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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 23, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
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?
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?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
I have become my mother
Yesterday I was my mom, all day long. I got up, and started cleaning. I cleaned my room and the laundry room relentlessly, all day long. I never went downstairs, never ate, never made it out of my nightgown until the job was done.
I worked until I was within a half hour of time to leave. I packed at the last minute, using no less than 3 bags. What I didn't have time to put away I stashed in out-of-the-way places (a pet peeve of mine).
All of these things are CLASSIC Anita moves. Unbelievable. It was like something triggered my OCD ancestry, and the need-to-clean trait was activated and that energy sustained me throughout the live long day.
What became of your children? you may ask. Not to worry, they took care of each other. And I had babies helping me, to be sure. Plus, I'm using the power of electronic addiction to fuel keeping the rest of the house in order. "Can I have a turn on the computer/Ipad/Wii?". Certainly. Just unload a dishwasher, vacuum a room, paint a fence, and harvest the back 40 and you can turn your brains to mush to your little heart's content. Oh and put your laundry away. Again. "But mom, this is the third time today."
I have energy. I attribute this rare condition to a few factors: 1) I'm not pregnant and not recently postpartem. 2)I'm off sugar and white flour, for almost 2 weeks, and down about 23 lbs, and so I feel Grrrreat! 3) I have an insatiable desire to get my house under control. I have no idea where this came from. I've not really felt this way before. My husband is almost giddy.
Enjoy it while it lasts, I say.
I suppose I would attribute my complete personality change in part, also, to another Anita-like recent activity that I hesitate to speak of, but at risk of sounding cocky, will let you in on.
I've joined a secret club of lunatics who set their alarms to take turns getting up and praying in the middle of the night. I started off doing the night-owl shifts, 10 or 11 o'clock. That wasn't too bad. Then one week those slots were all full, and I got 2:00 a.m. We pray every other week, but one week there were some people on vacation, and I asked if I could sub, so I'm three weeks running, and I'm hooked.
Not only that, we have a once-a-week prayer meeting all together at 4:00 Monday morning. Can you imagine? Every Monday morning, me and Dozer get in the WhoopT and drive across town to pray.
In order to pray in the middle of the night, I have to be active, eyes open, none of this bowed head stuff. I pray while I mop (VERY Anita-like), while I do laundry, while I exercise ever-so-quietly, or if not so quietly, while I nurse the baby I woke up. Sometimes I do my entire watch in the shower.
The truly cool thing about praying while doing mundane tasks is that later, while doing that same mundane task, I find myself praying AGAIN. And it's not even the middle of the night.
I'm thriving spiritually and physically, which is to say I'm moving forward, not stagnant, not regressing. My spirit and my body are saying yes to Him Who my soul loves. He must increase, I must decrease. Literally. And it's happening.
So I'm glad to say that at the age of 40 I am becoming just like my mother in all the best possible ways. A Proverbs 31 kind of chick. And having a marvelous time!
I worked until I was within a half hour of time to leave. I packed at the last minute, using no less than 3 bags. What I didn't have time to put away I stashed in out-of-the-way places (a pet peeve of mine).
All of these things are CLASSIC Anita moves. Unbelievable. It was like something triggered my OCD ancestry, and the need-to-clean trait was activated and that energy sustained me throughout the live long day.
What became of your children? you may ask. Not to worry, they took care of each other. And I had babies helping me, to be sure. Plus, I'm using the power of electronic addiction to fuel keeping the rest of the house in order. "Can I have a turn on the computer/Ipad/Wii?". Certainly. Just unload a dishwasher, vacuum a room, paint a fence, and harvest the back 40 and you can turn your brains to mush to your little heart's content. Oh and put your laundry away. Again. "But mom, this is the third time today."
I have energy. I attribute this rare condition to a few factors: 1) I'm not pregnant and not recently postpartem. 2)I'm off sugar and white flour, for almost 2 weeks, and down about 23 lbs, and so I feel Grrrreat! 3) I have an insatiable desire to get my house under control. I have no idea where this came from. I've not really felt this way before. My husband is almost giddy.
Enjoy it while it lasts, I say.
I suppose I would attribute my complete personality change in part, also, to another Anita-like recent activity that I hesitate to speak of, but at risk of sounding cocky, will let you in on.
I've joined a secret club of lunatics who set their alarms to take turns getting up and praying in the middle of the night. I started off doing the night-owl shifts, 10 or 11 o'clock. That wasn't too bad. Then one week those slots were all full, and I got 2:00 a.m. We pray every other week, but one week there were some people on vacation, and I asked if I could sub, so I'm three weeks running, and I'm hooked.
Not only that, we have a once-a-week prayer meeting all together at 4:00 Monday morning. Can you imagine? Every Monday morning, me and Dozer get in the WhoopT and drive across town to pray.
In order to pray in the middle of the night, I have to be active, eyes open, none of this bowed head stuff. I pray while I mop (VERY Anita-like), while I do laundry, while I exercise ever-so-quietly, or if not so quietly, while I nurse the baby I woke up. Sometimes I do my entire watch in the shower.
The truly cool thing about praying while doing mundane tasks is that later, while doing that same mundane task, I find myself praying AGAIN. And it's not even the middle of the night.
I'm thriving spiritually and physically, which is to say I'm moving forward, not stagnant, not regressing. My spirit and my body are saying yes to Him Who my soul loves. He must increase, I must decrease. Literally. And it's happening.
So I'm glad to say that at the age of 40 I am becoming just like my mother in all the best possible ways. A Proverbs 31 kind of chick. And having a marvelous time!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils
There is something incredibly exciting about the beginning of school.
I go to Walmart and buy a couple of cases of 32 college ruled spiral bound notebooks, used to be 10 cents each, now 15.
I get online and order Horizons math, Handwriting without tears, Teaching textbooks, and Apologia physics (No, I really am not making money here - that is the stuff we use.) I even finally bit the bullet and bought the Rosetta Stone (it will only be worth it if 14 people are all eventually fluent in Spanish!).
And I plan. Boy do I ever. I'm planning grocery lists, weekly schedules, chores, mentoring, music practicing. I've got plans for my planning.
Funny, for someone with such a short attention span to plan so much, when I'm so very lousy at following through with plans. But somehow it makes me feel ready.
And nervous. Nervous about how to get everybody to do everything every single day of the year. Especially since, right now, with their brains practically turned to mush since I've been letting them live on an electronic overload while I'm making all my plans, and I can barely get them to walk from here to there without a sigh from the eldest, a growl from the second, an eye roll and an argument from the third, weeping from the fourth, a nod and sudden disappearance from the fifth, a suicide threat from the sixth, bargaining from the seventh, complaining from the eighth, incompetence from the ninth and shameless disobedience from the tenth. (I'm exaggerating. They are all still wonderful and helpful and the delight of my eyes.)
And it is really incredible to me that I am excited at all about the next school year, since we only finished the last one YESTERDAY!
Who am I kidding?
I don't know. But there's a spring in my step, a mounting credit card bill, lists on my clipboards, and a brainstorm brewing in my gray matter . . . how can we do it better this year?!
It's a journey. I'm not there yet. I'm better than I was, on my way to what I will be. I'm pressing forward, toward the mark of the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus, to know Him in the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His suffering.
I'm not giving up. I'm getting up. And if I fall down tomorrow as I reach for the stars, I'll get back up again.
To quote my favorite old writer/speaker Ann Keimel, "I am just a small ordinary person, but I've got a giant of a God in me, and together, He and I, we're out to change our world." Holler back. (Ann didn't say that last part, by the way.)
I go to Walmart and buy a couple of cases of 32 college ruled spiral bound notebooks, used to be 10 cents each, now 15.
I get online and order Horizons math, Handwriting without tears, Teaching textbooks, and Apologia physics (No, I really am not making money here - that is the stuff we use.) I even finally bit the bullet and bought the Rosetta Stone (it will only be worth it if 14 people are all eventually fluent in Spanish!).
And I plan. Boy do I ever. I'm planning grocery lists, weekly schedules, chores, mentoring, music practicing. I've got plans for my planning.
Funny, for someone with such a short attention span to plan so much, when I'm so very lousy at following through with plans. But somehow it makes me feel ready.
And nervous. Nervous about how to get everybody to do everything every single day of the year. Especially since, right now, with their brains practically turned to mush since I've been letting them live on an electronic overload while I'm making all my plans, and I can barely get them to walk from here to there without a sigh from the eldest, a growl from the second, an eye roll and an argument from the third, weeping from the fourth, a nod and sudden disappearance from the fifth, a suicide threat from the sixth, bargaining from the seventh, complaining from the eighth, incompetence from the ninth and shameless disobedience from the tenth. (I'm exaggerating. They are all still wonderful and helpful and the delight of my eyes.)
And it is really incredible to me that I am excited at all about the next school year, since we only finished the last one YESTERDAY!
Who am I kidding?
I don't know. But there's a spring in my step, a mounting credit card bill, lists on my clipboards, and a brainstorm brewing in my gray matter . . . how can we do it better this year?!
It's a journey. I'm not there yet. I'm better than I was, on my way to what I will be. I'm pressing forward, toward the mark of the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus, to know Him in the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His suffering.
I'm not giving up. I'm getting up. And if I fall down tomorrow as I reach for the stars, I'll get back up again.
To quote my favorite old writer/speaker Ann Keimel, "I am just a small ordinary person, but I've got a giant of a God in me, and together, He and I, we're out to change our world." Holler back. (Ann didn't say that last part, by the way.)
Monday, August 15, 2011
Adjusted Review of the Super 8 Motel in Muskegon, Michigan
If you google "review of super 8 motel in muskegon michigan" you will find that the hotel rated one star in the opinion of more than one guest. But I believe it is a matter of perspective, so I thought I'd share mine.
Me, the hubsand and the G12 stayed a pleasant 4 nights in two tents at the campground, but when the forecast called for nearly 2 inches of gully-washing, we opted to pack up our dry tents and dry gear and spend the last night in the above mentioned establishment.
So here are the highlights of the hotel as I saw it, having come from the campground:
Beds. In each room there were two queen sized beds, both with sheets and blankets and pillows that were not damp or musty smelling.
Floor complete with carpet rather than sand, dirt, and pine needles, relatively safe for little crawlers to practice their newly acquired mobility.
Bug-free. No bees, mosquitoes, flies, daddy-long-legs, or other unidentified critters.
Lights everywhere, outlets everywhere, sand-free shower right in the room! Holler back.
Toilet that I got to flush myself.
The benefit that comes with doors of knowing exactly where each of my darlings was.
No smell of smoke, bug spray, or me.
Having said all that, would I rather have been back at the campground, around the fire, on a lawn chair, eating s'mores, wearing bug spray and damp clothes and dirty kids, walking half a block to the john and with crud in my shoes? Oh yeah. You better believe it.
But in context, the Super 8 was a sweet change, and way better than being washed away in the Little Black Creek.
Me, the hubsand and the G12 stayed a pleasant 4 nights in two tents at the campground, but when the forecast called for nearly 2 inches of gully-washing, we opted to pack up our dry tents and dry gear and spend the last night in the above mentioned establishment.
So here are the highlights of the hotel as I saw it, having come from the campground:
Beds. In each room there were two queen sized beds, both with sheets and blankets and pillows that were not damp or musty smelling.
Floor complete with carpet rather than sand, dirt, and pine needles, relatively safe for little crawlers to practice their newly acquired mobility.
Bug-free. No bees, mosquitoes, flies, daddy-long-legs, or other unidentified critters.
Lights everywhere, outlets everywhere, sand-free shower right in the room! Holler back.
Toilet that I got to flush myself.
The benefit that comes with doors of knowing exactly where each of my darlings was.
No smell of smoke, bug spray, or me.
Having said all that, would I rather have been back at the campground, around the fire, on a lawn chair, eating s'mores, wearing bug spray and damp clothes and dirty kids, walking half a block to the john and with crud in my shoes? Oh yeah. You better believe it.
But in context, the Super 8 was a sweet change, and way better than being washed away in the Little Black Creek.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
hiddenness
i have this sort of horrible, sort of wonderful thing going through my head. i think it might be sort of scriptural, but not sure i could argue it with a theologian. it goes something like this:
i suspect my Father limits my success, or something like that, because He is protecting me from the pride i would develop, and related problems, if i were to be today all that i can be.
i think He'd rather have my CDs in a box on a corner shelf in the local house of prayer, and mostly in boxes in my basement and have me still have a relatively humble heart than be distributed in Family Bookstores nationwide and have me think i'm "something".
i think He'd rather see me overweight and acne faced than petite, pretty and having an affair.
i think He likes me singing at the least attended session of a small local conference and able to really sing to Him, more than being a "headliner" at a major national event, but just putting on a show because my heart is more aware of me than Him.
i think He'd just much rather have me writing this blog with my 22 friends reading it when they get the chance than having me have a book selling big at Amazon.com, if that's what it takes for me to stay near to Him.
in short, He knows my weakness. He knows how very quickly i turn, stumble, stray. He knows how quickly i would try to steal His glory, given the opportunity.
and i'm not saying i'm worthy of any of that other stuff anyway. there are many writers, many singers, many leaders. but my husband only has one wife (thankfully!) and my children only have one mom. my neighborhood only has one me.
the Word i heard this weekend at a conference at our church was (from Elisha and the widow who he helped by filling all the empty jars with oil): stay home, shut the door and pour yourself into the empty pots that you have there.
i am content. i am content to be home. i will write little songs for my kids to memorize verses for Awanas and for the children at church to learn scriptures in Sunday school (what an honor) and for the kids at camp to sing. if children learn my silly little songs and hide God's Word in their hearts, who knows what fruit those little seeds will produce??
i am content to pursue the Lordship of Christ in my little domain, His dominion over the smell in my bathrooms, over the dishes in my sink, over the laundry in the hallway, over the hearts and attitudes of my children, over the number of shoes and jackets lining the floor of the van, over my faithfulness to get allergy shots and dog poop (my eldest has a job picking up dog poop for a friend, something we are supposed to do weekly, and, well, you know).
i am content to pray in secret about secret things, to be a little hidden warrior for my King, fighting for my marriage, my family, my neighborhood, my church, my city, my nation.
hiddenness is my gift from my Father Who sees in secret. it is where i can bloom safely. and should He see fit to someday shine light on His masterpiece, me, may i be found mature enough to do the right thing and give Him all the glory.
i suspect my Father limits my success, or something like that, because He is protecting me from the pride i would develop, and related problems, if i were to be today all that i can be.
i think He'd rather have my CDs in a box on a corner shelf in the local house of prayer, and mostly in boxes in my basement and have me still have a relatively humble heart than be distributed in Family Bookstores nationwide and have me think i'm "something".
i think He'd rather see me overweight and acne faced than petite, pretty and having an affair.
i think He likes me singing at the least attended session of a small local conference and able to really sing to Him, more than being a "headliner" at a major national event, but just putting on a show because my heart is more aware of me than Him.
i think He'd just much rather have me writing this blog with my 22 friends reading it when they get the chance than having me have a book selling big at Amazon.com, if that's what it takes for me to stay near to Him.
in short, He knows my weakness. He knows how very quickly i turn, stumble, stray. He knows how quickly i would try to steal His glory, given the opportunity.
and i'm not saying i'm worthy of any of that other stuff anyway. there are many writers, many singers, many leaders. but my husband only has one wife (thankfully!) and my children only have one mom. my neighborhood only has one me.
the Word i heard this weekend at a conference at our church was (from Elisha and the widow who he helped by filling all the empty jars with oil): stay home, shut the door and pour yourself into the empty pots that you have there.
i am content. i am content to be home. i will write little songs for my kids to memorize verses for Awanas and for the children at church to learn scriptures in Sunday school (what an honor) and for the kids at camp to sing. if children learn my silly little songs and hide God's Word in their hearts, who knows what fruit those little seeds will produce??
i am content to pursue the Lordship of Christ in my little domain, His dominion over the smell in my bathrooms, over the dishes in my sink, over the laundry in the hallway, over the hearts and attitudes of my children, over the number of shoes and jackets lining the floor of the van, over my faithfulness to get allergy shots and dog poop (my eldest has a job picking up dog poop for a friend, something we are supposed to do weekly, and, well, you know).
i am content to pray in secret about secret things, to be a little hidden warrior for my King, fighting for my marriage, my family, my neighborhood, my church, my city, my nation.
hiddenness is my gift from my Father Who sees in secret. it is where i can bloom safely. and should He see fit to someday shine light on His masterpiece, me, may i be found mature enough to do the right thing and give Him all the glory.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
You're not the boss of me!
I am standing in the hallway at my church and a young lad, happens to be the pastor's son, is walking a few steps ahead of me, doing something he shouldn't do. I don't remember what it was, maybe just that he wasn't in the service, maybe he was picking at the corner of a bulletin board. Let's just say, he was not in danger and neither was anyone else. He was not doing any major destruction of property or person. He was just a kid, being a kid. If I had been his mother, I might have said something. But I was not in authority over him, didn't have a relationship with him, so I didn't say anything.
However, also in the hallway was another adult, who was no more connected to him than I, but who took it upon himself to correct him, with these words, "Zach (not his real name), I don't think your dad would want you to do that." Because he knew his dad, our pastor, he felt it was appropriate for him to correct his son. And I don't know that he knew the pastor beyond his being the pastor. Like, not to get together with his family socially, outside church.
I think this sort of thing happens a lot, and may be part of what makes it so rough to be a pastor's kid. It happens to my children also, partly because I was a worship leader for a long time, very visible, and also because I have so many children and they are easy to spot, as they look a lot alike. At camp a couple weeks ago, an adult who was trying to herd a bunch of children, calling them all "camper" not knowing their names, saw one of mine whose name she knew and addressed her by her name. Being singled out from all the other children who were just named "camper" made her feel like she was in trouble more than all the others.
Authority is a touchy subject. We don't have authority over someone just because we know their name or their dad's name. We don't have authority because we are bigger or older or more familiar than someone.
Authority comes from God. It is like electricity, there has to be a connection. You have to get authority from someone who has the authority to give authority. God gives authority to my husband, he shares it with me. When I am leaving the house, I give my authority to whoever I put in charge. My 12 year old son has no authority over my 9 year old daughter UNLESS I GIVE IT TO HIM. When he tries to exert it inappropriately, he gets this response: You're not the boss of me!
I do teach my children to respect adults, to honor them. But just because someone is an adult doesn't mean I want my children to do whatever they say. Not all adults have authority over my children. Only if I give it to them do they have it.
I want my children to understand authority because it has a direct impact on how they relate to God. We live in a church culture that sees God more as a Daddy/Lover/Friend, all of which are right and true, but we neglect to acknowledge Him, sometimes, as King and Lord. But He is that.
At this point in American society, there aren't really any absolutes - everything is negotiable. We do not respect those in authority. We've heard enough stories of corruption in government, police brutality, teachers having inappropriate relationships with students, pastors stumbling, even abusive parents, so we think all of those positions of authority are conditional on whether the leader merits our submission. We have forgotten how to submit to authority.
Because of this, we really don't know how to relate to a God who is King and Lord. It doesn't fit our grid. But we need a new grid. We need a paradigm shift. We need a new mindset. We need REVELATION.
God is God. There is no other. He made us. He made all things. He is in charge of all He made. He brought us into this world, He can take us out and make another to look just like us. He is the Boss of us.
Not only is does He have rights to lordship as Creator, He is something else that makes Him worthy of our submission. Holy. He is holy. That is a concept that is so very foreign to us. We use the word holy all the time, but have very little revelation of it.
It means other than. It means there is nothing like God. It means there is no wickedness, no blemish, no sin, no wrong-ness in Him. Ever. It is beyond our scope.
And it is this holiness that we have lost sight of that leads us to another idea about which we have no comprehension: The Fear of the Lord. What in the world does that mean? Our Bibles have started to translate that word "reverence". Because we don't relate to "fear". At all.
How do you fear Someone Who is the Essence of Goodness? How do you love Someone and fear Him at the same time? If He is a scary, fearsome God, why do we follow Him? How can He be merciful and loving and also be a judge?
But He is both. He is love, He is loving, His lovingkindness endures forever. His mercies are new every morning. And He is holy, and just, and righteous altogether.
The whole Bible is true, not just the parts we like or relate to are agree with. He is that Guy that wiped out Ananias and Sapphira for lying about their offering. He is that Guy who sent the Israelites to massacre various people groups living in the land He gave them. He is a righteous Judge. He is right to judge and all His judgements are right. He is holy, He is love.
And He is the boss of us.
However, also in the hallway was another adult, who was no more connected to him than I, but who took it upon himself to correct him, with these words, "Zach (not his real name), I don't think your dad would want you to do that." Because he knew his dad, our pastor, he felt it was appropriate for him to correct his son. And I don't know that he knew the pastor beyond his being the pastor. Like, not to get together with his family socially, outside church.
I think this sort of thing happens a lot, and may be part of what makes it so rough to be a pastor's kid. It happens to my children also, partly because I was a worship leader for a long time, very visible, and also because I have so many children and they are easy to spot, as they look a lot alike. At camp a couple weeks ago, an adult who was trying to herd a bunch of children, calling them all "camper" not knowing their names, saw one of mine whose name she knew and addressed her by her name. Being singled out from all the other children who were just named "camper" made her feel like she was in trouble more than all the others.
Authority is a touchy subject. We don't have authority over someone just because we know their name or their dad's name. We don't have authority because we are bigger or older or more familiar than someone.
Authority comes from God. It is like electricity, there has to be a connection. You have to get authority from someone who has the authority to give authority. God gives authority to my husband, he shares it with me. When I am leaving the house, I give my authority to whoever I put in charge. My 12 year old son has no authority over my 9 year old daughter UNLESS I GIVE IT TO HIM. When he tries to exert it inappropriately, he gets this response: You're not the boss of me!
I do teach my children to respect adults, to honor them. But just because someone is an adult doesn't mean I want my children to do whatever they say. Not all adults have authority over my children. Only if I give it to them do they have it.
I want my children to understand authority because it has a direct impact on how they relate to God. We live in a church culture that sees God more as a Daddy/Lover/Friend, all of which are right and true, but we neglect to acknowledge Him, sometimes, as King and Lord. But He is that.
At this point in American society, there aren't really any absolutes - everything is negotiable. We do not respect those in authority. We've heard enough stories of corruption in government, police brutality, teachers having inappropriate relationships with students, pastors stumbling, even abusive parents, so we think all of those positions of authority are conditional on whether the leader merits our submission. We have forgotten how to submit to authority.
Because of this, we really don't know how to relate to a God who is King and Lord. It doesn't fit our grid. But we need a new grid. We need a paradigm shift. We need a new mindset. We need REVELATION.
God is God. There is no other. He made us. He made all things. He is in charge of all He made. He brought us into this world, He can take us out and make another to look just like us. He is the Boss of us.
Not only is does He have rights to lordship as Creator, He is something else that makes Him worthy of our submission. Holy. He is holy. That is a concept that is so very foreign to us. We use the word holy all the time, but have very little revelation of it.
It means other than. It means there is nothing like God. It means there is no wickedness, no blemish, no sin, no wrong-ness in Him. Ever. It is beyond our scope.
And it is this holiness that we have lost sight of that leads us to another idea about which we have no comprehension: The Fear of the Lord. What in the world does that mean? Our Bibles have started to translate that word "reverence". Because we don't relate to "fear". At all.
How do you fear Someone Who is the Essence of Goodness? How do you love Someone and fear Him at the same time? If He is a scary, fearsome God, why do we follow Him? How can He be merciful and loving and also be a judge?
But He is both. He is love, He is loving, His lovingkindness endures forever. His mercies are new every morning. And He is holy, and just, and righteous altogether.
The whole Bible is true, not just the parts we like or relate to are agree with. He is that Guy that wiped out Ananias and Sapphira for lying about their offering. He is that Guy who sent the Israelites to massacre various people groups living in the land He gave them. He is a righteous Judge. He is right to judge and all His judgements are right. He is holy, He is love.
And He is the boss of us.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Set Apart
We had a day, seems like a long time ago, where we asked a number of older (read mature) women to share stuff they had learned in their lives in God about a particular subject. In one session three women shared what they thought they did right in raising their children. And I remember that the three of them had very different things they said. For example, my mother was hyper about how we looked (she was one of the women), regarding tattoos, piercings, even wearing the color black. Another mom had a bunch of boys, and I think all of them had something cool and spiritual embedded in their skin somewhere.
But that same mom talked about thinking probably one of the most significant thing they did in raising their children was that they left the country and were missionaries somewhere else for a significant part of their lives. They were set apart.
We chose, 8 years ago, to move to a part of town where we were and still are in the racial minority. There were several reasons for the move. Primarily, it was what we thought God wanted us to do. But one perk of the move was that we were set apart. We home school, everyone else in our neighborhood doesn't. We are (most of us anyway:) fair skinned, everyone else on our block is darker. We have 12 children, one mom and one dad, no one else has that sort of family.
Because we are not like everyone else in a number of ways, it seems to make sense to our children that we are not about what other people think, but are free to seek after what God wants. Our ties to this world are not quite as strong because we don't fit exactly anyway. It is easier for us to see that we are citizens of another Kingdom. We already are set apart.
I thought of this because today I heard about a friend who sent water with her children for their lunch at camp, rather than drinking the soda that is provided for them. It had never occurred to me! Not to drink the soda? It reminded me of Daniel and the boys in Babylon, not eating the king's meat or drinking the king's wine. It reminds me of Proverbs 23, think about what you are eating when you sit down with a ruler. And (although I don't really know why she is doing it) it strikes me as a way that her very young campers are set apart already.
It is as if that mom is saying: You can go, you can play, you can be part, but just because we are going doesn't mean we are going to automatically ingest and absorb and resemble everything we will experience. You are still in control of your decisions. You are still responsible for your actions. You are attending a camp, but you are still primarily a member of our family. My authority continues even when you are not in the same room with me.
Not drinking the soda that everyone else is drinking = set apart. Brilliant. It is training for that inevitable growing up thing that has to happen. It is practice following an invisible, higher authority than the one everyone else is following. It's also better for their little bodies. Bonus points!
But that same mom talked about thinking probably one of the most significant thing they did in raising their children was that they left the country and were missionaries somewhere else for a significant part of their lives. They were set apart.
We chose, 8 years ago, to move to a part of town where we were and still are in the racial minority. There were several reasons for the move. Primarily, it was what we thought God wanted us to do. But one perk of the move was that we were set apart. We home school, everyone else in our neighborhood doesn't. We are (most of us anyway:) fair skinned, everyone else on our block is darker. We have 12 children, one mom and one dad, no one else has that sort of family.
Because we are not like everyone else in a number of ways, it seems to make sense to our children that we are not about what other people think, but are free to seek after what God wants. Our ties to this world are not quite as strong because we don't fit exactly anyway. It is easier for us to see that we are citizens of another Kingdom. We already are set apart.
I thought of this because today I heard about a friend who sent water with her children for their lunch at camp, rather than drinking the soda that is provided for them. It had never occurred to me! Not to drink the soda? It reminded me of Daniel and the boys in Babylon, not eating the king's meat or drinking the king's wine. It reminds me of Proverbs 23, think about what you are eating when you sit down with a ruler. And (although I don't really know why she is doing it) it strikes me as a way that her very young campers are set apart already.
It is as if that mom is saying: You can go, you can play, you can be part, but just because we are going doesn't mean we are going to automatically ingest and absorb and resemble everything we will experience. You are still in control of your decisions. You are still responsible for your actions. You are attending a camp, but you are still primarily a member of our family. My authority continues even when you are not in the same room with me.
Not drinking the soda that everyone else is drinking = set apart. Brilliant. It is training for that inevitable growing up thing that has to happen. It is practice following an invisible, higher authority than the one everyone else is following. It's also better for their little bodies. Bonus points!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Why do little girls have to grow up to look like hookers?
I was saddened to see a young woman of maybe 16 recently who I hadn't seen since she was a little girl. And I was so sorry to see that she had grown from a lovely girl (with the kind of face that the rest of us put make up on to try to look like her), and now looked like if she happened to be standing on a certain corner in a certain part of town at the right time of night, I'm pretty sure she could get some work. Her clothing, posture, and face all said, "Come and get it."
It reminds me of a goofy song I wrote a long time ago but never did anything with. It's what happens when a married woman writes a song meant to be sung by a single guy. I can't record it myself, and can't find anyone else who will do it. Here are the words. I called it Putrefaction, from the N.A.S.B. version of Isaiah 3.
Putrefaction
Well when God created Eve, He saw that beautiful was she
The most beautiful of all His creation
And I know there waits for me one just as beautiful as she
One whose spirit is like myrrh, not putrefaction
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I can see you spent some time looking good on the outside
But did you pay enough attention to your soul?
You see, I'm looking for a bride who cares less about being mine
But has a zeal about belonging to the Lord
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
Daughter of Zion, don't use your charm
To buy love that you cannot hold
Seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness
Light your countenence with more than just
Makeup and gold
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
It reminds me of a goofy song I wrote a long time ago but never did anything with. It's what happens when a married woman writes a song meant to be sung by a single guy. I can't record it myself, and can't find anyone else who will do it. Here are the words. I called it Putrefaction, from the N.A.S.B. version of Isaiah 3.
Putrefaction
Well when God created Eve, He saw that beautiful was she
The most beautiful of all His creation
And I know there waits for me one just as beautiful as she
One whose spirit is like myrrh, not putrefaction
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I can see you spent some time looking good on the outside
But did you pay enough attention to your soul?
You see, I'm looking for a bride who cares less about being mine
But has a zeal about belonging to the Lord
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
Daughter of Zion, don't use your charm
To buy love that you cannot hold
Seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness
Light your countenence with more than just
Makeup and gold
If He pulled out your earrings and shaved your head bald
If He washed all the color from your face
Would you still be a beauty dressed in sack cloth and ashes
With only a rope around your waist?
I want the beauty of an unfading spirit
In the quiet hidden place of the heart
I want the glow of a girl that loves Jesus more than me
In the quiet hidden place of her heart
The Octomom
I just need to go off about the Octomom.
On the one hand, kudos to her for not "medically selecting" which babies to put in the freezer, which to abort, and which to let live. Good. Not killing babies is good.
On the other hand, I just have to differentiate between her and me. I have 11 children that God gave me inside of a healthy marriage to one man, one at a time, spaced in His wisdom in an appropriate way. Granted, we did cheat on the 11th one. My sweetie that I didn't carry in my own body is artificially spaced 5 months from my youngest's birthday, a medical impossibility. But even then, it only happened because God and several humans said yes.
That is different than taking your body, removing your eggs and scientifically matching them up with God-Knows-Who's sperm and creating an unnatural number of children when you have no husband and so source of providing for the children.
So don't judge big families by the Octomom. Don't put married couples trusting God with their fertility on the same bus with an artificially inseminated mega family. God gave life to those babies too, and I'm sure He has a plan for them, because all children are a blessing. But I maintain that that isn't the most ideal way to receive those blessings.
That's all.
On the one hand, kudos to her for not "medically selecting" which babies to put in the freezer, which to abort, and which to let live. Good. Not killing babies is good.
On the other hand, I just have to differentiate between her and me. I have 11 children that God gave me inside of a healthy marriage to one man, one at a time, spaced in His wisdom in an appropriate way. Granted, we did cheat on the 11th one. My sweetie that I didn't carry in my own body is artificially spaced 5 months from my youngest's birthday, a medical impossibility. But even then, it only happened because God and several humans said yes.
That is different than taking your body, removing your eggs and scientifically matching them up with God-Knows-Who's sperm and creating an unnatural number of children when you have no husband and so source of providing for the children.
So don't judge big families by the Octomom. Don't put married couples trusting God with their fertility on the same bus with an artificially inseminated mega family. God gave life to those babies too, and I'm sure He has a plan for them, because all children are a blessing. But I maintain that that isn't the most ideal way to receive those blessings.
That's all.
7,000 freaks
Elijah the prophet was man just like us. It says so in Hebrews. I heard a teaching about him Friday night at our local house of prayer. He was a prophet to Israel during the reign of Ahab, er, Jezebel. God had said not to marry foreign wives because they will lead you astray and cause you to worship other gods. He did, and she did, and he did.
So Elijah was sent to be a prophet, in Ahab's face, to the extent that the king gave him a nickname, "the troubler of Israel." His official job title might have been "The Pain in the Royal Behind." He boldly spoke on God's behalf against a king (who had subjected himself to a queen) who was picking off the prophets of the Most High.
The final straw for Ahab the Hen Pecked came when Elijah and the prophets of Baal staged the showdown of the century, where the prophets of Baal practiced self mutilation and Jehovah God answered with fire. The people shouted, "The Lord, He is God," killed the prophets of Baal, and Elijah scored huge with the return of rain after 3.5 years.
After his roaring triumph, Elijah goes and hides in a kind of suicidal slump. (Don't judge him, that's how it usually feels after you pour yourself out on the altar.) But this is the thing that got my interest (fasten your seatbelts and prepare for a hard right turn): he said to the Lord, Jezebel has killed all the prophets, and I alone am left. And God said, there are yet 7,000 who have not bowed the knee to Baal nor kissed his face.
I've been struggling with confidence, not in what I'm doing, but in how everybody else feels about it. I've felt like the troubler of Israel. My children don't attend public or private school. My children don't go to youth group. They don't go to junior high Sunday school. They will not date or have boyfriends or girlfriends or be encouraged to fixate on anything that awakens love before it is time. When they are of marrying age, we will partner with them in praying for and (for the guys) pursueing or (for the girls) awaiting a Godly courtship. We are encouraging our sons to pursue a future that equips them to provide for a wife and as many children as the Lord blesses them with. We are encouraging our daughters to follow God's leading, but without going into debt, to stay at home as long as they want to, and to put all their trust in the Lord and their daddy for their futures.
We are training our daughters to pursue the inner beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, without a whole lot of external adornment. And we're ridiculous about it. So much of today's fashion is designed to emphasize necklines and bottoms. We're running away from it.
We're teaching our boys (and girls) to guard their eyes and minds and hearts, and to save all their imaginings and touchings and kisses for their one bride (groom). But our entire culture, from very young, gears for attracting and obsessing about the opposite gender.
Because these are our convictions, and the Word says that bad company corrupts good morals, and that you become like those you are with, we are very picky about who we spend lots of with, especially time without close supervision. We are trusting God to provide relationships for us, but we will not spend great amounts of time with friends who are not like minded.
And so few are like minded. It feels like Elijah - I alone am left - sometimes. But I have that story as my commission. 7,000 who have not bowed the knee or kissed the face. Hidden and set apart. In a culture filled with idolatry, immorality, we are hiding 12 set apart unto the Lord.
So ridicule me. Mock me. Talk to each other about socialization and how weird my kids are becoming. Me and my socially awkward offspring (may God give me a dozen more) are going to build a little house of prayer, and hide God's Word in our hearts and learn to love Him and each other better. Don't take in personally, we're not judging you. We're not mad at you. We're praying for you and blessing you and asking God to give you all the wisdom you need for the task He has given YOU. But as for me and my house, we will be freaks.
So Elijah was sent to be a prophet, in Ahab's face, to the extent that the king gave him a nickname, "the troubler of Israel." His official job title might have been "The Pain in the Royal Behind." He boldly spoke on God's behalf against a king (who had subjected himself to a queen) who was picking off the prophets of the Most High.
The final straw for Ahab the Hen Pecked came when Elijah and the prophets of Baal staged the showdown of the century, where the prophets of Baal practiced self mutilation and Jehovah God answered with fire. The people shouted, "The Lord, He is God," killed the prophets of Baal, and Elijah scored huge with the return of rain after 3.5 years.
After his roaring triumph, Elijah goes and hides in a kind of suicidal slump. (Don't judge him, that's how it usually feels after you pour yourself out on the altar.) But this is the thing that got my interest (fasten your seatbelts and prepare for a hard right turn): he said to the Lord, Jezebel has killed all the prophets, and I alone am left. And God said, there are yet 7,000 who have not bowed the knee to Baal nor kissed his face.
I've been struggling with confidence, not in what I'm doing, but in how everybody else feels about it. I've felt like the troubler of Israel. My children don't attend public or private school. My children don't go to youth group. They don't go to junior high Sunday school. They will not date or have boyfriends or girlfriends or be encouraged to fixate on anything that awakens love before it is time. When they are of marrying age, we will partner with them in praying for and (for the guys) pursueing or (for the girls) awaiting a Godly courtship. We are encouraging our sons to pursue a future that equips them to provide for a wife and as many children as the Lord blesses them with. We are encouraging our daughters to follow God's leading, but without going into debt, to stay at home as long as they want to, and to put all their trust in the Lord and their daddy for their futures.
We are training our daughters to pursue the inner beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, without a whole lot of external adornment. And we're ridiculous about it. So much of today's fashion is designed to emphasize necklines and bottoms. We're running away from it.
We're teaching our boys (and girls) to guard their eyes and minds and hearts, and to save all their imaginings and touchings and kisses for their one bride (groom). But our entire culture, from very young, gears for attracting and obsessing about the opposite gender.
Because these are our convictions, and the Word says that bad company corrupts good morals, and that you become like those you are with, we are very picky about who we spend lots of with, especially time without close supervision. We are trusting God to provide relationships for us, but we will not spend great amounts of time with friends who are not like minded.
And so few are like minded. It feels like Elijah - I alone am left - sometimes. But I have that story as my commission. 7,000 who have not bowed the knee or kissed the face. Hidden and set apart. In a culture filled with idolatry, immorality, we are hiding 12 set apart unto the Lord.
So ridicule me. Mock me. Talk to each other about socialization and how weird my kids are becoming. Me and my socially awkward offspring (may God give me a dozen more) are going to build a little house of prayer, and hide God's Word in our hearts and learn to love Him and each other better. Don't take in personally, we're not judging you. We're not mad at you. We're praying for you and blessing you and asking God to give you all the wisdom you need for the task He has given YOU. But as for me and my house, we will be freaks.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
On staying cool and being cool
I live in a place where it is always pretty hot in the summer, but this summer is exceptional. It is not hot. Not merely hot. It is dang hot. The difference between hot and dang hot is that when it is hot, you want a cold drink, you want air conditioning, you want to go swimming. When it is dang hot, you just want to die.
I have a friend from Kentucky who told me a log time ago (and regrets telling me, because I quote her every summer and attribute it to her) that when asked how hot it is, back home they say, "It's hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's *butt* on the fourth of July in *hades*. We have changed that this week to say it is now hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's butt on the fourth of July in a volcano on the sun. Which entirely accurate, but it is how we feel.
Now, I am an unregistered member of the polar bear club. I love swimming so much that I will swim in Lake Michigan in May in the 50's. I will get into a snow fed mountain stream that literally makes your feet hurt. When I go to the beach I have to wear swim wear because I can't help but wade my way in to all wet. I cannot stay in a canoe. But I don't have easy access to any regular swimming here. So I've been taking showers in the coldest cold water we have, but alas! It is only luke warm.
But there is also winter where I live. And I know for certain that it will come again, and there will be a day, not too many weeks away, that I will be sick and tired of being cold and convinced that I will never be warm again. It will be so cold that I'm afraid to go to the bathroom at night (for whatever reason, the air and heat work worst in my bedroom, nay, in my bathroom, so in the summer, there is no hotter place, and in the winter, no seat is as cold as my toilet seat). I know that will happen again.
I have spent a significent portion of the last 3 weeks at our church's camp. To clarify - it is not a camp you go to in another town and sleep in dirty cabins and get eaten by mosquitoes and eat eggs that seem like they never, ever came from a chicken. Rather, it is a camp because it is a way bigger deal than VBS and costs more and has way more attitude and consumes your life. You go in the morning and come home in the afternoon and just lay on the couch pretty much dead, moving only to eat huge amounts of food or move to a bed.
And at that camp, I've come into contact with lots of school aged children and little ones and adults and teenagers. The school aged children are the campers that the camp is for. The little ones are there because parents like me refuse to take them home because life is miserable without our big people. The adults do things like teaching and guiding and protecting. And the teens are what really make the thing happen.
I have 2 teenagers of my own, and a few more that are nearly teenagers. We don't groan because of our teenagers. We like them a lot. They are among our best friends. No kidding. They're terrific.
But teenagers that don't live at my house make me nervous, self conscious, and very aware that I am not cool. Not only am I not cool, I've never been cool, not even when I was a teenager, and being around them reminds me of it. I'm so not cool, I don't even know what they call it now. What we called cool, I'm sure there's a new term for it, a word or phrase that means you have that thing where you say the right thing all the time and are so popular that you don't have to second guess yourself and wish you hadn't said what you said or did what you did or wore what you wore.
Confidence.
I taught at said camp about confidence all three weeks (comical, isn't it?), but, as is usually the case, I learned about it as I went. I learned that God doesn't measure me like I measure me. He doesn't judge me based on what I look like or am now. He sees the long view. You know, the one I don't have access to except in glimpses He shows me that I have to receive in faith? That long view.
I learned that I only need to listen to what He says about me because He judges rightly, His judgements are true, and I can trust Him.
And I am in a more secure place today because He has been speaking to me lately about who He made me to be. And that's exciting. It's so exciting, it will probably be a different blog. But for the first time in a while, maybe ever, I'm pretty sure of me just and only because I'm quite certain of Him. (that reminds me of a winnie the pooh quote, "I just wanted to be sure of you.")
So even though I am not remotely cool on any level, neither temperature nor image, I am quite at peace. And I'll take peace over cool any day.
I have a friend from Kentucky who told me a log time ago (and regrets telling me, because I quote her every summer and attribute it to her) that when asked how hot it is, back home they say, "It's hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's *butt* on the fourth of July in *hades*. We have changed that this week to say it is now hotter than a firecracker stuck up a dragon's butt on the fourth of July in a volcano on the sun. Which entirely accurate, but it is how we feel.
Now, I am an unregistered member of the polar bear club. I love swimming so much that I will swim in Lake Michigan in May in the 50's. I will get into a snow fed mountain stream that literally makes your feet hurt. When I go to the beach I have to wear swim wear because I can't help but wade my way in to all wet. I cannot stay in a canoe. But I don't have easy access to any regular swimming here. So I've been taking showers in the coldest cold water we have, but alas! It is only luke warm.
But there is also winter where I live. And I know for certain that it will come again, and there will be a day, not too many weeks away, that I will be sick and tired of being cold and convinced that I will never be warm again. It will be so cold that I'm afraid to go to the bathroom at night (for whatever reason, the air and heat work worst in my bedroom, nay, in my bathroom, so in the summer, there is no hotter place, and in the winter, no seat is as cold as my toilet seat). I know that will happen again.
I have spent a significent portion of the last 3 weeks at our church's camp. To clarify - it is not a camp you go to in another town and sleep in dirty cabins and get eaten by mosquitoes and eat eggs that seem like they never, ever came from a chicken. Rather, it is a camp because it is a way bigger deal than VBS and costs more and has way more attitude and consumes your life. You go in the morning and come home in the afternoon and just lay on the couch pretty much dead, moving only to eat huge amounts of food or move to a bed.
And at that camp, I've come into contact with lots of school aged children and little ones and adults and teenagers. The school aged children are the campers that the camp is for. The little ones are there because parents like me refuse to take them home because life is miserable without our big people. The adults do things like teaching and guiding and protecting. And the teens are what really make the thing happen.
I have 2 teenagers of my own, and a few more that are nearly teenagers. We don't groan because of our teenagers. We like them a lot. They are among our best friends. No kidding. They're terrific.
But teenagers that don't live at my house make me nervous, self conscious, and very aware that I am not cool. Not only am I not cool, I've never been cool, not even when I was a teenager, and being around them reminds me of it. I'm so not cool, I don't even know what they call it now. What we called cool, I'm sure there's a new term for it, a word or phrase that means you have that thing where you say the right thing all the time and are so popular that you don't have to second guess yourself and wish you hadn't said what you said or did what you did or wore what you wore.
Confidence.
I taught at said camp about confidence all three weeks (comical, isn't it?), but, as is usually the case, I learned about it as I went. I learned that God doesn't measure me like I measure me. He doesn't judge me based on what I look like or am now. He sees the long view. You know, the one I don't have access to except in glimpses He shows me that I have to receive in faith? That long view.
I learned that I only need to listen to what He says about me because He judges rightly, His judgements are true, and I can trust Him.
And I am in a more secure place today because He has been speaking to me lately about who He made me to be. And that's exciting. It's so exciting, it will probably be a different blog. But for the first time in a while, maybe ever, I'm pretty sure of me just and only because I'm quite certain of Him. (that reminds me of a winnie the pooh quote, "I just wanted to be sure of you.")
So even though I am not remotely cool on any level, neither temperature nor image, I am quite at peace. And I'll take peace over cool any day.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Messed up.
This week we went to our church's day camp. So our little crew of home bodies was out and about from 7:45 a.m. till nearly 5 every day. We packed 60 or so lunches (at least one of the small people was committed to packing his own, er, "lunch" even though a big person had done it for him), washed everyone's uniform each night, took dimes on "dime day" and swim suits and towels on water day. We washed just enough dishes to get by, used disposable diapers, and were singularly triumphant in avoiding fast food all but one day.
Those were our successes.
We neglected our little world dreadfully, otherwise. We once again have a laundry hall rather than a laundry room, no counter space in the kitchen, and my bedroom resembles a clearing house of everyone's belongings. This morning was full of mournful cries, including but not limited to: can't find my crocs, can't find any shirts, don't have any clean underwear.
The eldest: I can't remember the last time our house was this dirty.
I cleaned the non-garbage disposal drain and found that something had sprouted, a seed of some kind. I should put it in dirt and see who it turns out to be.
Other things seem to have sprouted, as well. Like, the idea that life should be fun all day every day. Or, the notion that work is someone else's job. The little ones think they need to have shoes on before breakfast is over, they shouldn't let mom out of their sight, and first time obedience is a thing of yesteryear.
And everyone is exhausted.
Including me. I noticed one middle of the night that (t.m.i. alert) I had hardly any pee in me. It dawned on me that for days running, I had been drinking coffee and not water.
The principle was profound. I drank to feel better, not to be better. So I was worse. And the cycle continued. My body was needing hydration, and I was mistaking the cues.
Yesterday, I had the brilliant idea (sarcasm.) of going to visit friends who live an hour away. It really was fun. And it really was stupid. My family needed to stay home and do nothing. We did the opposite.
I seem to have a messed up way of handling hard. I'm tired, so I drink diuretics. I'm lonely, so I eat. I'm frustrated, so I yell and scream.
Take a deep breath. Take a big drink of water. Take a small nap. Start over.
Children will do chores. Babies will take naps. Laundry will be cleaned, and sorted, and put away. Dishes will be done. The Bible will be read. Training will happen. And gradually, we will return to our version of normal and our rendition of order.
Those were our successes.
We neglected our little world dreadfully, otherwise. We once again have a laundry hall rather than a laundry room, no counter space in the kitchen, and my bedroom resembles a clearing house of everyone's belongings. This morning was full of mournful cries, including but not limited to: can't find my crocs, can't find any shirts, don't have any clean underwear.
The eldest: I can't remember the last time our house was this dirty.
I cleaned the non-garbage disposal drain and found that something had sprouted, a seed of some kind. I should put it in dirt and see who it turns out to be.
Other things seem to have sprouted, as well. Like, the idea that life should be fun all day every day. Or, the notion that work is someone else's job. The little ones think they need to have shoes on before breakfast is over, they shouldn't let mom out of their sight, and first time obedience is a thing of yesteryear.
And everyone is exhausted.
Including me. I noticed one middle of the night that (t.m.i. alert) I had hardly any pee in me. It dawned on me that for days running, I had been drinking coffee and not water.
The principle was profound. I drank to feel better, not to be better. So I was worse. And the cycle continued. My body was needing hydration, and I was mistaking the cues.
Yesterday, I had the brilliant idea (sarcasm.) of going to visit friends who live an hour away. It really was fun. And it really was stupid. My family needed to stay home and do nothing. We did the opposite.
I seem to have a messed up way of handling hard. I'm tired, so I drink diuretics. I'm lonely, so I eat. I'm frustrated, so I yell and scream.
Take a deep breath. Take a big drink of water. Take a small nap. Start over.
Children will do chores. Babies will take naps. Laundry will be cleaned, and sorted, and put away. Dishes will be done. The Bible will be read. Training will happen. And gradually, we will return to our version of normal and our rendition of order.
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