The View From the Choir Loft

I step into the choir loft for worship prepared to see my son sitting with friends while Anna and her father serve as acolyte.  Instead I see my daughter sitting huddled up in the corner of a pew, her big white bow shaking with each sob.  She greets me with the most pitiful pout she can muster then averts her eyes to the floor to continue her cry.  Despite my maternal instinct to rush to her side to comfort her or at least discover why she's sobbing, I'm pretty sure my choir instructor wouldn't approve of one member rushing into the congregation, white robe billowing behind, so instead, I attempt to communicate sympathy with my eyes and a smile.

A has taken up so much of my attention that it has failed to register that her dad and brother are no where to be seen.  I glance toward the narthex to see A's best friend, Lucy in a white robe holding the cross.  Directly in front of this sweet angelic vision is a small boy with mussed hair, wearing a bright green zip-front hoodie with the Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles displayed proudly on front and he's holding a bronze stick with a lit flame.  Wait a minute!  That's C, holding a flame, wearing a ninja turtle hoodie.  Again, I fight the urge to rush through the congregation to the side of one of my children.  His father stands behind him, grinning, as if this is one of his proudest parenting moments. Clearly, he finds it funny that our acolyte is dressed like a ninja turtle.  A's distress is beginning to make sense, and I sit in the choir, trying to figure out why she is in the pew while her brother marches down the aisle with a live flame.

 I watch uncomfortably as my son proceeds proudly up the aisle of the church, smiling broadly.  Time has morphed into slow motion as I watch C turn his head and acknowledge everyone in the church, flame following his sudden, jerky motions, as he marches slowly up the aisle.  Behind him, T strives to subtly wrest control of the taper from C's hand, sensing as I am, the distinct possibility of hair all across the church going up in flames. C insists on carrying by himself....jerk....T attempts to grab the taper back under control....jerk.....I attempt to slide under the pew.

 Finally, they make it to the altar, and I watch, mouth gaping, as C and T continue to battle over control of the flame, T quietly fighting to light the candles without setting the church on fire.  My little boy marches proudly into the choir loft and spots me.  His smile widens.  His dad tries to guide him up the stairs to the candle that sits behind the choir.  C, with his eyes fixed on me, lunges toward the first step and tumbles to the floor, flame and all.  His dad gracefully grabs the taper with cat-like speed. C, from the floor, shouts, "I'm ok!" and clumsily clambers back to his feet.  Giggles erupt, which further fuels C's silly antics.

The last candle is eventually lit and C and his dad make their way to their place in the congregation.  I watch as my daughter sticks her feet up so C can't get through.  A small scuffle ensues between my two children.  Please don't lose sight of the fact that I'm in the choir loft, getting ready to sing the call to worship and oh, yes, we're in the middle of a worship service.  A defiantly crosses her arm and leaves her feet out, so her brother is unable to get to his seat.  As if all eyes weren't already on the ninja turtle acolyte, now my children decide to entertain the congregation with A Tale of Two Siblings.  My friend and fellow choir member chooses this moment to break my tension by signing the attendance register for me, listing my family as Turtle Mom and her hatchlings.  A finally gives in and my son sits down to wait for the children's sermon, where the minister asks that the children, "Join him reverently at the advent wreath."  I think that's the first time I recall him using the word reverently when introducing the children's sermon, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with what just happened.

I don't think it is any coincidence that today we lit the "Joy" candle.  While I was writhing in my seat, battling my maternal duty with my choir duty, the church was treated to the absolute, unquenchable joy of a little boy thrilled to have the responsibility of acolyte.  While some may say it distracted from worship and ultimately from God, and that's a valid argument, I believe it reminded many of God's joyous gift of children.  C insisted on wearing his ninja turtle hoodie over his dress clothes because it brings him joy and he really felt the church needed to share in that.  His behavior wasn't necessarily as silly as it was joyful.  He was part of leading the worship of God and in child-like faith and wonder, he tended to his duty with delight.  Even A got in on the act at the end of the service when she took over her brother's role as acolyte.  I think I even saw a smile on her sweet face as she stepped into the same spot where her brother had fallen earlier.

Once I overcame my initial embarrassment, I thought about how Jesus scolded the disciples for keeping the children from coming to him and exclaimed, "Let the little children come to me! Do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."  Jesus delighted in the unpredictable, lovable, faithful joy of children. While we may not know what to expect when they participate in worship, it's a reminder that we are to approach God with the faith of a child, and it also allows children the honor of not merely attending worship but of also participating, which ultimately makes the act of worshiping God more meaningful to them.   Watching children delight in worship reminds me, as one who sometimes goes through the motions of worship, failing to be mindful and present in the presence of God, to approach my loving, heavenly father with wonder and awe.  Like my children, who are often surprising and wild, so is the love and grace of God.

Rediscovering Christmas

A young girl stands in the center of the stage, the glow from the spotlight illuminating her rough, hardened features.  The rest of the cast slowly fades into the obscurity of the shadows until the audience only notices Imogene Herdman, her dark unruly hair falling carelessly into her face, barely held back by the scarf that covers her head; her blue, unkempt robe hangs askew, as she clutches a doll. Everything about this young girl cries rebel; her obstinate stance dares anyone to come near, yet, in the harsh glow of the spotlight, the audience witnesses her harsh features soften as she loosens her grip on the doll and softly cradles baby "Jesus" to her chest.  Suddenly, this iconoclast dressed as Mary seems to grasp the gravity of her role.  Imogene tilts the doll back and focuses lovingly on its face.  The light catches her profile, allowing the audience to glimpse the tears that glisten on her cheeks.  As she stands there, the realization dawns on the audience that she gets it.  Imogene Herdman finally gets it.  The light fades to darkness and the audience erupts into applause.  Overcome by emotion, I impulsively begin to leap to my feet then realize that would send my son, who I am holding in my lap, tumbling to the floor.  I'm already the only one in the audience crying, so I dial back the embarrassment factor and resign myself to discreetly wiping the tears from my eyes and whisper, "That's it.  That's what I want this Christmas."

My children rush out the doors from Children's Theater into the brisk winter air, joyously twirling and running through the courtyard toward the car, eagerly sharing their thoughts on The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I, on the other hand, walk pensively, mulling over why this simple retelling of the Nativity has moved me to such an extent. Each Christmas, I plan to slow down and capture the magic of the season, yet, after the gifts have been opened, the wrapping paper cleaned up, and the Christmas decorations put away, I find myself feeling a little empty, as if I missed it once again.  Every year, I work harder to discover what's lacking.  It's as if I'm trying to grasp some elusive element of Christmas, that if I loosen my grip whatever I'm grabbing for will slip through my fingers, yet it seems the more desperately I grapple the more evasive it becomes.  What is it that I'm missing?  How can a recalcitrant rebel like Imogene Herdman grasp the grace of the season while I'm left on the outside looking in?  What does it take to rest in the mystery of Emmanuel, God with us?
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This year I have vowed to make Christmas more about others.  Maybe if I give more I'll be left with that warm fuzzy glow that's meant to accompany Christmas.  Yet, for a people-pleasing performance-driven personality like mine, Christmas quickly becomes another opportunity to attempt to earn God's favor.  I order Advent studies for me and the kids.  We create a Random Act of Kindness Advent calendar; I volunteer to assist my dear friend, Heather, in the directing of the children's Christmas program.  I host an Operation Christmas Child Shoe box Packing Party, and while all of these are worthy, wonderful activities, I still find myself feeling as if something's missing.  I empathize with Charlie Brown.  Amid the rushed, chaotic din of the season, I want to raise my hands and exclaim, "Doesn't anybody know what Christmas is all about?"  Or, to rephrase, doesn't anyone really know what the Gospel is all about? Despite being a Christian since third grade, I find myself wondering if I've been missing a key element of what the true ramification of Christ come as man is.  I feel like if I could fit that missing piece into the puzzle then all the rest of the pieces would fall into place and I'd discover what it is missing from Christmas that has left me feeling so frazzled and disillusioned.

I tend to be a bold pray-er.  I find that I so desperately want to know and to please my Father that I'm willing to ask Him to do things like break my heart for what breaks His.  A few weeks before the Christmas season began, I felt compelled to ask God to help me understand the extent of my sinfulness.  I don't think I'm alone when I say that while I comprehend the idea of sin, I find myself thinking that I'm not that bad.  Sure, I sin but there are murderers and evil deviants out there.  Surely, my sin doesn't match theirs. It's this exact, wildly inaccurate sentiment that sent me to my knees.  I longed to understand how filthy my sin appeared before a Holy God.

Not long after I made this petition I experienced a Monday morning that rivaled Alexander's no good, horrible day.  I woke up late; my husband was in bed sick with the flu.  As I made breakfast, I ungratefully mumbled to myself how I'd never get to lie in bed sick all day.  In the middle of my pity party, my son spilled an entire cup of sugary juice onto the coffee table then stood dumbfounded as it poured like a fountain into the floor.  When the last remnants hit the floor, he then decided to call me for assistance.  This was the exact moment my daughter chose to have a DEFCON-1 meltdown.  As I stomped downstairs to take out the recycle pile, I stepped into a puddle of water and discovered that the washing machine had begun to flood the garage.  As I grabbed towels to mop up the water before it ruined my hidden stash of Christmas presents, I actually contemplated lying in the floor to kick and scream in an all-out tantrum.  This was moments before I discovered that the dog had gotten out in the rain and was wandering around the neighborhood soaked.  Did I mention that I had to be at work in fifteen minutes?  At the height of my selfish grumbling, I heard the Holy Spirit gently remind me that, on my own, I didn't even have the power to handle a stressful morning.  I had sinned like ninety-five times in ten minutes.  It hit me that my inability to handle even the slightest provocation without losing it was evidence of my utter depravity before God.  Sin is sin, regardless of whether it's armed robbery or selfish pity parties.  Whatever the transgression it separates me from a Holy God.  In my pride, I often see myself as better than others because I think I've managed to hide my sinfulness in shades of subtlety.

In my helplessness and frustration, God chose an everyday moment to reveal my desperate need for Him. I'd been too caught up in self-righteous legalism, patting myself on the back for following "most" of the rules to see the depth of my own sin, but a rebel like Imogene, who'd spent her life breaking the rules, was broken by the sacrifice of Jesus's birth.  She understood what God's wild grace meant to an insubordinate rebel like her, and she got it.  That, it seemed, is what I had been missing, brokenness over my sin.  It's that realization that makes the news of the Gospel so sweet.  In understanding the depth of my sin, I finally understood the life-changing, life-giving significance of God in a manger born to save all of us, murderers and self-centered tantrum-throwers alike.

While I've been learning about the weight of my sin and my powerlessness to save myself, I've also asked God to help me grasp grace.  If Christmas is about anything, it's about grace, but do we truly comprehend grace?  Grace is wild, uninhibited, and remarkable.  Grace is free; literally, it costs nothing.  Grace should make us giddy, yet I think we're so caught up in the security of our rules and rituals that we fail to grasp the freedom, the joy, the utter astonishment of grace.  We were dead, done, finished, destroyed by our transgression, yet He didn't leave us there.  While we were still sinners, God sent Jesus into the world to save us.  God, Himself, loved us so much that He came to dwell among us then die for us so that we might live. The breathtaking beauty of grace is that cannot be earned.  Grace is free.  Salvation requires no works.  It is by faith alone, yet I think it is the simplicity of the gospel that sometimes makes it so difficult.  Surely there is something I must do.  Enter Christmas.

Christmas isn't about me. It's not about my family.  It isn't about decorating a tree that makes Pinterest hang its head in shame.  It isn't even about the looks on our children's faces Christmas morning as they discover treasures untold lying under the tree.  Christmas isn't about what you do; it's not even about what you do for others.  It's about Him.  Everything about Christmas points to Jesus. Christmas isn't about expecting a miracle, a perfect gift, the perfect lights, the perfect Nativity.  Christmas is the miracle.  Jesus is the hope, the joy, the peace, the love of the season.  As I've spent Christmas after Christmas working to create the perfect holiday, the Holy Spirit has begun to remind me this Christmas that the work was finished over 2,000 years ago on the cross.  All that's left for me to do is to repent, turn to Christ, accept His gift, and trust Him to finish His transforming work, to turn my heart of stone into a heart of flesh.  Christmas is the gospel and the gospel is Jesus.  This season don't overlook the simplicity, the unblemished beauty of Christmas.  It isn't about you.  Don't work so hard that you miss Him. No work is required.  In his astonishing, undeserved love of sinners, God sent His son as a humble baby who grew to become a humble servant that ultimately bore the brunt of our sin.  Christmas is the beginning of a divine mystery that culminated with "it is finished."  It is through the lens of Christ's finished work on the cross that we can clearly see our own purpose in this season, in this life.

Christmas reminds us that Jesus did the work.  It is the grace of Christmas that frees us to open our hearts in gratitude and love.  Christmas isn't dependent on our working to create a perfect memory; it's responding to His great love.  It's in our understanding of and trust in His sacrifice that we are able to reach out in gratitude and share that love with others.  Our call to help others this season isn't a requirement for our salvation; it's a grateful response to His love and to His transforming work in our hearts and lives.  Like Imogene Herdman discovered on the stage of a children's play, the magic of Christmas isn't an elusive mystery to be solved, it isn't an intangible ideal, it's the gritty story of God's love reaching down to sinners lost in their transgression, refusing to accept our rebelliousness. Christmas isn't disappointed, unfulfilled worldly expectations. Christmas is celebrating the relentless love, the unabashed pursuit of our hearts by God; it's the unexpected birth of a Savior.  It is what I had been missing all these years.  Christmas had become more a pursuit of a seasonal ideal and less a pursuit of Christ, so this year, don't get so distracted by trying to find the perfect gift or by trying to create the perfect holiday experience that you miss it.  Take time to look into the face of your precious Savior, extend your hand, and grab hold of the love that He offers.  Don't get so caught up in Christmas that, like me, you fail to see Christ.

It's A Wonderful Life

The lights from the tree cast a warm glow throughout the living room.  Gingerbread boys and girls line the cookie plate ready to be devoured by eager children.  Presents sit quietly under the tree, tempting small hands with their untold delights.   Peaceful displays of the Nativity sit on shelves throughout the house, serving as reminders that Christmas is simply about the birth of our Savior.  All that’s missing are the chestnuts roasting on an open fire.  Though the house is ready, the baking is done, and the gifts are purchased, Christmas never seems to really begin until the first viewing of It’s A Wonderful Life.

This Christmas classic might be 67 years old, but there is a timeless element that captures the hearts of any generation of viewers.  What is it about this film that speaks to its viewers each time they watch the affable George Bailey sprint through the streets of Bedford Falls shouting “Merry Christmas”?  The archaic black and white presentation of the film doesn’t even appear to deter a younger audience.  The movie captivates the imagination regardless of its age.  It’s a film that truly transcends time.

Perhaps what attracts most to the film are its characters.   Set in the midst of the Great Depression, those of us living in the midst of the Great Recession understand what it is like to put our dreams on hold and pinch pennies simply to survive.  Could it also be the reality of unrealized dreams haunting the most ambitious of viewers?  Like George Bailey, many of us have vowed to kick the dust of our small town and go on to accomplish great feats, yet we watch our high school sweetheart tuck our little ones into the bed in the house just down the street from where we grew up.  We begrudgingly trudge through traffic on our way to a job that simply pays the bills, wondering when life happened and the tangible pursuit of our dreams became a fantasy.  We wonder, with George, when did life careen off track?

It’s A Wonderful Life also appeals to our heart.  Few movies today present characters that selflessly place their own dreams aside for the betterment of others.  The Savings and Loan may represent a ball and chain to George but to the town it represents a beacon of possibility.  George is the unlikely hero who warms the hearts of millions.  We relate to him but there’s something about his character that each of us longs to emulate, even if it means putting aside our own ambition.   George represents not just who we are but also who we wish we could be.  Even though he does it, often begrudgingly, he never compromises his values for material gain.  As I watch the movie, I cling to the hope that there are still some George Baileys out there.

Perhaps what draws us most to the film is the idea that our lives matter.  Though we may not see the evidence displayed daily, our lives impact those around us.  George reminds us that no man is an island.  George is given a chance to see what the world would have been like had he not been born, and that causes us to reflect on our own lives, forcing us to reevaluate how we treat those we see each day.  Are our interactions positive and would our impact be missed?  This film encourages us to ponder the imprint we leave on the lives around us. 

It’s a Wonderful Life also restores our faith in humanity.  When George is at the end of his rope and desperately seeking for a way to resolve an impossible situation, the families and friends he’s impacted throughout his life of selfless devotion rally around their distraught friend.  Everyone pitches in to ensure that George’s deficit is met.  And perhaps the most gratifying element of the movie for me is that it encourages a greater faith in God.  Though we may be small and capable of messing up even the smallest of tasks, our heavenly Father watches over us.  He takes an interest in our lives and intervenes to guide and direct us in ways that are both mysterious and astonishing.  While it may appear to simply be a film about the Christmas season, It’s A Wonderful Life is much more.  It’s one of those rare gems that invites the viewer to contemplate what truly matters in life and to decide that, like George Bailey, regardless of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises, in the end faith, family, and friends will always create a life worth living.

A Letter To My Daughter On Beauty

My dear sweet girl,

I didn't really expect to discuss this with you at the tender age of seven, but when after watching The Voice with Mommy for a mere ten minutes, you suddenly came downstairs after a commercial break with your hair down and brushed dramatically to the side just like a few of the contestants, I felt a lurch in the pit of my stomach. Your innocent pony tail and head band had been replaced with a Lauren Bacall peekaboo.  What I thought was an innocent, innocuous singing competition had already begun to teach you what our culture values as beautiful, and you didn't even wait until the end of the show to model their ideal.  Despite a steady diet of Veggie Tales and Gigi: God's Little Princess, despite having never allowed "fashion" magazines into the house, I have realized that I can't always protect you from "the world," and since I've noticed that most retailers think seven is the right age for little girls to look like grown women, I think it's time we had a chat about what true beauty really is.


The world is peddling a huge lie about what most of us value as beautiful, and it's hard to miss what the culture is selling.  Every time you walk into the mall, you're met with the life-size image of those lovely angels from Victoria's Secret clad in their underwear, selling the idea that true beauty lies in outward perfection. I see nothing angelic about it, though, and find it more to be a ploy of the devil to make women feel completely insecure.  They taunt you with their perfect physique, but the real secret is that most of those girls are starving themselves and what few imperfections they may actually have are airbrushed away before their photos ever make it to print.  While I wish I were immune, I must admit, I often pass these beauties and suck my stomach in a little tighter, wishing my muffin top would magically shrink into a thin mint.

Pumpkin, it angers Mommy that society desires to convince you that your worth is based on what you wear, how much you weigh, and how pretty you are on the outside.  I'm sick of the world telling you that you are nothing more than an object to be ogled by men, so I'm lacing up my boxing gloves and getting ready to fight.  I'm hoping some other Mommies will join me in this.  I'm fed up with companies like Abercrombie, Aerie, and even, Target, attempting to sell you immodest clothing, stooping so low as to sexualize childhood. I can't imagine I'm the only mom upset by this, but if the clothing is still on their shelves and if pictures of children modeling sexy, adult poses are still in their ads, then apparently someone is buying.  This will probably make you mad when you're older, but we will not be purchasing at many popular retailers, so get the whining out now.  Mommy refuses to support companies that market trash to children.

I also need to examine the message that I'm sending you about beauty.  While Mom may not be one to worry too much about her makeup (one glance in the mirror and one application of lipstick a day will do it for me) and although I've been known to roll out of bed and wear the same shirt I slept in out and about for the day, even to work, and yes, I've worn faded yoga pants to the grocery store with dress shoes, I'm guilty of spending a lot of time searching on the Internet for the perfect hairstyle because I somehow think it's going to make me appear younger and prettier. I've also been known to spend more than I should on creams for wrinkles that probably do little more than smell nice.  Do you see when I stare disapprovingly at my waist pouring over the top of my mommy jeans?  Is there disappointment on my face when you opt for comfy pants instead of a cute dress?  What message am I sending about what I really believe about beauty?

Society will tell you there's no such thing as enough.  Advertisers will convince you that happiness is a designer bag and shoes to match, and while there's nothing inherently wrong with purchasing beautiful things, sweetheart, those things do not define you nor will they fulfill you.  There's a really good chance that I will refuse to buy you Seven jeans or $300 pairs of boots.  I'm frankly not that concerned with you fitting in.  In fact, I want you to stand out; I want you to believe Jesus when he tells you to be in the world but not of the world. I hope you find your value in who you are not in what you wear,  in which group you belong, or in what you look like.  While it's okay to take pride in your appearance (even Mommy puts away the blue jeans and yoga pants every now and then to doll up for your Daddy), when your desire to achieve physical perfection eclipses your pursuit to become more perfected in your relationship with Christ, then it crosses into idolatry.  The latest fad will fade, and you'll find yourself needing more and more stuff to fill an empty space in your heart that can only be filled by God.  Listen, Mommy speaks from experience.  I've chased and pursued then been left with a hollow heart and wallet.

Do you know, Punky, that before television came and ruined the world (just kidding, or maybe I'm not, no, I am...anyway), girls didn't think that much about their appearance.  Before World War I, girls didn't even mention their bodies when they spoke of self-improvement.  In fact, a girl's diary in 1882 revealed that she "resolved....to think before speaking. To work seriously. To be self-restrained in conversation in actions. Not to let my thoughts wander. To be dignified. Interest myself more in others."  Oh, the world before social media.  I love that, right now, the women you admire are Queen Esther, Ruth, Rahab, Mae Jemison, Marie Curie, Helen Keller, Pocahontas, Gigi, Nana, Aunt Carmen, Aunt Amy, Aunt Jennifer, and Aunt G, strong women who embody true beauty.  Don't ever change, sweet girl.

I wanted you to see what real people define as true beauty, so I conducted a sample.  Okay, I asked my Facebook friends to define beauty, and here are some of my favorite responses:

-Confidence with a sense of humility and kindness
-Smile and acts of kindness
-Good character
-When a person knows Jesus and His love overflows to those around her
-Always humble, always kind, thinking of others
-Sincerity of heart and sense of humor
-Kindness and confidence
-Being kin to me (okay that was your uncle.....) but he also said caring heart, personality, and wit
-Sense of humor, morals, intelligence, and willingness to learn


Those were defined by men and women.  Notice, sweetheart, no one said nice eyes, size 24 waist, or blond hair.  No, these are real people who believe beauty is on the inside.  While the world at large may define beauty in the most shallow, vain, hollow ways, the people who will matter will see beauty in the things that matter.  Notice that kindness and humility topped the list, ideas that are contrary to what the culture says.  The world says it's all about you, but Jesus says it's all about Him and others.  While we're searching for definitions of beauty, let's go to the source, the Bible.  Because, you see, my girl, your worth is ultimately defined by Jesus.  Your worthy because God deemed you worthy enough to die for.  He finds you so beautiful that He sacrificed everything to save you, to redeem you, and to love you.

-Let the king be enthralled by your beauty; honor Him for he is your Lord. Psalm 45:11
-Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Proverbs 31:30
-Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes.  Rather it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight. 1 Peter 3:3-4
-People look at outward appearance but the Lord looks at the heart. 1 Samuel 16:7

Sweet A, true beauty is Katie Davis who left the comforts of America in her early twenties to move to Uganda and become a mom to thirteen orphans.  Beauty is the woman with gray hair and deepening wrinkles who patiently spoon feeds the man she vowed to love, honor, and obey until death parts them.  Beauty is the mother who lifts her child and gently kisses the boo-boo on his knee.  Beauty is the cancer survivor who crosses the finish line of her first half-marathon.  It's the husband who kisses her bald head and swears she's never looked more beautiful, and anyone who looks in his eyes knows he's sincere.  My dear, you are never more beautiful than when you toss your head back in laughter after sharing a joke with your friends at soccer practice.  You are beautiful when you pump your fist after passing the ball to a friend then watch her score a goal.  You are beautiful when you save the cookie you received at the grocery store for your brother who was at preschool and didn't get one.  You, pumpkin, are beautiful when you give your balloon to the little girl at Sweet Frog who is crying because she was overlooked.  And when you make sure the napkins and forks are lined up perfectly for the women who live at First Light Shelter because you desperately want the meal we're sharing to be special for them.  You are never more beautiful than when you pray for orphans and the less fortunate each night before bed.  You, my dear, will never be any more beautiful than when you mimic your Savior and strive to model Jesus.  That, baby girl, is the ultimate definition of beauty.  Let's strive to make it our definition, too.

I love you,
Mommy

So Much Depends...

I watch A rip a page out of her math workbook.  She holds it up in the air to be sure I can see it's the page I just assigned then defiantly rips it.  It's another one of those mornings, the kind that comes out of nowhere every few months, the one where my sweet girl morphs into a rebellious force, where I know an outburst is coming, but in an effort to get through the chapter I soldier on in spite of the warning.  Now, a grumpy mood has transformed into an all-out tantrum, and as I watch my iron-willed daughter come undone, I wonder what to do, which hat can I reach into and pull out the correct trick to assuage this particular scenario.  I scroll through the catalog of parenting books in my head and try to recall the perfect reaction to my daughter's action because I'm sure there's a nice, pat three-step tear-free process that will not involve her losing electronics until they introduce the I-Phone 73 or fix the IOS -7.

It's quite a helpless feeling.  There I said it; there are times as a mom I feel clueless, helpless, witless. Throw in homeschooling, and you've got the makings of a full-blown "what on earth am I doing" pity party.  As quickly as the emotion emerges, I just as rapidly beat myself up for not being the sage, with-it parent that so many others seem to be.  I tell myself, if only I had not allowed my kids to eat non-organic apples and highly processed sweet rolls then maybe they wouldn't misbehave.  If only I had used Pampers instead of the generic store brand diapers, then maybe my children would never melt down in public.  If I had spanked instead of using time out...if I had attachment parented instead of Ferberizing....if I had read more Dr. Sears and less Dr. Suess....if I had watched Supernanny instead of six back-to-back seasons of Downton Abbey....if...if....if.....

A miniaturized version of Kyle Busch's number 18 flies by my head, forcing me to stop browbeating my parenting skills and actually put some into practice.  I pick up my daughter who thrashes wildly and carry her to her room, ducking flailing arms with the skill of Mayweather.  I place her on her bed and say, "Do not leave this room until you have calmed down."  I'm basically one outburst away from building a tower and singing "Mother Knows Best."  Flustered, frustrated, and flabbergasted, I walk across the hall to my room and collapse onto my own bed.  I look up to the ceiling and sigh a prayer, "Jesus, I don't know how to handle this.  I don't.  I wish I did, but I don't.  Yet, I know you do.  Help me."  In that moment I cling to Romans 8:26, "Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for when we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words."  That's frankly all I can manage right now: sighs intermingled with tears.  

In these moments I feel like an utter failure as a mom. I've always been a self-motivated, high achiever.  It's hard to grow up in America and not have an "if at first you don't succeed, study more, stay up later, and work harder" attitude.  Self-reliance runs through our veins.  We measure our worth based on our performance.  That doesn't work with parenting, though, because my children are not a project or an essay.  They're flesh and blood, precious, little beings who are born with particular temperaments and personalities.  They have a mind and will of their own.  There are times, no matter how I discipline or teach, that my sweet girl is going to absolutely come apart; it's occasional, but it's definitely part of her makeup.  It will be unexpected and seemingly unprovoked; she will draw a battle line and dare me with everything in her little body to engage; in those moments, to her, whatever consequence she faces is worth the conflict, so she digs in and fights.  My son, who has been parented in the same manner, would never imagine challenging me in that way.  They are equally wonderful, but very different children, hard-wired with the temperaments that God chose for them. Temperaments that present both challenges and joys for their parents.

 My typical reaction to these challenges is to try harder, to learn more, and to declare myself a failure if I don't figure out how to effortlessly jump every hurdle that crosses my path.  Surely, my success as a mom is measured by my children's behavior, and if they're not model citizens, then I'm a bad mom. We look at other children's outbursts and shake our heads.  "My, my, what kind of mother allows....." Meanwhile, that frazzled mom, who loves and consistently disciplines her children and tries her absolute best, who teaches there are consequences for choices, is looking at your angel wondering what on earth she's doing wrong.  She's feeling the heat of judgmental gazes wishing the Rapture would take place at that very moment.

May I be so bold to say that there are children who are almost always compliant and loving; it's just their nature. An outburst for them is shouting "no" in a medium voice.  Their sweet Fluttershy voice barely hovers above a whisper.  Then, there are the firecrackers, the Rainbow Dashes, delightful, spirited children who enjoy tackling the status quo and twisting its arm behind its back until it cries, "Uncle."  The children who challenge their mommas in ways they never imagined.  Little bundles of joy who refused to sleep for the first two years of their lives. Little loves who, I promise, at the age of six weeks, mumbled, "I dare you to put me in that crib." Children, who when you took them to the pediatrician to discover what possibly could cause them not to sleep for six months, your doctor looked at you sympathetically and explained what a battle of wills was. Children who protest every rule and question every motive.  Children, who when guided in the right direction, will become excellent leaders who refuse to bow to peer pressure.  Children you love with every fiber of your being but challenge you to tears.  If God blessed you with that sweet boy or girl, Mom, you're not alone.

I believe God chose my husband and me specifically for our children, as I believe He chooses all children specifically for their parents.  Because God is a loving God who is interested in our development and longs to see us grow more like Christ every day, I believe He places us in situations that develop our character, experiences that refine our specific weaknesses.  Since I, in my selfish pride, tend to rely on my own power, I believe God gave me my sweet, spirited A to teach me what true, utter dependence on Him looks like.  It is in those moments where my girl tests me the most that I am forced to admit that I don't have all the answers, that I have no idea what to do, that I'm not as self-sufficient as I so desperately try to believe I am. These are the moments where I learn to completely surrender to Him. God is showing me that His grace applies to parenting, as well.  Matthew 5:3 in The Message reads, "You're blessed when your at the end of your rope.  With less of you there's more of God and His rule."  Those days where the challenges my children pose drive me to the end of my rope are actually good days because they draw me closer to the One who does know the answers and who is capable.

Please do not misunderstand; I'm not saying God doesn't require us to lovingly and gracefully guide our children to make good choices and to discipline and mold their character.  It is our responsibility as parents to "train our children in the way they should go."  My number one goal for my children is that they love Jesus, that they love God with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength, and that they love their neighbor as themselves.  That will not happen accidentally.  It requires parents dedicated to loving and guiding their children; parents who aren't afraid to do what's right, who are focused on their child's needs.  What I am saying, though, is that when we try to lean on our own power to do the job, we grow frazzled and weary, yet when we seek His wisdom and guidance and lean on Him for help, He equips us for the task.  He chisels away the pride and arrogance that blinds us into believing that how our children turn out is all up to us and lies solely in our hands and invites us to call out to Jesus for help.  As Americans, we're so comfortable and so steeped in material possessions and accomplishments that I believe it's sometimes easy to fool ourselves into believing that we have no practical need for God.  Parenting has taught me that nothing could be farther from the truth.

After I finish my prayer, I wipe my tears and walk into my girl's room and sit on the bed next to her. Her face is buried in her pillow, and her shoulders continue to shake from residual sobs.  "Would you like to tell me what that was all about?"  A rolls over, and I pull her into my lap.  "I'm sorry, Mommy." "I know, Pumpkin," I respond.  "It's okay to get frustrated, but it's not all right to behave like that.  Wouldn't it be better if you just told, Mommy why you were upset then we could talk about it reasonably?"  She nods and explains that she didn't know how to work the math.  We discuss a better way to handle her frustration then pray to ask God to help us when our emotions feel too big and out of control.  I give this precious gift of a girl a huge hug and am suddenly overwhelmed by the massive responsibility of parenting.  So much depends on.....me and her father......no.....wait......so much depends upon our dependence on the Perfect Parent.

"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever, Amen!"  Ephesians 3:20-21

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.

The Real Deal

A's cheeks flush and nostrils flare.  I watch as she lifts her hand in frustration and brings it down sharply to strike my arm.  I can't even recall what prompted the tantrum but whatever sparked the meltdown, it has now fanned into an all-out flame.  I know the routine well.  Mild-mannered and sweet most of the time, every few months my child draws the line in the carpet and digs her heels in deep, hands on hips, glaring a dare that would make a grown man tremble.  I catch her arm in mid-air and sharply say, "Stop it, now.  Calm down and breathe."  She picks up her Kindle and slams it into the floor.  I silently pick up the Kindle and march it upstairs to my room, where I place it on the top shelf of my closet under a quilt.  "You've lost electronic privileges until Friday."  I watch the painstaking unraveling of my daughter and hold back tears as she shouts at me before running into her room, where I know she has flung herself onto her bed to erupt into sobs.  I fight the urge to do the same.  Instead, I open my prayer journal and pour out my heart to God, begging for wisdom.

My daughter emerged from the womb strong-willed, once she finally decided in her own time to make an appearance.  She broke my water to let me know she was on the way but fought doses of pitocin and other painful labor-inducing procedures for hours, insisting she come on her own timetable.  If I wasn't aware of her strong will then, I became keenly aware, when after three months without sleep, a sweet soul volunteered to keep my infant angel while I desperately tried to secure some much needed shut-eye.  I had barely laid my weary head on the pillow when the phone rang and a harried voice on the other line sighed, "She's been screaming ever since you left.  I'm so sorry; I don't think I can do this."  I'm pretty sure I passed out and when I came to, I somehow drove to pick up my sweet girl to bring her home for another two years of no sleep.  She brought the cry-it-out experts to their knees.  Go ahead, Ferberize my day!

I caught another glimpse of this strong-willed spirit when at three, I spent two hours trying to put her in time out.  Inspired by an episode of Supernanny, I silently and patiently placed her little body in the time-out chair time after time after time as my own mom, who was visiting, watched the ordeal.  A and I had both drawn our lines and, by george, neither of us was giving in.  Bless my mom for not saying a word as this inexperienced mom battled an iron, independent will.  I devoured Dr. Dobson's Strong-Willed Child and Cynthia Tobias's You Can't Make Me.  Nodding in affirmation as I checked off every item on their list of strong-willed tendencies.  I encourage you all to refer to the story of Little Red from the park for further examples of my baby girl's strong will. http://sportymamajules.blogspot.com/2007/09/hair-raising-revelation.html  (Mark my word, though, when God tames, not breaks, but tames, her strong spirit for the right purpose she will be unstoppable, and I love that one day the same will that sometimes frustrates her mom will one day leave me awed and proud.  I'm also hoping she uses that same "whatever" glare when her peers try to talk her into doing something she knows is wrong, but I digress.)

I'd like to say I have no idea who passed along this mystery gene, but I'm sure that same mom who watched her daughter struggle to put a mini-tyrant in time-out thought back to the time she asked her own daughter, a girl who looks remarkably similar to me, to clean the bathroom.  The story goes that this girl cleaned the bathroom, but it failed to meet her mom's standards, so after a few failed attempts, the girl stomps sullenly into the bathroom, grabs a can of Comet, and in an all-out tantrum flings the entire can of cleaner all over the room.  Let's say once the green Comet dust settled on my her skin the only thing missing was ripped blue jeans and bulging biceps and the resemblance to the Incredible Hulk would have been eerily similar.  Needless to say, someone spent hours with a vacuum cleaner hose on her hands and knees sucking up tiny, powdery particles.  I'm sure my siblings could tell tales of my infamous tantrums.  I really hope you're all shocked to learn this and are exclaiming, "Not, Julie Anna!"  After years of prayer, God taught me how to channel my frustration into more productive endeavors like running and truly delivered me from a short temper. I understand the helplessness of not being able to adequately express extreme frustration or of not being able to have control in a situation where you feel you should have a say, but I also understand the unbelievable grace of a heavenly Father, who not only forgives but also promises that we are an incomplete work, and He's not finished, yet.

I walk into my daughter's room and pull her into my arms for a hug.  "Grab your shoes and let's go."  Baffled, she slips her feet into her pink-striped flip-flops and follows me to the car.  I load A and her brother into the car and take them to Sweet Frog.  (I know, "you what?")  Over frozen yogurt, I explain to a calm, remorseful A the concept of grace.  "You know, Pumpkin, your behavior didn't exactly earn ice cream, today, but Mom decided to extend grace and give you something you didn't deserve, much like Jesus chose to give us a gift we didn't deserve or earn."  She nods and asks if I can extend more grace and give back her Kindle early. It's not quite the a-ha moment I was hoping for.  "Um, no.  That's a consequence for a poor choice.  God also disciplines those He loves, but our behavior and poor choices don't stop Him from giving us His grace. There's nothing you can do that will ever make Him or me stop loving you. Mommy doesn't always know the right thing to do or the right way to respond but God does, and we can always ask Him for help."  Like so many times before, my daughter and I pray for God's guidance for both of us.  While the tantrums leave me weary, those quiet moments following, where my daughter and I grasp hands, bow our heads, and seek the Lord's guidance leave me breathless with gratitude, grateful that I can share such moments of faith-building with my daughter, that I can teach her where to turn when life leaves her baffled because I've been there before, and I understand how she feels.

I'm not sure what that moment communicated to my daughter, but I hope what resonated is that God's grace is real, that He doesn't expect us to jump through hoops or follow a bunch of random rules before He accepts us.  I pray that if I teach my children anything about faith it's that Jesus is into a relationship, not rules or religion.  That our obedience is the joyous outpouring of gratitude and love.  The truth is that as a church we are losing an entire generation of young people.  Young adults are walking out the doors and not looking back.  I wonder if it's because we present God as simply a referee who throws flags and calls fouls, who is only interested in us when we do the right thing.  Could it be that we don't model a real faith for our kids?  Is it that we attend church on Sunday but don't mention or follow God the rest of the week?  Do our kids see us walking daily with Christ?  Do our children see us when we struggle to find the right answers, or do we constantly act like we've always got it together as if we know all the answers because we're afraid that if they think we have any questions or doubts or fears that it will somehow turn them away from Jesus?  Do we insist our kids have a relationship with Jesus when we fail to have one ourselves?  It's hard to model genuine faith when we don't practice it.  Is that lack of authenticity, is our lack of making faith an active part of our daily lives driving people from Christ?  If it's so important then why aren't we living it?  If it's so life-altering, then why aren't we allowing Him to change us?  I ask myself these questions often because I know children see when we proclaim something with our lips yet fail to live it in our day-to-day.

I almost didn't write this.  I could hear the voices of all the parenting critics chastising me in my head.  Well, strong-willed, shmill, she just needs a spanking.  I'll tell you what you're doing wrong.  If it were my child, I would.....(Please tell me I'm not the only one who hears voices....of self-doubt from time to time.)  Parenting can be messy, lonely, frustrating, and scary.  Faith, too, can be messy, lonely, frustrating, and scary.  We all struggle with doubts.  We all have questions that aren't neatly answered.  Faith is complicated.  But grace isn't.  Jesus isn't.  I know where to turn when I don't have the answers.  When my children wake up one morning and apparently conspire against me while I'm stumbling to find my first cup of caffeine, I know in Whom my hope resides.  But do my kids?  Does my daughter know that when her emotions are spiraling out of control, and she's not sure why she's so frustrated that it's okay to feel that way, and there's a God who loves her and promises He'll help her or guide her to someone who can teach her to handle those emotions constructively?  Does my son know that God forgives Him when he messes up, that obedience should be the goal but that in His flesh he'll make bad decisions, and when he does God, mom, and dad still love him?  When A's heart is broken or she doesn't get picked for a team, will she have a relationship with the great Healer?

Parenting a strong-willed child and parenting a boy (my boy moms know what I mean) has driven me to my knees more than I ever imagined it could.  I have knee pads next to my Bible.  (Not really.) It is a humbling experience, but God is teaching me in a very real way about dependence and finding strength in Him in my weakness.  He's teaching me that it is my role to disciple my children into a real, authentic relationship with Him, that it won't happen accidentally, that it isn't the church's job, that it isn't the school's role.  It is mine, it is daily, and it takes deliberate effort.  God admonishes us in Deuteronomy 6:7 of the importance of being deliberate in teaching our children about Him, and the last command Christ gives on earth is to go and make disciples teaching them His commands.  My family is my first mission field.  If I'm completely honest, it is one of the main reasons I home school. That in this life, sure, our career is important, that our college choice matters, good school districts are fine, but all that pales in comparison to our walk with Christ.  When it all comes down to it, there is nothing more important in my role as a parent than modeling and encouraging for my children an authentic relationship with Jesus, and I simply can't do that if I don't have one myself.

My experiences parenting my sweet little ones have shown me what humility (never ever say never when it comes to parenting) and complete dependence on God look like.  When I had the nerve to pray that God would humble me, He blessed me with children.  When I asked Him to help me understand grace, He blessed me with children.  When I asked Him to help me understand what His love for me is like, He blessed me with children.  God is using parenting like so many other experiences to mold me into the woman He wants me to become.  And just as He's called me into the most rewarding but difficult phase of my life, I can rest in the assurance that He will equip me for whatever challenges A and C decide to hurl my way, both literally and figuratively.  It is in the most difficult parenting moments where God brings me to the end of myself because that's exactly where He's leading me because it is only there where I become completely dependent on Him.  It is from that place where He empowers and equips me to teach my children what true dependence on God looks like, what a true relationship with Christ resembles.  Through the tantrums, the lines in the sand, the explosion of giggles when science projects go bad, broken hearts, soccer successes, beach trips, long talks after books are read and the lights are out, and all of those special parenting joys, my prayer is that I can guide my children closer to the One who blesses us with each moment.