Can't Help Falling In Love

The day is full of distractions.  Like when you tell the kids you're leaving in five minutes, which is five minutes later than you need to be leaving, and they decide that is the time to let the dogs in out of the rain.  Or when you're planning lessons fifteen minutes before you should be leaving for class because you fell asleep the night before watching Duck Dynasty, when you should have been planning, and your son decides to turn off the computer to get your attention and the document slips into the dark unknown where all unsaved documents go. Distractions that pull your affections in a million directions, often away from the ones who mean the most.  Enter vacation, more specifically, a week at the beach.  It's this hiatus from the daily grind that allows me to fall in love with my family all over again.

Stop and smell the roses......

My son lags behind on the path, holding a translucent green tube around his waist.  Every now and then it slips, pulling his one-size-too-big swimsuit down a bit with it.  He pauses, hoists the tube higher, and awkwardly tugs his swimsuit up.  I pause and wait.  A and her dad wait for no one on their way to the beach.  C dawdles, examining the sand on the brick pathway, tufts of shaggy hair sticking out from his head.  Too bad I didn't have time to cut his hair before we left.  He finally reaches me and grabs my hand, falling into step with my pace.  "Mommy, God made new dinosaurs after the old ones died. Did you know a Protoceratops...." He talks without pausing, rattling off dinosaur names and facts that would tongue-tie even the most articulate orator, but he is four and his blue eyes widen in innocent wonder as he ponders the magnificent magnitude of creation and the genius of the Creator.  "Is God everywhere?  Are dinosaurs in heaven?"  Our daily quarter-mile trek to the beach from the house becomes a place where we wrestle with big questions and take time to notice small things.  We end up with more questions than we answer.  No "hurry ups" just me and C holding hands slowly meandering along the path.  I catch a glimpse into the sweet, curious nature of my boy, a gift that I miss or push aside for the greater accomplishments of clean laundry and homemade dinners.  I'm reminded of the better thing.

Laughter is the best medicine.....

I relax in a beach chair and read.  I glance up from a page to see a man floating in the surf with two children who look remarkably like mine.  His arms link through each of their water rings and three heads bob happily in the waves, laughter roaring in with the surf. The sun glints off the fluorescent pink water ring that my husband has wedged around his waist; my daughter's pink-rimmed bucket hat sits tightly on his head.  When my laughter subsides, I fall a little more deeply in love.

Love makes the world go round.....

"Mommy, I love you!"  "I love you, too, Pumpkin."  A reaches for my hand.  We float quietly on the Gulf.  Her head rests nestled on the fold of her elbow, her cheek tilted up to the sun.  Her blonde hair curls wildly around her face, kept out of her eyes by the pink goggles she wears pushed up onto her head.  Suddenly, I see her, not as a baby but as a girl who loves dolphins and tigers and says, "seriously," and I gasp.  The sweet preschooler from two years ago is now a little girl flying into her tween years. Gone are the rounded cheeks and baby teeth;she's a big girl who requests "me" time in her room without the interruptions of her brother.  I brush back a curl and try to shoo away time or at least slow its pace.  Seven plus two is nine and then ten.  I pull her float near, trying to keep her close but know she will soon float away, eager to find her own way.  In the quiet, perhaps she senses my thoughts and longs, too, to capture this moment for a while longer, lingering in its knowledge that she is growing up.  Her voice breaks the silence, "Mommy?"  "Mmmhmm?"  "This is the best day ever!"

We have seven days of "best days ever."  Moments where we steal away from the rest of the world, isolating ourselves from the news, the chaos, and the stress.  Connecting without wires, laughing without reservation, relaxing without guilt.  We arrive harried and leave falling more deeply in love with God, with His creation, and with each other.

Into the Deep Blue Yonder

My children love the Gulf of Mexico.  I mean love, love.  Love like Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and birthdays.  Love like a Southerner loves sweet tea and SEC football.  You know: love. 

I, too, love the Gulf.  I just prefer to watch it glisten in the sun from the comfort of a beach chair, planted firmly in the soft sands of the shore, reclining with my favorite magazine in hand, usually, Southern Living, preferably Rick Bragg's column.  My children prefer to be in the Gulf, churning and twirling in the relentless pounding of the surf.  Apparently, they find this to be fun.  Again, I prefer the reading and sunning safely on the shore, but when my children suggested I join them in their churning and twirling with a chorus of "please" and some really cute puppy faces, I agreed.

A and C suggest we get into our little round tubes and link hands.  I grab C's hand, he grabs A's, and we begin our trek into the deep to ride the waves, a chain of brightly colored blue, pink, and green tubes, bobbing up and down at the mercy of the sea.  I drag my little chain down to the clearest water I can find, water free of murky seaweed, so I can watch for jellyfish, crabs, sharks, or any other marine life that might sneak up on unsuspecting wave riders. Feeding times for sharks are early morning and early afternoon, right?  Wait, that's right now.  How do you stop the pain of a jelly fish sting?  Jellyfish aren't deadly, are they?  These are the thoughts racing through my mind.  My children giggle freely, not an ounce of fear in their water-logged bodies.  I decide to relax and join in the laughter.  A few minutes into our being pounded by the waves and turned topsy-turvy into the sea, A shouts, "This is the best day ever!"  I squeeze the sweet hands of my little ones a little tighter and agree then check to make sure the amorphous, pink swirly thing floating our way isn't a jellyfish.

As we waddle through the surf back to our chairs, I ponder our adventure and wonder, "How often do I miss the 'best day ever' because I'm afraid to trust Jesus's call to leave the safety of the shore and trek out into the deep?"  How often is He calling me to join Him in the adventure of a lifetime, while I cling to the safety of my beach chair, shouting, "No, I'm good here!"  The Creator of seaweed, jellyfish, and sharks has planned a thrilling life for each of us, but so often we miss the thrill because we're content to sit with the seagulls.  I'm not afraid to swim in the sea, but I do find myself anxiously treading with caution, wondering if each step forward brings danger untold.  My children dive in eagerly seeing adventure.  Of course, I'm there holding their hands and urging them to proceed with caution, but isn't that what God does, too?  He invites us to join Him in the deep unknown with the assurance that He will go with us, holding our hand each step of the way.  Go ahead, you just might find "your best day ever" waiting beyond the shore.

Redeeming Grace

When the Holy Spirit prodded me to share this story.....ten years ago.....I said, "You want me to what?  Um, no, it's been ten years, and that's behind me now."  When God grabs hold, though, no isn't an option, even if it takes ten years.  When God began using my 7 experience to transform me last year, I prayed that He would use my blog for His glory.  If God chooses to use my writing as a ministry then I need to be prepared to be up front and not hide behind a facade of hypocrisy.  I am tired of pretending like I have never stumbled.  I have fallen down been broken and bruised then pasted a got-it-all-together grin on my face and never looked back.  Opening yourself up is scary, terrifying, actually, but I hear the Holy Spirit gently saying, "I can't use you if you're not honest, if you're hiding, because the person you can minister to the most might benefit from hearing your story of wrecking and MY story of redemption."  My prayer is that He uses this post to speak tenderly into the ear of a beloved and remind her, "There is NOTHING that can separate you from my love....nothing."

A few weeks ago a guest pastor at my church challenged us to really search the Bible and catch a glimpse of who God really is on the pages of scripture. So, I pulled out my bible a few days later and opened to the first verse of Genesis, eager to receive a fresh glimpse of my Father.  I read to about Genesis 3 when I was struck by God's reaction to Adam and Eve's transgression in the Garden of Eden.  No, I didn't find His reaction to their sin surprising, but what I found stunning was that God made them coverings before He expelled them from the garden.  After they had just breached His trust and condemned mankind to death, God, knowing that Adam and Eve were now aware of their nakedness, made them clothing. This verse struck me as a tender image of God showing love despite, I imagine, disappointment and frustration.  I had probably read that verse hundreds of times, but because I was searching to see the character and love of God, I read it differently that day.

If you had asked me as a child to draw my image of God, I would have drawn a scowling judge, pointing a reprimanding finger, scolding my disobedience.  I'm not sure why; my parents showered my siblings and me with unlimited unconditional love, but somewhere along the way, I began to see God as someone I had to please to receive love.  I eagerly followed Christ, but my relationship with Him centered more on performance than grace.  Christianity became a game of rules.  Those who kept the rules won and those who didn't lost.  I was in it to win and rules I could handle.  The list of dos and don'ts brought this overachieving people-pleaser security.  It was much less scary than making myself vulnerable to a true relationship with the Creator of the universe, or so I thought.

When I arrived at my large university, I was still playing the game, still jumping through hoops to please a warped image of God that I had created in my mind.  I was also perched in an ivory tower of smug self-righteousness, looking down on all those poor souls at this large partying institution, those folks who just couldn't get with the program.  I was also drowning in a sea of insecurity, unsure what I wanted to do with my life, and feeling the pressure I placed on myself to achieve perfection in every area of my life.   One day, when the enemy whispered, "Go ahead, what will it hurt?" I decided, fed up with doing it God's way,  that I, too, wanted to be pretty, popular, and part of the crowd.  I had grown weary of standing on the outside looking in, so I accepted an invitation to a party and took my first real drink.  I justified it by patting myself on the back for waiting until just months before my twenty-first birthday to consume alcohol.  What followed was a downward spiral into a struggle with alcohol that would last for years.

Suddenly, I became the stumbling drunk girl on the strip that I had pitied my first three years on campus.  Lest you think that I allowed anyone who "mattered" to see me blemished and dirty, not a chance.  No matter how late I arrived home on Saturday night, I polished myself up and attended church every Sunday morning.  I was desperate, desperate to stop the cycle.  Drink, party, repent, drink, party, repent.  I hosted Bible studies in my apartment, anything to earn my forgiveness.  I will spare the details, but it became the loneliest, most miserable fight of my life because my foolish pride forced me to hide in the shadows and battle alone.  Fortunately, we can't hide from God, and He reached into the pit and pulled me out and began to teach me what grace and His love are all about. Praise God! 

Last week, when everyone was so up in arms about Miley Cyrus, my heart actually broke for her.  I could have been one bad decision away from dancing on stage intoxicated with giant teddy bears.  Before my experience, sure, I had sinned, but in my mind, they were minor infractions.  You see, though, all of us who follow Christ were bought at a price.  His blood was shed for all of our sins.  We justify our sin as not as bad as someone else's, but your sin cost just as much blood as the murderer and thief.  Even as I write this, I want to explain that my experience was just like so many others I met on campus, but there is no justification. My sin felt worse because I covered it up with more hypocrisy than any Pharisee.  Paul said he was the chief among sinners, but keep in mind, he wrote that before I was born.  What God has shown me very recently as I've wrestled with Him over this and over the fact that I've been forgiven for my past transgressions is that while I've repented of my behavior, I never repented for my hypocrisy until now.  We still had work to do on this. 

Through my whole college and early adult process, Jesus taught me the ugliness and hideousness of my sin; he helped me grasp this so we could move forward in our relationship.  Some of you may be saying, "Big deal, kids will be kids. College students drink all the time."  Sin is clearly defined in the Bible, and nothing justifies grieving the Holy Spirit.  Others may be saying, "What?  You fake."  While I want to address everyone I love and respect, I'm writing this for you dear prodigals who have never had the courage to talk about your stumbles because, like me, you were afraid your Christian friends would no longer accept you if they ever discovered the mistakes you made.  If that's true, dear me, what gospel are we preaching?  

Why am I sharing this?  Other than the fact that I feel very led by Christ to do so.  Because maybe there is one person out there who needs to hear this, who needs to know that we're all broken in some way.  While I don't believe God ever desires for us to fall into a lifestyle of carnality, I do think it's possible that He allows us to pass through the fire to refine us.  Please do not misunderstand, I am not saying it was God's will for me to disobey, but I do think when we're most broken, His love is most beautiful.  Before when I read the story of the prodigal, it was just a nice parable about a young man I could never relate to, foolishly squandering his father's inheritance. The big brother, well, there's a guy I could get behind.  Now, that story resonates.  We crawl back broken, hopeless, and fallen, and God doesn't wag a finger of reprimand in our face.  He lifts us from our pit, dusts us off, and celebrates our return.  Praise God at the mere thought of His mercy and love!  

I've always loved Beth Moore because I relate to her own prodigal story, and I admire her willingness to share it with others as a ministry.  Maybe, I'm sharing this because God is preparing me for something through my writing or teaching.  I don't know.  In my career, I often work with girls who are insecure, who are looking in the wrong places for affirmation; maybe God needed to know I was willing to share my story of brokenness and redemption before I could be trusted to minister to others.  Maybe I've been hiding a testimony that can help others heal. How can I serve Jesus and help the broken if I don't allow anyone to see my own brokenness?  As my sister beautifully reminded me, God's power is made perfect in our weakness.  Maybe someone needs to know that the Hound of Heaven doesn't give up.  If pouring myself out like a drink offering draws someone closer to Him then so be it.  Jesus was broken for us; as His disciples, what makes us think we can escape being broken and humbled and exposed for the sake of the gospel. 

While I was just fine keeping this all to myself, I feel that God wasn't.  I finally see that He didn't deliver me from my struggle with alcohol simply for my own sake.  He is giving me an opportunity to share hope with others, so for all you dear women who've messed up along the way and hide in the shame of your sin, please know that God's grace, God's mercy, the blood of the Lamb who was slain covers that sin when you repent and turn to Him, truly turn to the God of love that He truly is.  You are beautiful, your are redeemed, you are restored.  

In the ten years since, God has blessed me with so much: an amazing husband who came along at the exact right time, two beautiful children, a fulfilling career, but He's also allowed me to wrestle, to question, to struggle with my past and with my need for affirmation and with my need to earn His approval.  He's teaching me that He loves me no matter what.  There are days I replay what might have been if I had said no and fled from temptation, but I'm gently reminded that through my faith in Christ, He's redeeming my past and hopefully, using my story to bring Him glory.  I cannot change the past, but I can choose to believe God is who He says He is and loves as He says He loves to believe that it applies to me and that I'm not the only person alive who's exempt from His promises.  Now, when I think about God, I see Jesus, stooping down and gently lifting my chin and saying, "I love you.  I take great delight in you; in my love, I will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing." (Zep 3:17)  

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Hope Despite Despair

A friend of mine recently lost her job and now faces an uncertain economic future.  I have a friend who has decided to courageously fight and overcome an obstacle that has plagued her for years.  Another friend has spent weeks in a hospital at her mom's side, rotating shifts with exhausted family members, balancing the needs of her family with the needs of her mother, not knowing each time she leaves to care for her three children, if it will be the last time she sees her mom alive.  My grandmother speaks wistfully of a desire to return to her home, leaving the assisted living facility where she now resides, knowing that her longing will most likely never be fulfilled.  My cousin missed her daughter's college graduation to rush to her father's side as he fought for his life in a hospital.  Today, a dear friend, who had just comforted neighbors who lost their son to suicide, learned that her best friend lost her young daughter in a drowning.  I don't know her friend, but because the experience of motherhood is universal, I wept for her loss because no friend cries alone, no family member cries alone, no mother cries alone.

The pain of life is palpable and its taste is bitter.  The pit of despondence is deep and the surprise with which the enemy attacks is overwhelming.  Life sometimes spirals out of control, and there are no words, no neatly spoken platitudes than can fix real hurt, real despair, real pain.  How do you comfort a mother who just lost her child?  How do you help the friend whose best friend just lost her baby?  How do you choose between a sick parent and graduating daughter?  In this world, children are sold to brothels for a lifetime of slavery when they should be skipping carelessly through their backyard, dreaming of bright futures.  Parents drop their children off at orphanages in a desperate attempt to secure adequate food and shelter.  Millions long for a simple cup of clean water, water that won't leave their children ravaged by disease, fighting for their lives.  Orphans long for a forever family.  Men and women kill and maim in the name of God.  Earthquakes, floods, and fires ravage and devastate, leaving families destitute and wondering why, how, what now?

Life spirals, the world spins, leaving a wake of confusion.  We hurl our questions to heaven with an ache that leaves us breathless.  Why?  We fall to our knees as tears pour into our open palms and we ask, "How?"  The heart-shattering moan of a mother who rocks back and forth unable to be comforted by the loving arms of those who long desperately to ease the pain, if only for a moment, echoes throughout the house, the world, reaching the ears of One who can.  What now?  Sometimes its more than we can bear because tragedy is ruthless and relentless.  There are moments it seems the world is spinning off its axis into an abyss of despair, and if we're not careful we can get sucked into the lie that there is no hope.  But despite loss, despite the dark cloud of desperation that blocks out the light of hope, it's still there; even when we can't see with our eyes, He is there.

We question, we doubt, we wonder, we cling.  We cling desperately to the truth that though in this life we face trouble, Jesus has overcome the world.  We grasp hold of faith tightly with both hands as if our lives depend on it.  Faith doesn't mean we have the answers; it doesn't mean we understand, it means we trust the One who does.  It means we continue to wrestle even when life doesn't make sense.  As my mind raced in church this morning while I prayed for a way to comfort my friends, the Holy Spirit kept bringing me back to Luke 22, where Jesus, who knew from the beginning what must come to pass, wrestled with His mission.  "Father, if you are willing take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.....And being in anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground."  God reminded me that Jesus isn't someone who can't relate to our pain.  He came as flesh and blood; he experienced every aspect of life.  He faced moments of joy, delight, but at times, He was so full of despair and anguish that He sweat blood, while praying to the God He had seen face-to-face to spare the pain of death.  Yet, because of Christ's willingness to take on the sin of the world, we have hope; anyone willing to reach out and accept Him in faith has hope.  Your Savior knows the sorrow of feeling abandoned and forsaken, "My Lord, my Lord, why have You forsaken Me?"  Jesus, as human, called out, "Why?"  He asked, he wrestled to the point of bleeding, yet He continued.  Why?  How? What now?

When life heaves a blow I think I can't bear; I hesitate to question because I fear God.  He is holy and mighty and who are we to question Him?  Yet, He allows the questions.; Psalm is full of questions; scripture is full of men and women who struggled with doubt.  I think the questioning is what builds intimacy in our relationship with Jesus.  When Lazarus died, Mary didn't shrug when she met Jesus and say, "Well, I guess it was God's will, and I will accept it in silence."  No, she ran to Jesus and said, I believe, in a somewhat accusatory tone, "If you had been here my brother would not have died."  In her grief, she honestly told Jesus what was on her heart, and knowing that He was about to bring Lazarus back from the dead, Jesus was so moved by Mary and Martha's grief that He wept. He didn't become angered by her audacity; He comforted her.  Jesus shared in their grief just as He shares in the grief and anxiety of my friends.  Even though we don't understand the reason for suffering, we can cling to Jesus, who even though He knows the answers to our questions, doesn't lecture us with explanations, he shares in our grief.  He doesn't hit us over the head with theology; He weeps alongside us.  He doesn't trivialize our pain, He bears it with us.  Why, how, what now?

Isn't it strange how it often takes death to put life into perspective?  After my friend shared what had happened to her friend, my first instinct was to run to my two children, gather them into my arms, and never let them go.  All through church, my mind raced with promises to never take for granted those little moments, to extend extra grace, to err on the side of mercy, to call my grandmother everyday, to work less, love more, never turn away those little arms when they reach up for a hug or beg for one more book.  It's tragedy that often shakes us back to the reality of what matters.  Because it's not a matter of if, it is a matter of when. When loss, stress, and despair knock us off our feet, the fire of it all refines our focus. I left church with the questions: why?  how?  what now?  I left with the lingering thought, "What if I lived everyday with the perspective that tragedy brings?"  What if I lived in the moment, focused on the present?  What if I stopped trying to figure out the "right thing to say" and just grieved with my friends?  While tragedy is wretched, it offers an opportunity to "bear one another's burdens."  It gives us an opportunity to look beyond our own pain to see the pain of others.  We live in a world filled with tragedy and pain, yet we also are filled with Hope, and Hope is a person, Jesus.  Tragedy allows us to share that Hope with others and help provide healing to a broken world.

To my dear friends who can't see through the cloud, know that Jesus loves you, that your church loves you, and that I love you.  "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned the flames will not set you ablaze.  For I am the Lord your God.....Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you....Do not be afraid for I am with you."  Isaiah 43.

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne.  Though she may forget, I will not forget you!  See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." Isaiah 49

"The faithful love of the Lord never ends!  His mercies never cease.  Great is His faithfulness; his mercies are new every morning." Lamentations 3:22-23

Learning the Hard Way

After navigating "tax-free" weekend bumper-to-bumper traffic for thirty minutes to travel three miles, after staring at thousands of options for home school curriculum, after waiting in line for ten minutes, I place my items on the counter and triumphantly pull the coupon I remembered to print from my purse.  I check to see if I have spent the amount required to use the coupon and notice it has expired.  I clench my fists, roll my eyes, sigh, and dramatically place the coupon back in my purse.  After watching the grown-up version of a tantrum, the clerk asks, "Has it expired?"

I pause, breathe, and say shortly, "Yes, it has."

 "Oh, sorry," she coos, "I can't help you.  They're so strict on our coupon policy here."  I glance longingly out the window at a nearby Chick-fil-A, wishing they sold school supplies because their coupons never expire.

I should have stopped with my curt "yes," but respond sarcastically, "Well, I tried to use it a week ago when it was in-date, but your store won't accept coupons via phone, even though I pulled up a perfectly good copy on my email.  I went home, printed it out, and when I could finally manage to get back here, it has now expired."

Looking as if someone has just stolen her last cookie, she quietly says, "There's nothing I can do about it. The company has a strict coupon policy."  Behind me stands a long line of antsy customers, customers she's been helping non-stop all day during the store's busiest season on one its busiest days of the year, and I hear the hint of exasperation and exhaustion that has crept into her voice.

"Well, it isn't good customer service," I snap, grab my bag, the hand of my daughter (oh, yeah, she was there, too), and walk out of the store and.....I.....feel....horrible.

I sulk to the car, wait for A to buckle, then turn on the ignition.  I feel the Holy Spirit nudge, reminding me of all the beautiful verses I love to quote but just failed miserably to follow, so I say, "Okay, God.  I know," and turn off the car.  "What are you doing, Mommy?" I hear from the back seat.

"Mommy needs to go apologize.  I was rude to the lady at the counter."

"You were rude, Mommy."  Oh, my sage seven-year-old.  A takes my hand, and we walk back into the store.  I get back in line looking very inconspicuous with my merchandise-free hands.  The lady in front of me has decided to purchase all of her classroom needs for the entire decade at one time, and I fidget as the sales clerk rings a pile of posters.  I hope she doesn't notice me until she's finished, so I can whisper my apology as indistinctly as possible.  She looks up and asks, "Did you forget something?"  Rats.  Why, yes, my manners and dignity are right there under that giant stack of Pilgrim posters, and I'd like them back. Christmas may no longer be allowed in public school, but by George, Thanksgiving is getting celebrated in one classroom.

I stand for a moment while the clerk and now, the pilgrim-poster lady, both stare waiting for my reply.  "I would like to apologize for my rude response.  I know it is not your fault that my coupon expired, and I directed my frustration at the wrong person.  I hope you will forgive me."

She politely acknowledges my apology with a cautious nod, then says, "It's no big deal.  I didn't take it personally."

"Well, it was rude, and I know you didn't need that on a day like today." or any other day.

"Thank you for coming back and apologizing."  I say, "You're welcome," smile then leave and send the home office an email that outlines my frustration as politely as I can muster.

Few things are more humbling than having to admit you were wrong in front of an entire store of shoppers on one of its busiest days of the year.  It's hard to admit a mistake let alone make sincere amends for it in front of an audience.  Even if I had a legitimate beef with the company, I didn't handle it in a Christ-like manner; add to that the fact that my daughter was watching and absorbing the scene.  Granted, even though I didn't shout, swear, or lose my cool too much, I failed to handle myself the way I'd like or the way I'd like A to handle a similar situation one day.  As if it isn't difficult enough to make sure our children are fed, showered, educated, and well-rested, we're also called as parents to model and to teach our children to love God with their whole heart, soul, and mind and to love their neighbor as themselves.  I've really been convicted lately about being the kind of person I want my children to become.  There's a great picture making the rounds on Facebook of a boy praying beside his father and the text reads something like "Your children are watching.  Be the man you want them to become."  That's daunting.

Of course, I'm not suggesting that we become perfect parents.  That's impossible.  Actually, the above scenario prompted a rather odd reflection.  It caused me to wonder how often do we allow our children to see us make mistakes, and how often do we allow them to see how we respond to our failures?  My reaction to frustrations or failures is to so often hide them from my children, from the world.  I tend to hide my true self, covering everything with a "mommy's got this" smile.  Mom gets disappointed, burns dinner, dislocates her toe, gets a call that a student actually lost points on the ACT?  I'm smiling; I'm happy; I'm good.  Mom isn't sure how to handle a challenge that arises?  No worries. The kids decide to give the dog a bath in your shower while fully dressed minutes before you're expected for family photos. (It hasn't happened, yet, but I fully anticipate it.) Super mom will grab her cape and be right back.  It's disingenuous and chances are my kids see right through it.  How unsettling to have a mom whose reaction to everything is to grin, bear it, and try harder.  Never let them see you sweat, right?  While I don't think it's healthy to lose it when things don't go my way, I do think it's okay to express disappointment in a Christ-like way.  Jesus expressed frustration on more than one occasion in scripture.

As a homeschooling mom, I have the unique vantage point of watching my children as they learn and practice new educational concepts.  I've noticed my daughter has developed quite an aversion to making mistakes in her work.  If she doesn't get something on the first try, she tends to close her book, push away from her desk, and exclaim, "I'm not doing this.  It's stupid."   Effective, I know.  I'm bothered by her notion that it isn't okay to make mistakes along the way to learning a new concept, that she has to get it right on the first try.  As her teacher, I usually encourage mistakes and try to explain that it's through our mistakes we learn how to do something correctly.  She's grown tired of the tales of how many strikes Babe Ruth had, how many failures Thomas Edison encountered on his way to the light bulb, and how many races Danica Patrick has failed to finish.  I encourage her to try and if at first she doesn't succeed to try again.

I teach her how others have responded to their weaknesses, failures, and mistakes, but how often do I model that for her myself?  When something fails to go my way or I get overwhelmed and my daughter asks me what is wrong my usual response is, "Nothing sweetheart.  Mommy just has a lot to do today."  Wouldn't that instead be a great opportunity to model for my sweet girl what true dependence on God looks like, to say, "Mommy is overwhelmed with planning lessons for a new school year and isn't sure where to start, but you know what, I 'm going to pray and ask God to help me come up with a plan."  How exciting to share with her as God does help me develop a plan and overcome a challenge as I lean into Him for help and for direction.  Sharing challenges that she's mature enough to handle and that would serve as good examples, I can model what Christ's strength in our weakness really means.

While I'm disappointed in myself for losing my cool at the store this weekend, I'm actually glad my daughter was there to witness the event.  She saw Mom have a real reaction to a stressful situation, she watched as I followed the prompting of the Holy Spirit, she observed Mommy swallowing my pride, humbling myself, admitting a mistake, and asking for forgiveness from a complete stranger.  Plus, A helped me come up with ways that I could have better handled my disappointment.  When God called us to be parents, I don't believe He called us to be robots who never make mistakes.  Rather, I believe He expects us to be (appropriately, based on their ages) real with our children, to teach our children what it means to truly depend on and follow Jesus, to show them that we make mistakes, we fail, but in His infinite mercy and grace, God forgives us and guides us.  We can discuss with our children how to handle their frustration, failure, and disappointment, but showing them how we handle our own frustration, failure, and disappointment in a way that honors Christ carries so much more impact.  It's a lesson that is difficult for our children to grasp if they never see it
in action.