To be Nourishment

For the past several months, ever since I realized I would be approaching noticeable discomfort just in time for our city's annual fireworks celebration, I had been saying I would stay home this year with Little Lady (and that the guys could go on their own). 

Well, guess who was the pushover of the day? 

We headed over to the park after dinner, opting to drive part of the way instead of walking the entire way like we usually do. This ended up not being as great of an idea as we thought because: illogical drivers. It took us much longer to get home, but the kids were troopers! 

They clearly take after their father.

Case in point: while we were waiting for the fireworks to start, I got grumpy because one of B's glow sticks hit me in the face (I had already asked him to stop throwing them around). And then A spilled an entire cup of lemonade on the blanket we were sitting on. Nich whisked the kids away for a potty break so I could compose myself (and not erupt!). 

Tonight, after I had put A to bed, I read this: "You always know the man who has been through the fires of sorrow and received himself, you are certain you can go to him in trouble and find that he has ample leisure for you. If a man has not been through the fires of sorrow, he is apt to be contemptuous, he has no time for you. If you receive yourself in the fires of sorrow, God will make you nourishment for other people."

Oh, for the humility and teachable spirit to be true to who God has made me to be, even in times of sorrow and stress! And to be nourishment to those around me, even in the midst of adversity! 

I crept into B's room to apologize for my grumps earlier and found him fast asleep ... and burning up with a 100+ fever. :( As I stroked his head and prayed healing over him, he reached up and held onto my arm in his sleep. 

I'm so grateful for grace. Grace in every day, to try again and again, to be better, to be truer to who He has called me to be.

Trusting

Only our closest friends (and a few others) know this: when I was pregnant with B, we had two major "scares." At a routine ultrasound (and the first appointment where Nich couldn't be with me), I learned that our precious firstborn had a cyst in his brain. The doctor who informed me of this was one I hadn't met previously, and she completely lacked compassion and patience for a stunned new mother. She abruptly delivered the news to me, told me I needed to schedule an immediate Level 2 ultrasound so they could get a better look at the baby's brain, and walked out of the room. I have crystal clear memories of numbly walking to my car in the pouring autumn rain and just sitting there in the cold, not knowing how to process this information I had just received.

And out of nowhere, God reminded me:
"’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
Just to take Him at His Word.
Just to rest upon His promise
And to know, 'Thus saith the Lord!'
Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him!
How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er;
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!
Oh, for grace to trust Him more!"

I repeated that over and over in my head until the tears had stopped and I could call my husband without gasping for breath through my tears. We didn't tell anyone; we just prayed.

A few months later, following another ultrasound, we learned that his left kidney looked to be missing.

Another Level 2 ultrasound was scheduled. 

Again, those lyrics ran through my head endlessly. And we prayed.

And in both instances, by the time we had gotten to the Level 2 ultrasound, the issues had been "resolved." 

I know those were not medical flukes. I know those were moments of trust-building, of God teaching this Type A control freak early on that, ultimately, I was not, and am not, in control of my children's lives, health, or what have you. And as this blogger says, "It also showed me where peace is ultimately found: Not in pleasant circumstances or the feeling that 'all is well' in my child’s world, but in the palm of God’s hand as He allows whatever He will to come [their] way and mine."

I currently have a fairly large fibroid cyst sitting quite close to my cervix. It has the potential of blocking this baby's birth if it continues to grow and if it does not move over the remaining months. 

I've been reminded repeatedly of God's faithfulness to us in the past, that He knows this little girl even better than I do, that He knows exactly what she looks like, what her personality will be, whether she'll have curls like her sister or soft, brown eyes like her brother. 

Oh, for grace to trust Him more.

Loud and Clear!

Sometimes, there are seasons when I wonder if God is even listening to a word I say. Not that I could blame him if he tuned me out, because sometimes, even I wish I could turn myself off. Once, even my ever-patient husband, upon hearing all the thoughts that had been running through my mind in a very short period of time, proclaimed, "It must be exhausting being you." I completely agree!

But then there are also times when God has something to say to me, and he repeats it again and again until there is absolutely no doubt that he's trying to get something through to me.

I tend to go at things on my own. Part of this is my personality, but part of it is also having moved thousands away from home as an eighteen-year old and virtually just having to sort of figure things out on my own since. Obviously, I had some help along the way, but there was no "calling home for help" back in the days of phone cards and before apps made international calls free and easy.

This year has been a toughie so far. And although I had mentioned a thing or two here and there to friends, posted an occasional event on social media, it hadn't occurred to me to voice the on-going flood of junk that has relentlessly rushed through our lives.

Last week, it all came to a head when my husband, thinking he had prepared me sufficiently by casually mentioning his recent episodes of nearly blacking out via text message, sent me a photo of himself ... on a bed ... hooked up to medical equipment. He was, unbeknownst to me, at the urgent care, and definitely not at work where I had thought him to be!

Maybe it's because I've just barely been maintaining a semblance of sanity, but I just sat at my desk and burst out crying when I got that picture. And out of desperation, I emailed a handful of friends (some my age, who could "lament" the challenges of this stage of life with me, and some who are ahead in their life journeys, who could tell me that there is hope). I briefly explained some of what had been going on (which I won't go into any detail here) and continued with this:

"And wouldn't you know it, the word I picked for this year was "GIFT"?!

So I've been looking. Looking in each day for the gifts.

...

Near the beginning of the year, I read a fictional story about a [man of God] who prayed, 'Lord, I hate buttermilk. I hate lard. I ain't too crazy about plain flour. But after you mix 'em all up and bake 'em in a hot oven, I just love the biscuits. Help us to realize that when life gets hard, when things come up that we don't like, whenever we don't understand what You are doing, that we need to wait and see what You're making. After all the mixing and baking, it'll probably be something even better than biscuits.'

My battle cry over the past few months has been, 'This WILL be better than biscuits!'

But today, I'm just plain weary. Weary and worried, and I'm here to ask you to please lift me/us up before the throne of God, that we would have the courage to continue to look for the gifts."

And because my friends are faithful in their friendships and in their willingness to pray when I feel like I have no more to say, the responses began pouring in immediately. Promises to pray, words of encouragement, Scripture reminders of God's faithfulness.

This past weekend, I had more energy than I have had in months. We were able accomplish quite a bit of work that needed to be done around our yard (still so much to do, but we made a noticeable dent!). And this morning, I woke up earlier than normal (okay, let's face it, GOD woke me up), and immediately, the words came out of my mouth, "Honey? Can we pray together?"

And the first words out of my faithful husband's mouth were: "Thank you for another day to live life on this earth with my family." He went on to ask God for continued opportunities to serve him and glorify him, that our family would shine the light of Jesus. I mean...

Then, during my morning quiet time, I cracked open the little book that our mentor mom at my MOMS table this year had gifted each of us at our last meeting. And I read this:

And THEN, after I put down my children for their naps, I got out my journal to write out today's Bible passage (following a Scripture writing plan I had agreed to do this month with a friend).

The thing is, I am terrible at praying for our own circumstances. It's so easy to pray for other people's needs. It's hard to put my own needs into words. So I often just gloss over them quickly in the midst of my other prayers with the hopes that, since God already knows what I need, he'll "get it."

Today, I've been reminded that praying about my own needs is not only NOT selfish, it's an act of faith and courage in itself. If I truly believe that prayer is a GIFT, then I need to accept it wholeheartedly for myself, too, with complete confidence that he WILL listen. And I don't have to tough it out on my own, making it harder for myself in the process.

That Dumb Ol' Cross

"Why did Jesus have to carry that dumb ol' cross anyway?!" exclaimed our newly arrived at five years old son last night, as he looked at the candle-lined path of our table-top Lenten wreath.

We had just sat down to dinner, and he was already feeling a bit ornery, since his sister had gotten to open her birthday presents just beforehand.

But we heard the real question behind his seemingly impertinent one: Why didn't Jesus just tell all those people to get lost? Or better yet, why didn't He just do away with everyone who was opposing Him? In a little boy's black-and-white world where the heroes always triumph and the bad guys are always vanquished, it makes no sense that a perfect and all-powerful Jesus would have to endure suffering and death.

So often, when I'm faced with an overwhelming situation in my life, I want the easy way out. I want Jesus to fix it for me. When my eyes aren't on Jesus, I don't remember about beauty for ashes. I don't remember about His glory in my weakness.

I just want Him to make it better, and by better, I mean easy for me.

As I sat down at the table in the nap time quiet today, his question echoed again in my mind: Why did Jesus have to carry that dumb ol' cross anyway?

To my surprise, tears sprung up in my eyes as I remembered: He carried that dumb ol' cross for me. For you. For all of us.

But the fact is, it was our pains he carried -- our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us. We thought he brought it on himself, that God was punishing him for his own failures. But it was our sins that did that to him, that ripped and tore and crushed him -- our sins! 

He took the punishment, and that has made us whole. 

Through his bruises we get healed. 

We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost. We've all done our own thing, gone our own way. 

And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong, on him. 

On him. 

(Isaiah 53:5-6)

Jesus didn't have to carry that dumb ol' cross.

He chose to.

The contemporary Christian church has brushed Lent aside, and most western Christians don't observe Lent at all.

I think we're missing out if we forget. Just as we take communion to remember Jesus' precious gift to us, the Lenten season is a gift.

A gift of remembrance.

A gift so that we might not forget the glorious love and beauty of that wonderful cross.

Just Ride the Potty Train

Today, the rumbles of thunder are so low, pellets of ice fall from the ominous Edgar Allan Poe sky up above, but there are rays of sunshine in my heart.

When I agreed to be on the launch team for Kristen Welch's new book, Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World,  I knew that I was probably cracking the door open for some spiritual warfare in our household. Living in America, it is so easy to dismiss the fact that there are constantly things happening in the unseen spiritual realm, but the manifestations of that ongoing battle is so clearly evident in the world around us. 

And Kristen's book? It is going to shake things up. 

So yeah. Yesterday.

Yesterday morning was beyond tough. After I had confessed to my husband on his lunch break that I thought I was screwing up our children and I didn't know the first thing about mothering and training these little people to be God's warriors, I put both kids to bed and crawled under my own covers, hoping that they would take long naps, because we all had to be up late (I had to take them to work with me, since Nich has extended work commitments all week). 

I went to bed last night soul-weary and body-weary, thinking that if the trumpets started blowing and the seals began opening right about now, I would be okay with it (so selfish, I know).  A night of intense, vivid dreams followed.

I slept past my alarm this morning and woke up to my boy snuggled next to me. I placed my hand on his warm little back and prayed over him. I prayed over his tall body, that he would continue to grow strong and tall, just as God made him. I prayed over his tender heart, that as aware as he is of people's attitudes toward him, that he would always be able to remember that he is first a child of God and that he is deeply loved. I prayed over his hands, that he would remember to be gentle, that he would use them to God's work. I prayed over his words, that he would speak kindness into the people around them. 

And I cried at the thought of sending him off to preschool this morning after such a hard day yesterday. 

But although he told me he didn't want to go to school today, once we pulled up, he hopped out without hesitation. His sister called out, "I wan kiss, Brubbie!" and he willingly complied, running around to her side of the car to give her a kiss and a squeeze, making her giggle. And he walked into school with a smile, even responding to the director's morning greeting with a cheerful, "Good morning, Miss Trish!" 

God knew I needed that assurance.

I took Little Lady to the library afterward. After I let her put all the books into the drop off (both kids like to watch the books go down the conveyer belt and z-i-i-i-ip into their appropriate bins), she usually tries to run off to the kids' area right away. Today, she ran a few steps, then stopped and looked back at me. I said, "You need to wait for Mama, because I have to pick up my books, okay?" I got my books on hold, turned around, and she was standing there in the same position I had left her in. She caught my eye and said, "I waiting, Mama. Go inside now?" 

God knew I needed an easy morning.

Then we stopped at a grocery store on the way home, and the people there are always so kind. I wish it was closer to our house, because I would go there all the time if I could. There is an older, Eastern European cashier named Judit who is so sweet to Little Lady. She tells me that it is good that my son is so tall and strong, that he was made just the way he was meant to be. And she tells me that my daughter is petite and surely meant to do ballet, because the "little ones are the best." 

There is the tall, friendly black assistant manager who always greets us, talks to my children like they are real people, and just brings sunshine to my day. 

And today,  there was an older gentleman in the parking lot, getting into his bright lemon yellow Fiat with stripes the color of the Italian flag down the sides. His car fascinated Little Lady, and she pointing to it, exclaiming, "Car! Peety car!" He turned around and smiled such a kind smile, said hello and told her how pretty she was. And then he looked at me with those grandfatherly eyes and said, "She takes after her mama." 

I wore no make up today. My hair is tousled and messy in the same haphazard bun I had it in yesterday (and slept in). I hadn't even showered. 

You know how sometimes, you don't appreciate the small, good things until you've had a series of not-so-great things? 

Well, all these things this morning were such gifts to my heart. A reminder that there is still so much kindness and generosity in this world. That not everybody is ignorant and abominably mean in their souls. That venturing out does not need to be a draining, soul-scarring experience every time. 

That it can be an opportunity to smile with strangers and exchange joy. 

And to always stop to laugh, because even your toddler participates in the joy-giving: "I go on potty-twain, Mama!" 

Because when you're just shy of two years old, and you hear all about potty training, it must mean that it's going to be a fun ride!

Little did I know this morning that the Potty Train is a thing.

Sing a Song

One lesson that I am teaching my preschooler seemingly a hundred times a day is first-time obedience.

To do what I ask of him the first time I make the request.

I don't do this because I want to be a giant monster truck bearing down on the little truck and crushing it. I do it because it is important for our children to learn to trust us as their parents, that we love them completely and always have their best interests in mind. He knows that it is all right to ask (respectful) questions, but the obedience needs to come first. His first response needs to be "Yes, Mama" before the protests of "I don't want to do that right now" or the ceaseless "Why?"

When parents are unsettled, the kids pick up on it. This past week has been rough, and although the children have been blissfully unaware of the gravity of how our circumstances have changed, they notice we (mostly me, since I'm the one they're around all day) are preoccupied. And in my case, I'm ashamed to say, more prone to becoming unhinged.

Get your gratitude bracelet HERE.

Of course, this is the week that I read Kristen Welch's newest book, Raising Grateful Kids. Through some mysterious crossings of the web-o-sphere, I missed the initial emails that were sent out in the fall, and I only just got the book a week ago.

Clearly, this was not a coincidence.

Little Lady deals with external stress by singing. I've noticed that when her brother is getting in trouble, when there's tension as we're all running late to something in the car (usually church), when I get frustrated at the state of the house ... she sings.

She's already "borrowing" my stuff.

This may just be a coping mechanism for my toddler, but it's a life lesson for her mama.

Because that never-ending "Why?" from my preschooler?

That's me. All the time. With God.

Even while knowing in my head that He is good and faithful to provide, I want to know all the whys. I definitely don't sing my happy songs. I get hung up on all the whys and I have moments when I completely forget about joy. How entitled am I to get so bent out of shape over everything I don't have, everything I'm having to surrender? That I forget that all I have is by the grace of God and that all I don't have? Well, that it could just possibly be divine mercy.

I grew up in the capital city of the coastal nation of Cameroon in west Africa. It's a rainforest, and every year, we would get at least a handful of fairly substantial tropical storms. Sometimes, the area downtown where my dad worked would get flooded. Cars would have to be moved up the hills so they wouldn't get submerged under all the water. Gushing rust-colored streams would suddenly appear along the sides of the roads.

There was a tiny neighborhood near where we lived. And by neighborhood, I mean a handful of shacks constructed by some cement blocks and sheets of corrugated metal. They were arranged around a small dirt "yard" of sorts, and when it poured, that little yard would fill and fill and fill.

And the children would swim. They would shriek and jump and splash in that orange water.

Delight in the midst of the deluge.

I wonder if part of Jesus' call to his disciples in Matthew 18 wasn't just about the innocence of children, but whether it also encompasses their ability to find joy where we adults only see potential for stress, fear, and anxiety. That maybe the point is that healthy children are able to play and laugh, even when circumstances aren't ideal, because they trust that they are safe. Because they know their parents love them and have their best interests in mind.

How much more does my God love me and know what I need? How much more can I trust that, even though I don't like what's going on, even though I hate the uncertainty and the seeming injustice,  He sees the entire tapestry and that this is His masterful plan for us? How much more can I rest assured that His plan is good, better than anything I could dream up?

Maybe, just maybe, God just wants me to learn to put aside my whys, jump into the rain, and sing my own happy songs, trusting that He's got this.

*This is Why Parenting is So Hard (Kristen)
*Teach Them to Give (Courtney)
*Inspiring an Attitude of Gratitude  (Alison)
*Raising Grateful Kids (amanda)
*Why You Can't Buy Gratitude At The Dollar Store (Andrea)
*Missing- Gratefulness in our home (Ange) 
*Choosing Gratitude (Angela)
*5 Steps to Gratitude-Filled Family (Christa)
*Practicing Grateful Parenting (Dana)
*Sing a Song (Hannah)
*Cultivating Gratitude in Our Family (Jamie)
*Gratefulness in Our Home (Jana)
*Let It Begin with Me (Jen)
*Choosing Gratefulness (Jennifer)
*Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World - The Book (Jeri)
*Eradicating Entitlement - What are You Rooted in? (Jessica)
*Gratefulness in Our Home (Kate)
*7 Unusual Ways I Know How to Be Grateful (Kathryn)
*Raising Grateful Kids (Keri)
*How My Children Remind Me to Pray with Gratitude (Kishona)
*Grateful (Kristy)
*Entitlement: The Ugly Truth of a Beautiful Lie (Leigha)
*The Most Important Thing You Can Do to Raise Grateful Kids (Lindsey)
*Dear Son: How Do I Teach You to Be Grateful without Guilt? (Marie)
*Gratitude: A Practical Definition (Mia)
*Cultivating Gratitude in Our Home (Nancy)
*Learning Gratitude through Chronic Illness (Rachel)
*Being Grateful (Rebecca)
*I've Found Something I Can't Live Without (Sarah)
*The Power of Naming our Gifts (Sarah)
*Outfitted (Sarah Jo)
*Growing Gratitude in Our Family (Sondra)
*Teaching Gratefulness (Stephanie)

He is Good. He is Faithful.

Almost exactly a year ago, our garbage disposal quit working, our dishwasher went kaput, and our water heater leaked all over the garage and into our kitchen (and had to be replaced). The children's birthdays were coming up soon. There were a couple other smaller things that had occurred, too, and it didn't just feel like it was "pouring." It felt more like a torrential tropical thunderstorm.

And we later discovered that while we were struggling through all this, that the people with whom we were supposed to be "doing life" were ignorantly talking about us without our knowledge, judging us for what we couldn't give and how we spent our children's birthday money from family. 

Even worse? 

We learned that we weren't the first ones to whom this had happened.

It was a challenging time.

And yet.

We received a "gift" from a family member to help us with a new dishwasher. My resourceful husband replaced all those appliances himself (with the help of knowledgeable friends for the water heater). I was reminded that we have a safe and warm home, and if there was cake, friends, and party favors, the kids would be perfectly content.

He is good and faithful.

And yet.

Last week, we learned of a sudden change to my husband's compensation plan that will greatly impact our lives this year. We're still adjusting to the idea. Some of the hopes and dreams we had just discussed a few days prior had to be surrendered, once again.

And friends, I was bitter and resentful. I tried to keep my chin up, to remain positive, to remind myself and my husband about God's goodness and faithfulness. But eventually, the thought of returning to scraping by month to month, depending on our savings to get us through, of perhaps having to give up our Compassion child, sweet Darwin who shares a birthday with our own little boy, of having to fight the battles of being on WIC and rude shoppers in the grocery lines, my children having to get poked and pricked and examined, to having to humbly ask for reimbursements for registrations we had already made for various activities for the kids this spring ... and yes, the dreams. The dreams of things we had waited for so long and that we had thought this was the year they would happen. The dreams I can't even talk about on here because they feel so raw and personal. My ungrateful, all-too-easily overwhelmed heart succumbed to the fear of the uncertainties ahead, and I spent the majority of the past weekend hiding under the covers.

And yet.

The word God gave me for this year was Gift. A challenge to see Gifts in every day, in every circumstance. To be a Gift to those around me.

Not even two weeks into the new year, and I was falling flat on my face, humbled before God and my family, broken in my utter humanity.

It was in the midst of all this that I learned that I was on the launch team for Kristen Welch's new book, Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World. And as much as I *wanted* to jump into it, I opened that file and it just sat there for days, mocking me for being selfish and unfaithful, and how dare I share about raising grateful kids when I couldn't even muster up the courage to be grateful myself?

A strong sense of duty and obligation to follow through on my commitments has always been at the forefront of my nature, and it was only through sheer determination that I cracked open the first page of this book.

Sometimes, we need a gentle correction. Sometimes, we need a firm rebuke.

Reading this book has been both for me. It is so very easy to get all caught up in what we're missing and what we can't have that we forget how much we have been given already. I forget that my highest duty to my children as the mother that God chose for them is to love them. And to love them some more. And part of that is teaching them that sometimes, we can't afford the extras (without the impatience seeping into my voice).

I can't begin to say that I understand God's ways at all. 

I do know that He has been faithful and good to His people for all eternity, and that even if He will have us walk through the desert again this year, He will not leave our little family stranded, that He will walk with us. I do know that He has placed friends in my life, dear friends from all walks of my life, who will pray me through when I ask them to, even from afar. I do know that He is with the poor in spirit, those of us who are confronted with our own wretchedness every single day.

Today, I am grateful for the Gift of perspective, that Jesus bore all this hurt, anger, and ugly brokenness so that I could have the courage to get out of bed, to love and care for my small children, to go to the interview for a temporary childcare position during the time B is at school, to say yes to another opportunity for work. 

He is Good. He is Faithful.

He is Good. He is Faithful.

He is Good. He is Faithful.

Perspective.

Epiphany Cleansing

Okay, I'm a chronic over thinker, so those of you who have better things to do with your next ten minutes, please move on. Because this is going to have you realizing just how weird and exhausting my mind really is.
And no, this is not at all about any kind of dietary cleanse. Because few things in this world could motivate me to drink all my fruits and vegetables for days on end. I like the flavor and the crunchy in my food, thank you.

So.
The ideal of simplicity is a Trendy Thing right now in terms of material ownership. But lately, I've been increasingly convinced that for me, more than stuff, it's superficial relationships that clutter up my life and my thoughts. Social media makes this even more challenging. I've never been the sort of person who does well with having hundreds of acquaintances. Being an incredibly relational person, it was actually draining to my soul to feel this inner propensity to maintain relationships with all these 1200+ people, most of whom I hadn't heard from in years. And because nostalgia and sentimentality often gets the better of me, I had accepted and kept them on my list.

This is why, several years ago, I took the plunge and nearly halved my Friends List. Having lived the sort of lifestyle where people were always coming and going, including myself, I've met thousands and thousands of people. Add to that my husband's family, friends, and acquaintances, some of whom I've never met or who are rarely, if ever, in touch, and it's a little overwhelming. But knowing or knowing of all these people that doesn't mean they're all my friends, nor does it mean I have to maintain this superficial relationship with them. 

Now I know this isn't applicable to everybody. I mean, a lot of people just post their stuff, wait for their friends and followers to put their seal of enthusiasm on it with that little blue "Like" button, and they move on to the next thing. I know a whole lot of people who rarely engage with anybody on social media and who just kind of lurk around when the feeling strikes.

The thing is, I have to be on social media for two of my jobs. And I have such a love/hate relationship with it. I love how it keeps me connected with some truly beautiful people from my past lives. But I also sincerely feel like I've witnessed some of the ugliest interactions between people on there and seen such horrific and ignorant things posted -- even by people I know.

And I sit here wondering, is this even how we were meant to live? Witnessing these little glimpses into all these people's lives without really knowing most of them?

And what of those people who you knew over a decade, two decades ago? I mean, let's face it. Most of us think that our high school friends will be our bosom buddies for life. But honestly, I can count on one hand the friends who have stayed real friends over the years, and that's including a few that I wasn't even very close to back then. And yet, my Friends List is full of hundreds of those schoolmates, simply for the shared experience of four (or less than) years of adolescence.

What's even more awkward is that you gear yourself up every year for the uncomfortable task of managing your list (deciding that if I haven't had any sort of personal interaction with a certain person over the past few years, it's time to remove them), finally accomplish the task, get over the inevitable resulting feelings of guilt and then, in the course of the following year, those same people you deleted send you friend requests.

I don't even know what to do with that. Why are we going to continue being "friends" just so we can continue ignoring each other?

It's even weirder than people who I've never met in real life requesting to be my friend.

Now, I know that you can categorize your list, and I've done that. I have nice, neat little categories ranging from close friends and family to people who are just acquaintances. Because I don't want the entire world, their mothers, and their BFF's BF knowing about my life and thoughts. But even with those settings, it wears me out. With each post, I have to consider which categories of friends I'm going to share it with. Not to mention I feel like I have some sort of obligation to "like" photos of people's kids and pets, even though I've never met them (the kids and pets) and I never talk to those people anymore. And then there are those people you see from time to time in real life, so it would be really weird to remove them from your list, but at the same time, they're kind of a bummer to your soul.

Yes, I know. Boundaries. I need to learn some.

But seriously?

Life was a lot easier before social media's definition of "Friend" took over. Can't we please call it a "Contacts" list?

Am I alone here? Am I the only one who thinks that "Friend" sound signify something other than just being linked through the webosphere?

Okay. I'm done now. Back to packing up Christmas.

One Word

Somehow, I missed the boat on this last year. I was too stressed out, too stretched thin, beginning to unravel, and deciding on a word for the year was one more decision I just couldn't make.

I am in a much better and healthier place on this first day of 2016.

I've been mulling over my word for the year since I received my prompt from Compassion last month. And recently, my beautiful friend Jamie shared her own word for the year and asked if her readers had their own words.

It came to me in the shower this afternoon, a moment of quiet solitude as my love rocked our small toddler for her nap. I was content, reflecting on the morning of gathering around the table together for our pancake breakfast, laughing and shrieking outside in the safety of our own backyard, being ever so grateful for this home, this sanctuary from the rest of the world, where we can build a safe haven together for all who dwell within these walls.

Because, you see, a couple of days ago, we were at a playground nearby. It is a very cool playground, one of our favorites around here. We've always had fun there, and because we had all been cooped up inside for several days with all the rain and we had spent longer than desirable in a long line at the post office, I made the spontaneous decision to take the kids to this playground.

I was pushing Little Lady on the swings while her brother ran off, delighted to be able to run full throttle. Suddenly, I heard an adult female voice screeching, "Hey! Back off! You! Back off right now!" Alarmed, I looked up to see Little B on a ladder, two steps below another, smaller, child. He was indeed too close to the other kid, who was wailing, clearly nervous about being up so high with a boy he didn't know so close to him. I picked up Little Lady and walked over to remind B to give other kids space. As I passed up the yelling woman, I heard her scoff to the person next to her, "Tiger mom nothing. I'm a tiger grandma. No one messes with my grandkid."

I was immediately irritated, because really. In what world is it okay for a grown adult to yell at a preschooler on a playground and then feel justified and even proud about it? Why couldn't see have just kindly said, "Hey, buddy. Johnny's just learning about climbing ladders, and you're a little too close to him. Why don't you let him climb up first?" In half a century of life on this earth, shouldn't a person have learned a little sumthin' sumthin' about basic kindness and civility?

But truly, the kicker came when three boys (Little B in the middle) went down the long tunnel slide simultaneously and the kid at the bottom got squished. He emerged wailing, and his mother began yelling at B, who had run off, "Hey! Hey, YOU. Don't you EVER hit my kid again!" Then she turned to her child and said, loudly enough for all to hear, "Stay away from that nasty kid. He isn't a nice kid at all. You just stay away from him."

It broke my heart. I had to bite my tongue to keep the tears at bay. I let Little Lady go down the slide one more time, and then I said to B, "Okay. It's time to go. We'll go home and play in the yard." I felt a God-nudge in my heart, so as I walked by that woman, I said, "I'm sorry if my son hurt yours. But it's not okay for you to label him unkindly." And with a disgusted expression on her face, she retorted, "He's not a nice kid." I said, "No, what he DID wasn't nice, but he's FOUR and he's learning about self-control, like all of us. We're working with him, but he's NOT a mean child. And you're not teaching anyone kindness by labeling him as such." Her husband jumped in and said, with that I'm-going-to-intimidate-you-and-stare-you-down-because-I'm-a-man look, "Our kids have never hit another kid. We are parenting just fine. If you're going to throw it in our face, then we'll throw it right back in yours."

I stared at him in shock, thinking, "What are we, in grade school?" Pretty much, by this point, I lost all inclination to shine my little light and felt an overwhelming urge to punch their smug faces. So as we walked away, with my voice shaking from my attempt to stay in control, I quietly said to my kids, "It's time to leave. This is not a safe place right now."

It grieved me -- and it still does -- that we live in a world where rambunctious little boys are told they are "nasty" for being a little too uninhibited for an adult world, where parks and playgrounds are not safe places for children to learn about kindness and sharing and respecting one another, that adults fight children's battles and feel proud of themselves for it, that we can't just freaking BE NICE.

I love my children fiercely, but I hate that parenting is just so damn hard in this world of every man for himself. I hate that it's made worse by people who are so consumed with protecting their own precious snowflakes that they don't consider how they are treating the people around them, what they're teaching their little ones about decency and kindness.

I recently read a white mother's plea to other white mothers to teach their children about standing up for what's right, to look out for one another, because she was legitimately worried for her black son's safety in a white world. And when I shared that on social media, it grieved me to hear a white friend tell the story of how her black husband had been treated this past Christmas during their trip back to her hometown.

How I long for a better world, friends. A world where there is no such blatant ignorance and unkindness, a world where people don't feel justified in talking down to another human being simply because their skin colors are different or they are of a different socio-economic class. Where we can all just exist on this beautiful, broken world, trying our best, and nodding to one another, "I know it's hard. Keep it up. We're going to make it."

When Little B was born on that wintry weekend in upstate NY, my mothering heart kicked into overdrive. I desperately wanted to keep him safe, wanted to protect him from the evil that I knew was out there, especially the kind of evil that attacks simply because we are the "other." For all the ways in which I was laid-back as a mom (no helicoptering here), there were just as many ways in which I have held my breath, bracing myself for the attack to come. We began praying in earnest that the Lord would open doors for us to move away from a place where I had been called names I had never before been called in my close to three decades on this earth. All because I didn't look like hardly anyone else around there.

We rejoiced when the opportunity to move to Dallas arose, and we scoured the websites of all the surrounding suburbs, determined not to move to another monocultural/monoethnic city. We resolved not to live in our current town, because from all we could gather from the city's website, it was upper class, white, and privileged. Not where we wanted to live and raise our biracial children.

And of course, week after week went by, house after house fell through, until we fell in love with our small little blue house, smack in the middle of that very town.

Last week, tornados ripped through our area, taking lives and leaving destruction and broken hearts in their wake. We sat in our hall bathroom together during the sirens, listening to the wind. I was thankful for my husband's calm, for his prayers for safety. I laughed at our small daughter's protests against her father's singing and our son's irritation at having his Christmas gift opening disrupted. I found peace in my son's suggestion that Jesus "just take us to heaven until the tornado is gone and then bring us back" because in this moment of fear, he expressed such an unwavering faith in Jesus as his ultimate hero.

I thought of how, had things gone the way we had wanted, we would have lived in Garland. We would have lived right where one of those giant tornados had grounded, ending the earthly lives of several people, instead of just a few miles further northwest, in the safety of this town we call home for now. Where our little home is still intact, even with all the issues of an older house, where we have good neighbors and a backyard oasis, with all its leaves-and-dog-poo-strewn glory.

As I stood there, I was reminded of one of my favorite verses from scripture, that there is a purpose to all things, that God does nothing randomly, that all things work together for His glory. That He places  (active verb) us exactly where we are, in the time He wants, with intentionality and purpose. That, as Ann Voskamp reminds me daily, that all is a gift from Him.

My word this year is Gift.

Today, as the hot water washed away the suds, leaving behind clean skin, I felt the anger and resentment wash away, too. And I realized that this is what I desperately need. To seek out the Gifts, big and small, in each day. To be immensely grateful at this one wild and precious life. That even as I exclaim to my husband in the middle of small children chaos, "I am NOT cherishing this moment!" there are Gifts. The gift of healthy children, the gift of a good husband, the gift of daily laughter with my best friend, even if the source of that laughter is the ludicrous irrationality of preschoolers and toddlers.

I began keeping a gratitude journal several years ago, after reading One Thousand Gifts. With the busyness of the fall and holiday seasons, I stopped keeping record a few months ago. This year, I resolve to not only make recording the Gifts a priority, but to be more of a Gift to this world, to my community, yes, even to fifty-something-year-old Mean Girls, as He intended for us all to be.

Another dear friend shared this prayer by Carter Heyward on her blog, and I felt it was an appropriate way to enter into this new beginning with hope for all good things and grace for the times in which we stumble.

Holy God, we have left undone those things 

Which we ought to have done,

And we have done those things

Which we ought not to have done.

Yet, by thy grace, there is health in us!

In thy mystery, carry us on.

As we bring unity and joy, humble us.

As we bring division and pain, forgive us.

In our struggling, strengthen us.

In our stumbling, lift us.

When we weep, comfort us.

When we laugh, enjoy us. Amen.

Want to start keeping your own journal of Gifts? DaySpring is having a $5 flash sale on some of their beautiful journals! I use these ones.*

*I don't profit from DaySpring. I just love their products! 

Dishes

Source: wisegeek.com

A seemingly long time ago, in what feels like a past life, I lived in New York City. I didn't have a church home there, because my days started before the sun dawned and ended well into the night. It was a stretch for me to attend a church service on Sunday mornings, and I didn't have the time or emotional energy to invest in finding or building relationships.

I did, however, have the privilege of visiting some pretty well-known churches, like Redeemer Presbyterian (where, unfortunately, someone stole my favorite brown jacket at the time).

A very large, prominent church in Brooklyn was another one, and yes, their choir IS incredible in person.

This post stems from my second visit to the latter of those two churches.

I remember absolutely nothing from the sermon except this, and that is why it holds any significance.

The pastor was preaching on 2 Timothy 2:1. 

"If you keep yourself pure, you will be a special utensil for honorable use. Your life will be clean, and you will be ready for the master to use you for every good work." 

To illustrate this point, he told this story: "When you wash dishes, and you only soap up the outside, the dish is still dirty, because you didn't get any of the grime on the inside." So far, so good, right? Then he continued, "But if you scrub the inside, the outside will be clean, too."

Wait, what? 

And I thought, "There is a man who never washes dishes."


Ever since then, every time I wash dishes by hand, I have thought about that pastor and his words. And truly, it makes my least favorite household chore just a tiny bit more enjoyable. 

But here's the true point to all this: a bad sermon illustration has the potential to be just as memorable as a good one. My high school choir director once told us to never sing words of which we did not know the meaning (we were singing a song in Latin, I believe, for our Christmas concert that year). Countless writing teachers have admonished their students to not write about things of which they know nothing. 

The same should be said of pastors. Preach not on that which you have no knowledge. If you're not sure, then ask, because you never know what you'll be remembered for. 

I wonder if it would have given that pastor pause if he knew that someday, nearly a decade later, a woman in Texas would be remembering him for how he didn't know how to do dishes properly.

Thank You, Mama: A Compassion Post

Our dishwasher has been broken for over a week now.

As I wash countless plates, utensils, bowls, sippy cups, water bottles, and lunch containers, I've been thinking a lot about my mom. My resilient mama, who raised us in a developing country, without many of the luxuries and conveniences I have as a young mother.

Without being able to just pick up the phone and call a pediatrician, much less a reliable doctor, whenever one of us spiked a high temperature.

Who wiped away the red, red dust of west Africa off our floors and furniture every day with just a damp rag, because there were no such things as Swiffers there.

Being hundreds and thousands of miles away from her own mama, sending her faded blue airmail letters and cassette tapes of me singing favorite children's songs and reading stories as a young child.

And truly doing it all on her own, because without being fluent in the languages of her host culture, there weren't a whole lot of friends to pick from, no one to really offer her a support system whatsoever.

Thank you, mama.

*As you pray over your Compassion children, please also remember their precious mamas, who are working so hard and sacrificing so much so their children can have better futures.