. Oh, I'm fasting. I'm a Nazirite, for crying out loud. I'm set apart, alright. I'm set apart with attitude.

And I'm eating everything but sugar and caffeine. And lots of it. And I'm miserable. I feel lousy. I'm amazing at 3 suit spider solitaire, though.

But that whole spirit vs flesh thing, my flesh has totally been winning. I'm not even trying. Just giving up and feeling crappy. Everyone's been sick. Now I'm sick. My regular clothes don't fit right and my pregnancy clothes don't fit right. And I am absolutely a raging hormonal maniac nearly all the time.

But eating for comfort and pleasure isn't helping me be healthier or stronger, physically or spiritually.

So today was different. I put my flesh down for the day. I feel that empty feeling, but also stronger and less disgusting, more in control in a submitted to God kind of way. Safe.

unlikely

i have a cold. not bad. several kids have something also. sometimes just the feeling of children who are not healthy is overwhelming. a recurring diaper rash, a dog who seems to think the living room is the appropriate place to poop, a broken dishwasher . . . all these gnaw away at my shakey perceptions regarding my own competence.

i am pretty hormonal, but am getting used to it. not sure if the people i live with are, but maybe.

we are back to the state of the laundry room floor being about 2.5 feet deep in somewhat clean if rather wrinkled clothes. seems like the laundry room floor is my act-together-ometer. it is how one could measure my margins. it is the first thing to go on a long, ever-growing list. so for weeks i've been in that daily scrape-through-to-find-a-couple-roughly-matched-socks-and-a-pair-of-underwear-or-just-stay-in-pajamas-because-that's-the-next-best-thing-to-staying-in-bed-which-is-what-i-really-want-to-do-anyway state of mind.

i shouldn't really be measuring right now, though. until friday (5 days ago) we were blessed with visiting family off and on for nearly a Christmas month, i'm in my first trimester and i'm sick. being behind on laundry is completely appropriate.

what's not appropriate is giving up. because i have lots of hope. i have lots of joy. and i have a baby growing in my belly. how marvelous.

my cousin is pregnant. i'm excited. sometimes when someone gets pregnant that isn't married, which is her case, we don't know how to respond. but really, that's kind of mixed up thinking, to me. most of the time, when that happens, we already knew they were messing around. we knew the situation was not what we desire most for her. that isn't news. whatever our response was to that life shouldn't really manifest now. (i know that sometimes people find out someone's activity because of a pregnancy, but usually, for discerning people, we already knew there were goings on.)

the news now is a baby. that's wonderful. a baby is wonderful. to get mad now because she is having a baby is ridiculously poor timing. now is a time to rejoice. a baby means God chose to do a good thing in her. He is up to something for her good. He loves her tremendously. i've been praying for her and i'm excited to see what He will do through this new life.

a baby is never bad news. even when created in seemingly difficult or unfavorable circumstances, even when it isn't the way we would have planned it ourselves, even when the person is poor or sickly or unmarried or already has more than a dozen kids or has an incompetent cervix or an incompetent husband. when God makes a human soul, God Who sees the end from the beginning, God Who does what He pleases, God Who does not make mistakes ever, it is always good. always. good.

if God thought it was a good idea to place a child in the womb of my cousin who i love, who isn't married yet, whose future i do not know, but whose good i desire, i can and will greatly rejoice.

and if God thinks it is a great idea to put another little one in my womb and heart, even if we are sick and messy and all i want to eat is carbs and i just want to go back to bed for a week, i will also greatly rejoice.

God is big into unlikely heroes. not many wise, not many noble. He loves making something of nothing. He loves warriors hiding in winepresses, youngest sons out in the fields counted out by everyone else, unmarried virgins, women too old to bear children, Moabitess widows, harlots, tax collectors, stinky shepherds and pagan astrologers. and my beautiful cousin. and me. He's like that.

announcing ...

Behold, I bring good tidings of great joy that will be to all people: for unto us a child is to be born. Unto us a son (or daughter) is given. And his/her name shall be called ... Well, we haven't gotten that far yet. Right now we're calling the baby Lucky, since it's the lucky 13th baby. What?! 13 isn't lucky? Oh, well, I don't believe in luck. I believe in Jesus, and that He makes babies and that He calls them good gifts.

So there is great rejoicing in the land. God has said yes to our yes and trusted us with another treasure. How marvelous, how wonderful, and my song shall ever be, how marvelous, how wonderful is my Savior's love for me.

Waiting

Waiting for presents
Waiting to give
Waiting to receive
Waiting to know
Waiting to reveal
Waiting to see, to play, to open
Waiting to discover
Waiting to come
Waiting to go
Waiting for loved ones to arrive
Waiting for readiness
Waiting for news
Waiting for a hero
Waiting for something long awaited
Waiting for redemption
Waiting for resolution
Waiting for a Savior
For a Messiah
For the second Adam
For a Redeemer
Waiting for forgiveness
Waiting for a miracle
Waiting for deliverance
Waiting for healing
Waiting for Salvation
Waiting
Groaning
Longing
Yearning
Watching
Looking
Waiting

If your kids can't sleep, tell them the story. Adam and the serpent and the fall. The shedding of blood needed for the remission of sins. The increase of wickedness. The need for redemption. The longing and groaning of the creation for the Savior. The man Abraham. Isaac, Jacob and his sons. Moses and the Israelites. Joshua, the judges. The cycle of sin and judgement and repentence and rescue. The desire for a king and the getting of one. The repeated following of king after king in the worship of idols. The wickedness of man and the grace of God toward those who called on His Name. The desperate need of a people of a Savior. The prophets of old speaking for years of things like a virgin birth and a King to come, dying and laying dead for hundreds of years never seeing their words fulfilled.

Longing. Waiting. Messiah.

God become flesh, a tiny secret, a baby. But God told the secrets to unlikely hearers. Dirty stinky shepherds. Foreign pagan astrologers. A pregnant 60 year old barren woman with a dumb husband. Weird.

The most anticipated secret of the universe told to the most unlikely ears. Oh, and Mary. And Joseph. Now there are a couple unlikely heroes.

Tell them about the waiting for and the unlikely "wrapping" of the Greatest Gift Ever!

That'll give them something to think about, while they are waiting.

How we do Christmas

First of all, regarding Santa Claus, we tell our kids whenever it comes up that Santa Claus, or Saint Nicholas, is real, is dead, is in heaven worshipping Jesus. We tell them the reindeer flying, elf employing, North Pole dwelling version is for fun but sometimes gets in the way of people really celebrating Jesus.

We wrap up pieces of the nativity set we have and open each of them, including the manger, minus the Baby Jesus, on Christmas Eve, with our youngest person (not baby) opening the last piece. Then we look around, throw up our hands, and ask, mysteriously, where is Baby Jesus??? Oh, we all realize together, He isn't born yet, tomorrow is His birthday. We leave cookies, milk and carrots out for the imaginary Santa, and go to bed.

During the night, my husband and I (and any any older kids that can't sleep) take all the presents to the tree and fill the stockings with candy and a poptart and/or granola bar in hopes that something breakfasty might enter their mouths between Reese cups.

This year, we'll open the stockings before church, and the rest after lunch. Our children exchange names and "buy" each other gifts from the Awana store. They also divy up the parents and grandparents and buy for them as well.

We don't try to buy the same number of gifts for each, nor do we honestly spend the same amount of money for each. We don't want their lists. They can use Christmas money from grandparents to buy things they want. We are buying gifts for our children, so we choose what we think will delight them and encourage them to be who they are in the things they like and are good at. So exciting to think and talk together about our children and who they are becoming, as they get older.

For the oldest we got a green . . . oh wait, she might read this!

We will read the Christmas story again, and either on Christmas or before, each child will choose a gift for Jesus for His birthday - a Matthew 25, for the least of these, kind of gift. Blankets for a child, a goat for a family, that sort of thing. Samaritan's Purse is my favorite.

The rest of the day will be spent, I hope, playing games together, enjoying each other and our new things, cooking, napping, reading, singing, hugging.

And that is Christmas at our house, in a nutshell.

Merry Christmas

I haven't written for a while, and I'm not sure when I will again. It's been a little crazy.

We got a dog. I mean, we received a dog. That is fun and not as life altering as I expected. It is just another creature to love in my house, another mouth to feed, another potty training to accomplish. But there is room in my heart to love him. Plenty.

We're trying desperately to get a little more school squeezed in before we give up completely for the holiday season. Very difficult. Very.

I have enjoyed greatly the anticipation of having gifts to give to my children this year.

I am greatly blessed, and I know it.

Both the babies are walking, one with more skill than the other. The eldest is driving, cooking and painting. The second is carving, shooting, and crafting cardboard into the Roman Coliseum. The third is writing a book and playing the piano and singing. Loudly. The fourth is reading. The fifth is loving the dog. The sixth is giggling and wrestling. The seventh is quoting movies and memorizing scripture. The eighth is drawing. The ninth is biting and hitting and apologizing for biting and hitting. The tenth is uggling and elbowing the 11th out, or dragging the 11th around by the arms. The eleventh is dancing and singing. The twelfth is chasing the dog.

We put up our tree, lights on the banisters, Christmasy things in the window sills. We shopped and shopped and found treasures to delight. I've been planning meals that feel special and holiday-ish.

And the waiting until Christmas morning is tangible. 12 people know something wonderful is happening soon. 2 don't suspect anything. They'll learn, soon enough.

I don't have anything special to write. I love Christmas. I love buying gifts with my husband, for my children. I love that my husband is going to home for 5 days straight. I love decorating and wrapping and giving gifts to people I love. I love that God became a man, a baby, an embryo, a fetus, a fertilized egg. I love that He was a secret in a young woman's heart. I love that Elizabeth knew. I love that He humbled Himself to become a newborn, an infant, a toddler, a teenager. I love that He submitted Himself to human parents. I love that He understands, because He lived it, life here, veiled in flesh.

I love Christmas carols and all the marvelous truth embedded in them. I don't even mind snow carols and Santa carols. But I love the Jesus carols the best. And I love presents and parties and lights and ornaments. But I love Jesus the best. There is no conflict for me about this season. Jesus is Christmas. Christmas is Jesus. The Word become flesh and dwelt among us. The Incarnation. Emanuel. God with us.

I heard a friend say it well recently. Some people don't celebrate Christmas because Jesus wasn't really born then. But if not now, when? Because there are very few things in the history of the universe more worthy of celebrating than God become man. I cannot fathom anything more worth a party than that, except that He died and rose again for us.

And sharing that marvelous gift with my children and giving them gifts as well is delightful. I can teach them in the process that Christmas is about Jesus. God gave Jesus. Jesus gave Himself, His life. They get it. He is the best gift.

Anyway, this has been pretty rambly, sorry, I'm scattered. I have presents to wrap, a house to clean, and I am seriously not caught up on laundry from Thanksgiving travels. I've gotten within a couple loads, but then people keep wearing clothes!

Blessings! May your heart be pregnant with His love, full and overflowing! Joy to the world! Let every heart prepare Him room. Let Heaven and nature sing!

Sweet Things

So I'm not eating sugar, or even sweet things very much right now. Sometimes fruit, sometimes a tiny bit of sweetener on ricotta cheese. But not much.

And yet, my life is full of sweetness. Here is some of it.

Baby girl calling me Mama
Hugs and "uggles" from the 2 year old
Eldest daughter and second son sitting at the piano singing together while one of them plays
Any of my Bigs reading to any of my Littles
The moment my husband comes home
Having a laundry basket full of 100+ pairs of matched socks
The big brown eyes of my fifth son
My children dancing
Realizing that 4th daughter and 5th son, who normally fight, have been playing together for hours
Eldest son leaning down and kissing me and asking if I'm okay
Second daughter's smile
Third daughter's dimples
Squishy baby boy that fits just right in my arms
Third son's bedtime need for my hug, in his bed, and telling me I am the supermom
Fourth son's eyes, so blue I want to go swimming in them
Freckles on their faces
Phrases like, "Can I help you mom?" and "What can I carry?"
The moment at night when all is silent and I am done being Mom for the night (or at least for a little while)
Knowing what is for dinner (or breakfast, or whatever) and having everything I need to make it and time to get it made
Getting out the door on time with socks and shoes and clean clothing on 14 clean bodies (at least I imagine that would be sweet)
Having time with Jesus on a fairly regular basis
Knowing that He is with me all the time, near when I am broken hearted, and waiting on high to show compassion to me
Knowing He delights in me, in my weak "yes", in my bumbling sporadic obedience
Pleasing my mother in law
When my dad says I'm doing a good job
Laying down at night next to the man of my dreams and knowing he feels the same way about me

Things I've learned

So I hope that in 5 or 10 years I will begin my blog with the sentence, "It's been this many years since I lost all that weight and I am still doing well."

Of course, that is not today. Today I can say that since Mother's Day I have lost nearly 50 lbs, one fifth of my body weight. And so, I am not yet an expert on living healthy long term. But I am here and not there, so I can only speak to this. And in this place, here are the things I have learned.

Everything tastes better when you do not have refined sugar in your life.

Even small amounts of sugar or white flour wake up my food-craving engine, and in a matter of minutes I can go from perfectly-content-with-an-appropriate-portion-of-whatever to ravenously-starving-need-to-eat-the-world. It is like the scene from Finding Nemo, when Bruce the teetotaling shark gets a whif of Dori's nose bleed. That's how I feel.

I feel completely different internally about myself and life when I am not controlled by my appetite. I feel smaller and more serious, and yet full of joy and freedom.

A big (24 oz) drink of water picks me up just like a cup of coffee.

I feel very full and satisfied when I eat a meal of good protein, healthy veggies, and a small amount of cheese.

When I have grains, even really incredibly healthy grains, it is hard to stop.

There is a limit to my good decision making capacity. I cannot continue to say no forever in a difficult situation.

I am firmer in my committment to others, be it the Lord, my sister, my husband, than I am to myself.

Being thinner means being colder.

That's what I have so far.

My new goal is to lose another 25 lbs by Valentine's Day, and another 25 by Mother's Day, which would be 100 pounds in a year. And I still won't be at my desired healthy weight, but I will be ever so much nearer than I have been in nearly 20 years. I may be unrecognizable. Hard to imagine. I guess I'll just look like my mom. A good thing.

Progress

Here I am, your personal Biggest Loser meets The Duggars, fat mom with a lot of kids trying to become healthier/smaller/more disciplined.

I have now lost nearly 50 lbs. That puts me at hovering just above 200, just above my husband, just above the least I've weighed in memorable history. I weighed something like 154 when I got married 18+ years ago. And I'm pretty sure we didn't have a scale for the first year or two of our marriage. So, although I am sure I knew I was gaining weight, gaining girth, clothes getting smaller, I didn't really know what the damage was, probably until pregnant with our first child.

I don't remember what I weighed at the beginning of that first pregnancy, but I remember I was fat enough to ask another, fatter woman if people would even be able to tell I was pregnant. I weighed 238 the day my daughter was born.

I lost a lot of weight before becoming pregnant again, and got down to either 198 or 189, can't remember which. But that was the last time I was under 200.

And now, here I am, tottering on the brink. I can reach the other side. I will. But then I'm not sure what happens.

What happens when I weigh less than I have in nearly 15 years? What happens when I finally weigh less than my husband? What is my next milestone to shoot for? I have a lofty goal, to weigh 132 lbs. But that is a very long weigh off (pun intended).

I don't know. It's something to think about.

For now, I'm just trying to stop eating crap long enough to get to the first marker.

To weigh less than 200 lbs, at 5 foot 1 inch, would put me in the category of Way More Normal.

To weigh less than my husband, well, would make me feel like a woman. Desirable. I can't wait and never, ever want to go back.

To weigh in the 180's might mean buying normal clothes at normal stores, in sizes without X's.

To weigh in the 160's would put me nearer to my lovely sisters.

To weigh in the 150's I could fit in my wedding dress.

To weigh much less and I could share clothing with my daughters conceivably, someday.

I could be healthy enough to not have high blood pressure, healthy enough to sustain healthy pregnancies.

And yet.

I have come so far, lost so much, and yet, I can blow it all in a day, seemingly. It seems that this many miles into success, that failure ought not be just behind me. But pigging out is so tempting. My daughter looking through her new cookbook frankly depresses me. Thinking about the holidays scares the crap out of me.

I'm afraid to fail, and just as afraid to succeed. So much better to have stayed fat than to get fat again.

And so I find myself again in desperate need of the One who doesn't change.

He said to me, you don't need sugar, you don't need caffeine. So, every so often, I will have a little of those. But mostly, I need protein, I need veggies, I need water, I need to move my body around. I need Jesus. That's my plan.

So help me God.

somebody else wrote this

But I'm reposting it here, because, well, it's better than anything I could say.

Real Life Adoption Story For National Adoption Month-
By Kim Green

Our daughter Selah was born last year with only a brain stem (no brain) and only lived 55 days. She was conceived in rape and placed for adoption with our family at 2 days old. 11 days after she was born, her birth mom (a life long muslim) called me and said she wanted to become a Christian- she wanted the Jesus we had. She died on my chest 4 days after the court finalized her adoption. The below is a post I wrote that I thought I'd share on fb too:
********
I'm sitting here bawling right now. I just had the most amazing conversation with Selah's birth mom. I hadn't talked to her since May despite my trying to call/text her, I got nothing back. The last time I spoke to her, there were some family issues, and sadly, I had thought that maybe she left the state. Then out of the blue, I got an envelope from her. In it was a card made by her other two kids and a bill re: Selah I had told her to send me way back in April (said we'd pay- back when we had money! lol!). On the outside of the envelope, was a note saying she missed me so much, so much had happened, and to call her at her new number.

I called her today and instantly, I knew something had changed just by the sound of her voice. It turns out LOTS has happened in the last five months. She had gotten in a car accident and her phone had broken... explains why I couldn't get a hold of her. The good news though: Her other two kid's dad got out of jail, she got married to him, AND she is now pregnant with a healthy little boy. Here is the best part - that part that makes me weep- when S. got out of jail, she told him that she loved Jesus now and had given her life to Him and he needed Him as well. He now too is a Christian and as she put it, they are "all on fire for the Lord" now. She told me that she needed more worship cds because they had worn the others out - lol!

Serious tears.

This is why I am pro-life no matter the life circumstances, the circumstance of the conception, or whatever "impairment" may be detected prenatally. GOOD ALWAYS COMES FROM TRUSTING GOD.

Yes, she was raped - horrible.
Yes, she is poor - horrible.
Yes, the baby was not "compatible with life"- horrible.

BUT... GOD USES ALL THINGS FOR THE GOOD OF THOSE WHO LOVE HIM!
(Rom 8:28)

ALL THINGS.

Even rape.
Even disabilities.
Even poverty.

ALL THINGS.

This entire family, 4 members (soon to be 5), came to Christ through a little girl who never said a word and our family who loved her and her birth family for who they were. Unconditionally. I wish you could have heard her voice- you'd believe too.

Genesis 50:20, "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people alive."

Running out of time

I have heard it is extremely rare for women to get pregnant after age forty without some kind of fertility assistance. Anecdotally, the people I've talked to personally were mostly 42 or younger when their youngest child was born. I think I know of a woman or two who were 43 or 45.

At best, I probably have 2, maybe 3 pregnancies left in me. Or 1. Or none.

I am enjoying my 12 children. Each is unique, amazing, delightful. And I would love very much to have a dozen more. Or 8. Or 2. Or 1.

I am okay with none. But I would prefer to have more.

So (laugh if you like) my 3rd son and I are praying for twins. Having done the virtual twin thing and survived, we think maybe we can pull it off. I would love to have 2 more and 2 more and 2 more children. Or just 2 more.

I also think about adopting out of the foster system. I'm told we have too many children to be allowed to actually foster, but that we could adopt children who are in the foster system who have already had their parental rights terminated.

So, sometimes, when I think of it, I'm praying for those kids out there, who might be born already, that might be mine someday. I pray that they would be protected from harm at the hands of their birth parents, their foster parents, and the enemy of their souls. I pray that God would visit them in dreams, in visions, that they would know Him even before we know them. Hey, if John the Baptist could be filled with the Spirit in his mother's womb, I guess my future children could encounter Him in their early years as well. And just because my kids come from a messed up environment doesn't mean they have to be messed up by that environment.

I know that my diaper days are drawing to a close. Way more is behind me than is ahead of me. And that is okay. I will let those days go.

I know that time with my older kids is also running out. That makes me more nervous for the boys than the girls. Have I prepared them for the future? For being husbands and fathers? For providing for families, for earning a living?

I have helped them to hide God's Word in their hearts, to value what is important, to save their hearts till marriage, to guard their eyes and minds and hearts, to choose friendships well. But have I prepared them for life outside my home? To work their way through college, to pursue a job, to balance life and work and church and school?

I guess some of these things are learn as you go. And I hope, if the relationship we have now continues, that I will be able to help as they learn those lessons.

And I guess that is what helps when I start to feel the "running out of time" panic - I am not really running out of time. I will continue to bear fruit in some way, even as I'm older. I will continue to parent my children in different ways, even as I'm older. I will still accomplish what God has given me to do, because my biological clock does not govern my eternal clock. Sigh of relief.

Heritage of faith

I'm sitting at my dad's computer, in my dad's chair, reading my dad's Bible. I love my heritage of faith.

I love that my dad and my daughter encourage each other reading their Bibles.

I love that my mom is a crazy flag waving worshiping dancer and that my children love to worship in expressive ways.

I love the memory of my grandparents voices uplifted in worship of the King, "Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine. This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long."

I love the heritage of my Auntie Evelyn and my Aunt Gin, my Uncle Charlie and my Uncle Jim, all giving years and hours of their lives singing and playing piano and guitar, leading many in songs of praise and worship, and discipling me to do the same. They were heroes in my eyes, and the beginnings of dreams planted in my young heart.

Though I don't remember, I know I have a deep heritage of faith that began in a little country church in Kansas also.

I have grown up into the faithfulness of generations who have served Him faithfully. Not that there are not prodigals in my family, there are. Some walk near, some farther. But the foundation is there for us to build on, or run from.

How very precious, not just in memory, but in the strength that I feel pouring over the Bible my father reads every day, loving the same God, laying the same firm foundation, building his house, and my house, upon the Rock.

Reminds me of Amy Grant's old Christmas song, Heirlooms (which my mother likes a little too much, smile).

Up in the attic, down on my knees
Lifetimes of boxes, timeless to me
Letters and photographs, yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter, some bringing tears
Time never changes the memories
The faces of loved ones who bring to me
All that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious family is more than an heirloom to me

Wisemen and shepherds, down on their knees
Bringing their treasures to lay at His feet
Who was this wonder, Baby yet King
Living and dying, He gave life to me
Time never changes the memory
The moment His love first pierced through me
Telling all that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious Jesus is more than an heirloom to me
My precious Savior is more than an heirloom to me

Baby Mark

Eleven and a half years ago something went wrong. My cousin and his wife were due to have a baby, their first, the day after I was due to have my fourth. That was supposed to be mid-July.

What went wrong was that baby Mark was born in March. Early. Too early. Or so it seemed. Defying all probabilities, Baby Mark, weighing in at, I think, something like 1 pound, 2 ounces, entered the ring of life with serious obstacles.

And he defied them all. Brain bleeds, premature lungs, reflux and feeding issues, shunt malfunctions, and frankly, lots of stuff I don't remember or never knew about. I have no ideas how many surgeries the boy went through.

But he went through them all and won.

Until yesterday.

Sunday afternoon sometime, I received a call. It was not the first such call. They haven't been very frequent for a while, and because he always pulled through, we kind of figured he always would. This time he didn't.

It went something like this: Mark has been having some headaches and upset stomach, so they took him to the hospital. He walked in. Two hours later, he stopped breathing, in what they now believe was a stroke. Later, after being transferred to another, better hospital, he had another. He also had 2 surgeries and a seizure that night. At 1 a.m., the call to pray was heavy.

At 4 we prayed. At 7 I learned they would give him 24 hours to show some sign his brain was alive. At 3 or so, his vitals started to drop. A little after 7, he was gone.

Maybe 26 hours. He walked in. Then he was gone.

I'm working on a song, because, that's how I process things. It's what I do.

Something like this:

The first time I held your hand
Smaller than I ever knew a hand could be
I trembled
I slid my ring up on your leg
And marveled at the perfect way
He formed your hand
I held it

Then a million years went by
Till the day I finally held your tiny frame
Didn't breathe,
couldn't believe I held you then
So long I waited for that day
To hold my son
I held you

But I know Who holds you now
But I know Who holds you now
But I know Who holds you now
He's holds me too

I have held you many times
With each surgery
And every wounded knee
I kissed you and I prayed
God would see you through
And hold you

Every time I let you go
with the knowledge that
the One Who gave you life
loves you even more than I
and holds you

See I know Who holds you now
Yes I know Who holds you now
Yes I know Who holds you now
He holds me too

He holds the universe together
He holds the wind in His fists
He holds my tears in a bottle
He holds my life, my heart

And I know Who holds you now
Yes I know Who holds you now
Yes I know Who holds you now
He holds me too

Faithful and good and true
Perfect and worthy
Gentle and wonderful
Is the One Who holds you
Who holds me and you


Okay, it's not done, but you get the point.

Baby Mark, who hasn't been a baby for a long time, has been such a fighter, we just thought he'd keep on fighting. But he lost finally. Or rather, he won, in a different way.

We know he is fine now. No shunt, no more surgeries, no little barely noticable limp, no glasses, no scars.

But for us, it's just, no Mark. No Mark smiles or jokes or hugs. No son, no brother, no cousin. There's just a Mark shaped hole, like a Grand Canyon, right in the middle of our hearts.

I'm far away. Mark was not the center of my world, except on days when the phone would ring in the scary, Mark needs prayer, kind of way. But people I love are dying inside today.

Jesus, You loved and lost and wept. Even knowing the end from the beginning, even knowing healing was coming, and eternity wasn't far off, You wept. Maybe You are even weeping with us now.

You are near to the broken hearted. Please help us feel You as near as our pain, as near as our tears. And in the days ahead, as that Grand Canyon where Mark used to be, was supposed to be, widens, please fill it with Your healing love. And someday, please, give joy for our mourning.

THIS is halloween

I was walking into Walmart yesterday with my oldest son (yes, I still go there) and we saw peeking out of the back of a car/van/truck/vehicle with a hatchback (what are those things anyway) what looked to be a dead bloody forearm and hand. Isn't that funny? Amber alerts about missing children, horrible months long searches for bodies, and we think a dead hand sticking out the back of a vehicle is a fun joke.

"THIS is halloween," I said to my son.

An hour later we were in a grocery store and there standing by the self check out lane was a lifesized cardboard cut out of what was meant to be a demonized woman. She looked frightening and sick and terrible.

I said, "THAT is halloween."

We can eat candy every day. We can dress up in costumes as often as we like. Halloween isn't dressing up, and halloween isn't eating candy.

Halloween is fear, murder, violence and death.

Look around. Tombstones, dead rotten hands sticking up out of the ground, pretend bloody knives sticking out of someone's back or head, fake corpses hanging from trees, this is what we accept at this time of year. My children received a fun cookbook with recipes for food that looks like fingers that have been cut off.

Why?

Skeletons, ghosts, vampires, witches - none of these things are cute.

I have a rule in my house that we do not pretend to be evil. Not in games, not on the Wii, and certainly not on halloween. It glorifies the sin. It teases the lowest part of our flesh into thinking there is something we are missing out on by doing right.

If there were no God, no devil, no supernatural realm, I still think halloween would be sick and wrong. But there is a God, and there is a real devil, and halloween is a day in which the latter revels.

Death, dismemberment, demon possession, seduction, fear, violence, murder . . . these are things celebrated on that day. This is halloween.




So what do we do? What should we do? As Christians, or even as people who do not love darkness, what can we possibly do?

I have two possible plans:

Plan A: get to a local house of prayer, and just pray and worship all day, fasting sugar.

Plan B: still fasting sugar, and worshipping and praying all day at our house, string lights all over the front of the house and give out flashlights with cards made by my kids saying things like, "Jesus is real so you don't have to be afraid."

Not sure what we will do, but whatever it is, I hope very much to punch holes in the darkness, not just accept it, and certainly not join it. I don't celebrate planting, or spring, or winter, or summer, I see no reason to have a halloween party and pretend like it is a celebration of fall or the harvest. Let's be honest with ourselves and take some ground. There is a battle, whether we acknowledge it or not.

A tree is known by its fruit, and the companion of fools will suffer harm. The fruit of what our culture does on October 31 is death and fear, not to mention gluttony. The enemy knows what that day is, but He Who is in us is greater than he. We have authority to cast out demons, heal the sick and raise the dead.

Don't join 'em. Beat 'em!

Forty one tomorrow

He had blue eyes and a warm smile. He was older than me. And he loved his mother. These were the features that drew me to the man I eventually married.

I learned later that he was gentle, patient, and conservative. And a hard worker. Whatever the opposite of a procrastinator is, that was him. If a professor gave a 4 week deadline on a project, he was the guy who had it all but done the first week, and was distracted from his final tweeking the last week by all the people just starting and needing his help.

I remember around Easter of our first year together we were eating at Ponderosa and he started to cry. I said, "Why are you crying?" He responded, "Jesus died, for me." And he had me.

I said, there are, maybe, guys who are more charming, more romantic, better dancers, but all that, I can live without. This passion for Jesus - that's something I can't.

So the man I married was a wonderful, Jesus-loving, tenderhearted hardworker.

But the amazing thing is that he has become more wonderful, more godly, more pleasant, more wise, stronger, braver, and better looking with each passing year. Then he was a young man, a new husband, a new employee. Now he is a good husband (indication: happy wife), a great father to 12 gifts from the Lord, a manager and a leader, a songwriter and worshipper, a man of courage and discernment and passion. He is bold and deliberate. He is a real man.

Tomorrow he will be forty-one. Forty one years of getting better and better. How amazing my husband will be when he is 60!!

Praise vs Worship

I get it.

I should probably apologize for all the eye rolling and arguing I've done in the past regarding this subject. (If I have many more blog-about-faces, I'm going to have to rename the blog, "Crow for dinner".) I just didn't get it, and I do now.

Praise is a choice. It is an action, giving what is due to the one (One) who rightfully deserves it. It is logical. It is deliberate. We praise Jesus because He is worthy. We give Him our praise. It is conscious.

Worship is a response, a reaction. Worship is what happens when we encounter Him. Worship is the way we feel, the way we are, the way we cannot help but to be in the face of His beauty, His majesty, His excellencies.

Praise can be commanded, worship cannot.

It is appropriate to praise, regardless of feeling or emotion, even contrasting it. Worship happens in spirit and truth.

And I think praise often leads to worship. We exalt Him, He reveals Himself to us, we worship.

Anyway, sorry to everybody I ever argued with about the terms "praise" and "worship". You know who you are. Praise is exalting Him, first person, second or third. Worship is our response to the exalted Him.

Raising the bar

For a long time, my answer to any disappointment in marriage has been simple: lower my expectations.

I have adjusted my marital expectations to be as follows. My husband, who is a wonderful, godly, patient, kind, selfless, gentle (pick a fruit of the Spirit, he's got it), beautiful man, has a limited number of hours in his day, is limited in his ability to meet my needs and those of our children, therefore, I will not place demands on him for what I need emotionally, but rather put my hope and trust in the Lord to meet all my needs, sometimes through said wonderful husband, sometimes other ways.

Sounds godly, no?

In fact, if you read back far enough, you will find this posture expressed in the form of advice.

But recently I have felt challenged by the Lord to contend for more. I believe He wants our marriage to look like the relationship between Jesus and His bride. And that is a little different. He wants me to hope for more. He doesn't want me to absolve my man of all responsibility for our marriage, and just hope God will make me happy. He actually placed responsibility for our marriage on my husband's shoulders.

What does this mean? What do I do with this? Well, I did communicate with him. And handed the reins to him. And now I pray, and wait, and trust. Because his heart is still God's responsibility, and so is mine. But now I hope.

I'm hoping for more coming together in our relationship with the Lord and each other. I'm hoping for more conversations that are either able to happen simultaneously with chaos, or snatching moments separate from it, more conversations that go beyond what to pick up from Aldi, when to buy a new laptop, and all things relating to the budget. I'm hoping to show my children a marriage that they will hold out for and want to emulate. I'm hoping to have a relationship that teaches each of us and those around us about how Jesus loves His church, and how His church trusts in Him.

That's raising the bar.

On the wall

I wrote a song not long ago - sorry I don't have a high-tech (or even low tech) way to let you hear it here, but it goes like this:

Come take your place upon the wall
See your enemy draws near
Come take your place upon the wall
Follow hard and do not fear
You've neglected it too long
And now the time has come
Build me a stone wall

It was inspired by a couple sermons preached by Lou Engle and Tammy Riddering, which were in turn inspired by Nehemiah, regarding the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem after the exiles returned from Babylon. But they were preaching about prayer, building a wall of prayer.

It struck me yesterday, why I am so pumped about my little night watch. I'm part of this Moravian Night Watch. And I have found my way to the 2 or 3 a.m. slot. I tried doing the late night positions, but that meant staying up really late. By doing the middle of the night, I go to sleep when I'm tired, wake up to pray, and go back to sleep.

But none of those things is easy. Going to sleep isn't always easy - I'm kind of a night owl, and sometimes there is too much to do, my head buzzing.

I'm a light sleeper, so waking up is not hard, but waking up enough to pray and read my Bible without nodding off, and with any sense of actually communing with God, well, that's a different story. I am often numb for the first half hour of my watch.

I've gotten very creative about finding ways to stay awake. When it was hot out I would take a cold shower for most of it, 'cept you can't have a Bible in the shower. Standing, walking, marching in place, dancing. Mostly I do things like scrub my kitchen floor, match socks, iron shirts, and my favorite, the one most likely to really wake me up - process dirty cloth diapers. I can frequently be found at 2:20 in the morning sitting in my kids bathroom with one hand on my Bible and my other in the toilet, cleaning poop off a bumgenius before I wash it.

What do I pray about, with my hand swirling in poo? Whatever the Lord brings to mind. I pray for our nation and its leader, for leaders in my church, in our house of prayer, in my city. I pray for Israel, for the peace of Jerusalem. I pray for Muslims to have dreams and visions about Jesus, and to learn what a wonderful Father God is. I pray for prodigals who have walked away to come home and find Him waiting for them. I pray for the unborn to have life and for the next generation to have their life in Him. I wage war, tear down strongholds, rebuke demons. I also hear the voice of my Beloved, loving me.

And so by the end of my watch, I'm wide awake. And going back to sleep is almost as challenging as waking up was.

Don't be impressed. Like I said, it is often numb, difficult, weak, fumbling. Often, I have the fervency of a stone.

But that's what I'm so excited about. I am a stone. A living stone on the wall. I don't have to be impressive. Stones seldom are. I'm just there, part of the wall. I'm one of many. But I'm there, showing up.

And after years of longing to be part of the house of prayer, the global prayer movement, which I love, partnering with the Lord to bring His glory here - I'm doing it! I'm on the wall, in my obscure, stinky, middle of the night fashion.

And there has been grace for this. I am eating and living healthier, but I can say that I am not just exhausted all the time. I am okay. I'm not falling asleep during school, not tired when driving, not losing my temper with my children, not acting despondent and hopeless with my husband (all normal exhausted-me symptoms). I may be even thriving. Not for amazingness. Just for love.

I love that each night I have a weak, unimpressive, half-asleep date with the Lover of my soul. And I love that as a mom of many, I still get to be part of the night warriors taking the kingdom by force in prayer.

Weight Watchers

That is, my weight watchers. This is not a weight loss blog. Except when it is. Unfortunately for the reader, this blog is not topic specific. So today, I'm writing about my perilous fitness journey.

I haven't written for a while, which either means I'm doing terrible or wonderful. Hooray, I'm doing well. I've lost 33 lbs since whenever I started in the spring or early summer - I can't remember.

I'm probably doing it the wrong way, in that I haven't started really exercising yet, I'm just eating differently.

First, I went off sugar and refined flour. Then a week ago, I dropped coffee and limited my carb intake. I'm sort of following the "eat right for your type" blood type eating guide. I'm an O, I think. But I honestly think the whole thing is hogwash. The reason people lose weight if they do that diet is because the portions are specific. I'm convinced that you could follow any of his plans, A, B, AB, or O, and lose weight. But perhaps some foods work better for some than others.

At any rate, the eating structure for people with blood type O is just a restricted Atkins diet as far as I'm concerned. With these exceptions: he rates foods as beneficial, neutral, and to be avoided. And those guidelines are pretty much for life. He says type O people need to live in a pretty much constant state of ketosis, not just to lose weight. When you are not trying to lose weight, you can eat more of the highly beneficial and neutral foods, but that I shouldn't really ever eat a whole lot of avocados or bread. I'm okay with that for the most part. Here is what I'm eating each day, roughly:

4 protein servings (almond butter, eggs, meat, poultry, fish)
4-6 vegetable servings
1-2 fruit servings
1-2 whole grain servings, but not every day
1 butter or cheese or milk
green tea, at will
coffee once a week
lots of water

I had a small piece of cake and a very small amount of ice cream for my daughter's birthday. The cake wasn't good to me, so I only ate half. The ice cream was delicious.

Having the mind set that my body doesn't process those "bad" foods properly means I can do it every so often, I just won't lose weight then. It is a little less foreboding than seeing foods as never or always. I still think I need to avoid sugar and white flour as much as possible because they start my craving engine up. But I was not afraid to celebrate the birthday.

Mostly, it feels good to be free. I do not feel like a slave to my appetite.

Some of my clothes are getting pretty big. I am only about 1/4th of the way to what I believe is a truly healthy weight for me, based on what my mother weighs. I don't know if it is realistic, but I think it is right to try to get there. If I start looking unhealthy as I get closer, I'll reassess. If I really get to my goal and like myself there, I will have lost nearly half of myself. And I hope my skin will keep up.

Plans to start moving are small. I'm going to try to go up and down stairs 10 times each day, do 3x20 sets of push ups and crunches or weights each day, and hopefully get on the treadmill 10 minutes each day. If I did any of those any day, that would be an improvement.

So there's your update, in case you wondered.

He must increase, and I must decrease. Literally.

White pride

Okay, first of all, I am going to be politically incorrect here and use the terms White and Black because a) I have read and heard a number of Black people say they prefer those terms and b) it is faster and easier to type. Please know that when I say Black, I mean a person of African ancestry with brown skin, and when I say White, I mean a person lacking melanin of some European ancestry with much, much lighter brown skin.

The other day I did something that, in retrospect, was quite ironic, but it was what it was, and it's been bothering me, so I'm writing about it. (This is, by the way, my 3rd attempt to write about it, and I'm not sure this will get published either.)

I went out of my way to say hi to a Black lady at soccer. Not because I am a genuinely friendly person, but because she was the only Black mom there, and I didn't want her to feel a certain feeling I like to call I-was-the-only-Black-person-there-and-not-a-single-soul-talked-to-me.

It was one of the coolest conversations I was ever a part of. Not cool as in awesome. Cool as in, frigid, Antarctic, penguin exhibit cool. Cold.

It rapidly became apparent that this classy beautiful woman with her ducks in a row and every hair in place DID NOT NEED my condescension. She didn't need my pity. She certainly didn't need me to be the ambassador for all the White people, the trans-racial welcome wagon.

I only went over because she was Black. She knew it, and I knew it. It was a racist gesture. Well intentioned, but racist. Putting people in a box with everyone else who looks something like them, even if it is a much better box than they were in 50 years ago, is still racism.

What made matters worse was that I was a lousy pick for ambassador. I was looking pretty much my worst. I had a trail of small people following me that were probably dressed for warm, not for style or matching for that matter. And I was carrying the delight of my life, whose hair had not been washed or styled, clothes not matching, looking very uncared for.

I was a fat frumpy White woman with a passel of children, fresh from the shoe, carrying my unkept Black daughter, fairly screaming, "I THINK I AM BETTER THAN YOU!"

Part of why I keep rewriting this is that I don't have an end, a moral, a lesson. I only know that what I tried to do backfired badly.

It is agonizing - I want to make racism go away, and yet, with my very actions, I reveal myself to be a racist.

Skin is skin. I know. When my daughter has a scab and it comes off, her skin is the same as mine. We are the same. All the people in my house (even before she arrived) are different colored and have different noses and eyes and lips and hair. Not one of us is the same. And it doesn't mean anything!!!!!

Help, God. Help us to love each of the people You made because You made them. Help us stop trying to measure and categorize each other. Help us to walk in humility and wisdom. Help us forgive each other. Forgive me for my arrogance in thinking that woman needed me. Bless her Lord. Fill her tank with Your beauty and Your love for her. Help her forgive the arrogant White frumpy chick who tried to make her feel comfortable. Give me wisdom next time around. Make my heart line up with Your heart regarding all of our differences and samenesses. Amen.

Self-pity

One thing I have to really guard against is self-pity. Not large scale - I don't feel sorry for myself because of what my life is in the big picture. But, for example, last Tuesday, my big kids were doing a thing, Dad was picking them up, so I was home alone with the youngest 7.

No don't get me wrong, #3 son is a dreamboat. He is really helpful. So is son #4. They are probably way more helpful than the first few were at the same age. (Or not, I honestly don't remember what happened 7 years ago.)

But being home with just the youngers was still rough. And the temptation is to pout. My husband got to leave the house that day, alone, in a car, and pick what he listened to on the radio, and not break up any fights on the way to work. No one screamed at him or bit him or sucked on him all day. And here I was with the young ones while he is on holiday with the big 5.

The reality, of course, is that he would have loved to be here, not at work. And my life is a delightful gift. I just have to deliberately remember that.

Joy is a choice. Gratefulness is my option. I can be thankful. Or not.

It's been a year

A year ago today our precious birthmom endured an agonizing labor and nearly lost her uterus all for the sake of giving her baby the best possible home in her eyes: ours.

A year ago today I waited to learn if her sacrifice of months of her life to give us that baby would cost her ability to have another. It didn't.

A year ago today, precious friends and family caught the call to pray in the middle of the night for miracle after miracle. They did.

A year ago today, a tiny five pounder was born, not breathing, with an apgar score of 1, was whisked away to be bundled up and held safe by a bunch of machines and wires, pausing only for a brief photograph.

A year ago today, I went to visit our tiny little one in a NICU that seemed hostile to the idea of a rich white pregnant lady with 10 kids coming down here to take this poor woman's child out from under her.

A year ago today, a doctor was kind, a nurse was kind, and I began to learn what length our journey might have.

A year ago today, I saw her, touched her, prayed for her and sang to her and loved her, our darling baby girl.

A year ago today, I wept for her birth mom, for the heartache she endured, for what she experienced, for what she gave us. Her trust, her life, her child.


Today we celebrate, not just a healthy strong one year old, doing all the things one year olds do, measuring in at the 97th percentile, smiling, eyes shining, initiating games of hide and seek, singing (sort of), loving and being loved by brothers and sisters, the apple of her daddy's eye, making her mama's cup overflow with joy, but also, and just as much, the enormous sacrifice made and gift given by another beautiful wonderful amazing girl. Both strong, both precious, both amazing, both very near to God's heart.

Love. It can grow so much in a year.

I went to the dentist today . . .

I took my second son to the dentist today, again. Last week we had a morning of dental check-ups - 10 children's teeth were cleaned and examined. The next day, two went back for fillings, and I took the 4 smallest so the big kids could "get something done", but all they got done was help the younger, more dependent schoolers get their stuff done. So today I took one for fillings, and 7 of the youngest 8, with everyone's phonics, handwriting, spelling and math in tow.

Normally when I go to the dentist office I don't talk to people very much. They usually just stare and try to figure me out while I take care of my babies and watch the movie without sound and try to figure out what is happening. But today there was a delightful woman sitting next to me, and we quickly found a great deal of common ground, home schooling, knowing some of the same people, adoption interest, and she had had 5 kids in 4+ years.

Also there was another very pleasant lady who noticed and counted my children and commented frequently, and positively, about our size and how cute they all are and how I'm a saint for having so many.

All good, right?

In the context of these really enjoyable conversations with very positive and gracious women, I bumped into two cultural points of grief. I'm calling them cultural, but really they are just abiblical concepts. They might seem logical, but they are not what the Bible says. Here is the first:

Birth control is like a seatbelt.






I do not know how to spell the agony I feel at this idea. Let me 'splain. A seatbelt keeps you safe in the case that something bad happens. It keeps you alive and in your vehicle and hopefully prevents some whiplash. By contrast, birth control keeps you from having a baby when something good happens.

So in that analogy,
driving a car = a healthy marriage relationship
wearing a seatbelt = birth control
being fertile = a car wreck
getting pregnant = a bad injury or death

Right? Am I missing something? A baby is compared to something really bad. This is very sad and wrong. Babies are not, contrary to popular belief, valued based on how much you want them. Babies are all equally valuable before God!!!!!!! People are all equally valuable to God! Aren't you glad? Maybe you were conceived by "accident". Aren't you glad you are not less valuable???

Second grievious error: you should only have the number of children that you can both provide "comfortably" for and send to college so they can continue in that "comfort". Sigh.

People who grow up having everything they want seem much more likely to go into debt as adults. That's anecdotal, yes, but I bet research would back me up.

Both ideas seem pretty rational, but are not Biblical! The Bible does not teach that prosperity is the ultimate decision making factor. Remember the guy who wanted to follow Jesus, and was told to go sell everything he had? Jesus didn't see earthly wealth as a deal-breaker. At least, not the way we do. In fact, He said it was hard for the wealthy to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. That would be us. Wealthy. So I am sorry, but my children's relative wealth is not a determinant for reproduction.

Like I said, these people I talked to were delightful - not unpleasant at all. They were completely positive about my children and children in general. (except for the whole the-good-thing-about-grandchildren-is-that-you-get-to-give-them-back thing . . . by implication, I would like my children much better if I could just send them away when they are bad, which is a whole nuther can of worms) But these sad "truths" were expressed during our conversation and made my heart sad.

Here is what the Bible says:

Children are a(n) heritage from the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is His reward. The Lord opens and closes the womb. Be fruitful and multiply. Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness. I have been young and now I am old and I have never seen the righteous forsaken nor their children begging bread. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.


Without bias, without deciding ahead of time what you want it to say, search the scripture and see what it says about babies/children/people. God calls them good gifts, ever, only, always. We do not wear seatbelts to protect ourselves from good things.

"Put your seatbelt on honey, so you don't get a raise." "Don't forget to fasten your seatbelt dear, you don't want health and happiness." "Hey, why aren't you wearing a seatbelt, we don't want to be blessed beyond measure, do we?" See, those are ridiculous statements, aren't they? But it's essentially the same thing.

If we had a God with limitations, or no God at all, if life really was measured by how many toys you have at the end, or the cost per plate at your children's wedding receptions, or by how soon you get your kids out of the house, or by how young you retire, if money really did make people happy, then it would make complete sense to limit the size of our families based on money. But none of those things are true.

Seatbelts. Really.

Learning to walk, learning to drive

One side effect of having 12 or so children is that you have some children who are older while some other children are younger. I have students studying Physics and Phonics. My eldest daughter is learning to drive while my youngest daughter is learning to walk.

When our eighth child was born, I felt this straddling of generations very acutely. Junior high, pre-Algebra, hormones, nursing problems, tiny 6 pound baby, jaundice, with everything in between, it seemed. Children learning to read, learning to study independantly, learning to solve problems without hitting or screaming.

It is the nature of having a lot of children, or widely spread children.

I have a dear friend whose children are wider spread than mine. She just had her tenth, several months AFTER her first grandchild was born. And people are giving her a hard time about it. We live in a culture that values other things more than life. Certainly people as old as we are (I am 40, my friend is 42) shouldn't still be having children. Our bodies are less cooperative than they used to be. My hair is gray and getting grayer. (My husband had some gray hair when I met him 23 years ago, so I see no reason I should color mine.)

For my part, I have Mary and Sarah and Elizabeth as examples to follow when experiencing a surprise, unwanted, culturally inappropriate pregnancy. I'm not pregnant right now, as far as I know, but if the Lord does allow me to carry another treasure into the world, there is a part of me that wants to hide it as a secret between the Lord and me for as long as I can. My own private miracle.

Joy unspeakable. Every new life, every HUMAN, every person He trusts me with is the greatest treasure ever, and worth every, every, every effort and sacrifice. There simply isn't anything more wonderful than another life inside mine. Every person He makes is a magnificent masterpiece, and how incredible if He were to entrust another one to me!

Morning sickness, exhaustion, weight-gain, swelling, incontinence, pre-eclampsia, labor? Worth it. Baby food, baby spit, teething, crawling, walking, diaper changing, diaper rash, potty training? Worth it! I have 4 children right now that I have to teach not to bite each other. Worth it!

On the other end of my vibrantly diverse parenting spectrum, I have this gnawing heartache brewing, knowing that a day is coming, an inevitable, horrible, appropriate day. The day will come when I will get up in the morning and, one by one, my daughters and sons will not be here. My children will grow up. They will not all be here always. They will get married, or go to school, or pursue a life in some other country, or city or part of town. This difficult but dreamy existence will not last forever.

Even in the hardest moments, when three babies need me at the same time, or my oldest children give attitude that breaks my heart, speaking hateful and unforgiving words to each other, even then, I cherish the moments when they are near, because they won't always be.

And beyond the stretch of all the different developmental phases, I have the high priority of my calling: that my children would know Him. That my little ones and middle ones and big ones would encounter Him, would see Him through and in spite of my example, would love Him. And that is the greatest ache of all.

Because sin isn't mostly something that comes from without. It is in them. They were conceived in it. It was a gift from their father, Adam. (As in, Adam and Eve, not my husband.) It is where each of us begin. There is no such thing as an innocent child. And each of them must find their Savior, one at a time. I cannot do it for them.

I hope to give them a testimony they cannot argue away. (My Uncle Jim gave me one.) I hope to shield them from much of what would tear them away. I hope to give them ample opportunity to experience His Word, His presence, His beauty.

And I pray. I pray that they would see Him. I pray that when they encounter their own sin that they would run to Him. I pray that their time in church and in the house of prayer would draw them to Him. I pray that His beauty and glory would be magnified in their eyes, and that the weaknesses of my life and in the church would be diminished. I pray that the Word that is being fed into their minds would take root and bear great fruit in their hearts and lives. I pray that they would have a relationship with Jesus that would outshine any hardship or persecution, loneliness or turbulance, victory or utter defeat they may someday experience.

For those learning to walk, and those preparing to leave the nest, my prayer is the same. That they not fall, but if they fall, they fall into His arms.

Joy in the morning

There was a time, several years ago, when all my big people were small, and all my little people weren't people yet, that I woke up angry almost every morning. It seemed I could never get enough sleep. And I woke up to needs everywhere. I was overwhelmed by the needs for diaper changes, drinks or food, supervision, and freshly ironed shirts.

I had the privilege to go to a meeting where there was prophetic ministry, and received a word from God that went something like this: in the movie Mary Poppins, there is a scene in which Jane and Michael and Burt are laughing uproarously floating near the ceiling at Uncle Albert's. Mary Poppins has the choice to either spoil the party or really make it grand by bringing the tea and table and all right up to the ceiling. She does the latter.

I was/am like that. I can ruin the party at my house or I can make it. I can enter into the joy my Father has for me, or I can be grumpy and angry with everyone.

One way I have found to enter His joy (my strength) is to sing a little song my brother's choir at Azusa Pacific University sang years and years ago. I have never heard it since, and I'm pretty sure I have some of the words wrong, but here it goes:

I speak His Name and a hundred million angels start singing
He calls to me and the freedom bells of my soul start to ringing
He gives me joy in the morning
And gentle peace in the evening
He gives me joy like I never knew
He's been my friend, He's always been true
He is my life, He helps me make it through.
He gives me joy.

He is my secret weapon. He gives me joy in the midst of chaos, rebellion, and a thorough coloring of the new (to us) couch.

He gives me joy.

Colorblind

We have family photo that was taken at a wedding a few years ago, when our tenth child was just a month old. Today my eldest was looking at it with the four year old, pointing out each person in it. Of course he could identify everyone except the baby, who he assumed, as all people his age do, that the baby in the picture was the now baby, #12. She said, no, that's not him. His next guess was #11.

Funny thing is, #11 is adopted. She has rich beautiful brown skin. The baby in the picture was quite fair. She has tight black curls, the photo baby was bald. She has eyes the color of dark chocolate dreams. #10 has almost transparent blue eyes. If he thinks about it, he knows this. He probably remembers she had darker skin even when she was tiny. But it didn't make it to his conscious thought. She is his sister, same as the other one. He is colorblind.

Last night around 9:30, my husband took a kid from our neighborhood to his sister's house, where he was to stay. He didn't take his fancy GPS smart phone, only a dumb phone - just for calling and texting - and he got turned around (a.k.a. "lost"). He drove a bit before getting his bearings, and in the process found himself in a less happy part of town. At one point, he was talking to me on the phone and said three men had approached his car, and one was yelling at him outside his window. They were not colorblind. My husband was a man who reminded them of people who have treated them or someone they know poorly, he was in the wrong place, and he was not welcome.

We have been going through our books, and my second daughter was telling me about a book she read recently, The Well, describing it as a good book. Do you think your baby sister would like to read it when she is older? Probably not. How did it make you feel? Not good. We decided that I should read the book to decide, but I know that some of the characters are not colorblind.

I have been told that I will need to prepare my beautiful daughter for the day that may come when she is judged based on someone else's experience or knowledge regarding people who look similar to her. I have to prepare her for the fact that the world is not colorblind.

And while I am sure that is right, I will need to give a similar lecture to my other children. Someday, you may be judged by someone who doesn't know you, but assumes you are like other people they know, or have heard about, people who look or act something like you.

You may be hated or despised or looked down on. You may be judged because you are White/Black, or homeschooled, or are not fashion conscious, or not peer driven, or because you have never been kissed or had a boyfriend or seen THAT show.

But you will also be weighed someday by One who measures rightly, and if you are weighed according to your own merits, you will be found wanting. Only by being seen through the blood of Jesus will you measure up.

And the cool thing is that, not only does He give us His righteousness, but He also gets that 'being judged' thing. He was weighed and measured and found wanting, and crucified. He was despised and rejected of men. He made Himself of no reputation. He endured the cross for the joy set before Him.

Jesus was hated by His own, His people, His leaders, even by His brothers, for crying out loud. He knows about racism, about slavery, about oppression and discrimination. He was a man who walked here and felt all those things.

So, while I will train my children to be prepared for different kinds of persecution, I will, more importantly, teach them that there is a Redeemer, a Savior, a great high Priest Who identifies with us in our affliction. He gets it. And His love is big enough to heal every hurt. Mine isn't, but His is.

Goals

We were talking with a friend several years ago about what our children were doing for the summer. He described a full slate of activities, such as would make my head spin. Granted, their family is considerably smaller than ours, but it was enough busyness to keep them on the move constantly. At one point, he acknowledged that it was overwhelming, but then he shrugged and said, "I want them to have a happy childhood."

I, on the other hand, have frequently given my children the following lecture over the years: I am not responsible for your happiness. I am trying to keep you healthy, fed, clothed, sheltered, to train your minds and bodies and spirits, and teach you about Jesus. Your happiness is between you and Him.

It was a drastic contrast.

What are our parenting goals? I think we may have stated goals, and then we may have real goals. Two of my favorite parenting books, Shepherding your Child's Heart (Tedd Tripp) and Family Driven Faith (Voddie Baucham) address the subject directly and indirectly. I also like George Barna's book, Revolutionary Parenting.

There is a quippish quote floating around in the unreachable parts of my brain, something like: if we aim at nothing in particular, we are likely to hit it. I guess I would say that we live in a hostile culture with an enemy, and if we do not fight, both in the natural and in the spirit, for our goals for our children, we will most assuredly lose.

Here are my goals:

1. That my children know Jesus, His Word, and have ample experience practicing hearing His voice and being with Him. That they taste of the goodness of God in a thorough, continual fashion.

2. That my children are good at loving and forgiving, and at seeking God when they are hurt or treated poorly.

3. That my children are great at math, great at thinking and communicating, and enjoy reading and learning in general. That they be mentally and spiritually prepared to go wherever God sends them and do whatever He gives them to do.

4. That my children are prepared for a healthy, Godly marriage by keeping their hearts pure and taking their thoughts captive, submitting themselves to God and parents.

5. That they learn to live within their means and be in debt (slavery) to no man. If they pursue a college education, that they would go somewhere they and we can afford to pay as they go, and not finish with a prohibitive debt.

6. That they, with my decreasing assistance, use self-control in making all kinds of choices - what they eat, who they hang out with, what they read and watch and do, redeeming the time and living more for eternity than for the moment.

These are my hopes for my humans. What are yours?