This Sunday our guest speaker read a quote that ended with:
"Attitude is the librarian of our past, the speaker of our present, and the prophet of our future."
Don't you like that? At first I was just struck with the prophet part. It took me a minute to figure out the librarian part.
Librarian of the past -- To me, this means "the librarian" determines how we look those old circumstances, broken relationships, and painful times. "The librarian" picks out the books that shape our opinion of these things.
Speaker of the present -- The other day I was leaving Sam's Club and asked the clerk at the door how he was doing. This elderly man paused, gave me a smile, and said, "Oh . . . I'm just so glad to be here." Now, if a twenty-something had said that, I would have looked hard to see if he was being sarcastic, but this man was sincere. His response made me smile. His attitude spoke volumes.
Prophet of the future -- You probably know pretty much what I'm going to say here. You don't reach the stars by looking at the ground. Perspective of what things will be like, regardless of their current state, is invaluable.
Wanna know what I really like about this quote? I have a say in all this. If the librarian of my past is a grumpy, pitiful thing, I can fire her and hire someone cute and cheerful. If I don't like what the speaker of my present is saying, I can change the channel until I find someone who better represents who I want to be. And if the prophet of my future is tempted to predict gloom and doom, I can . . . I don't know, read the New Testament or something.
Because -- I am all these people. The attitude is up to me.
Last week Jason took me to the symphony. The Wyoming Symphony Orchestra was playing at the college, and Jason had to go to a concert and write a paper for one of his music classes, so I got to tag along. And let me just say, it THRILLED. MY. SOUL. For many reasons that I'm sure you could guess, and for a few that maybe you wouldn't. But during intermission I turned to Jason and said, "Isn't it amazing how so many things could be going on at once? I think it's so great just to get a good melody, but who gets a melody and then hears all these other things going on in the background that will add to the overall effect?"
And just as I finished the question, I knew the truth of what Jason said next. He said, "I do."
Do you ever stand in awe of the privilege of not just knowing your husband but actually being the one who got to marry him?
About a month ago I went through my typical Mommy-and-Daddy-are-both-on-worship-team-today routine. I woke up at 5, so I could be ready by 6, so I could get the girls ready and we could all be at the church by 7 (or pretty close to it, anyway). Jason and I had picked out and ironed our clothes the night before, and I had set out the girls' dresses. I was in the kitchen, packing up breakfast for the kids to eat during worship team practice. I had hard-boiled four eggs, packed two baggies of cereal, put grapes in two bowls that have lids, tucked two packages of fruit snacks into a small pouch of the diaper bag (for a snack in between the two services we hold), and was pouring water into two water bottles. Sometimes, depending on what we are doing after church, I will also pack an extra change of clothes for all of us (and maybe swimming suits and sunscreen for the girls). And the thought came to me ...
"This is ridiculous."
Now, it's not really ridiculous, because all that prep work makes the morning go more smoothly, and all that food is needed because my girls are getting up earlier than they usually do, and eating lunch 2-3 hours later than they usually do on Sundays like these. But suddenly the thought of adding one more small person to that -- oh man. But then I realized what was really going on here.
I ... am amazing.
Yes. It's really true, I've come to see. But I don't say this to you as a way of patting myself on the back. I say this because if you are a mom, you are amazing, too. Just take a look at everything you do. Make dinner nearly every night of the year. Keep tabs on everyone's underwear and socks so you know when you absolutely have to dolaundrytoday. Find the missing shoe that no one else knew where to look for. Keep your temper with your children when you want to be given over to fits of rage. Teach those small people running around your house how to do productive things like clean their rooms, or tie their shoes, or say sorry with the nice voice, when most of the time they don't want to learn how to do those things at all. You pray for your husbands and support them. You let them go out with the guys while you fix dinner, give bathes, and put the kids to bed alone. And you smile about it, because you know he will come home a happier man, and you don't really begrudge him that time anyway (too much).
So, good for you! Take a look at yourself -- you do amazing things everyday. And even though you do them everyday, you don't quit. You keep giving and loving -- something that is truly amazing.
I have a friend who cloth diapers her babies. She knows all the new tricks and is making converts on facebook. I've been reading all her tips, and talked to Jason about it a few times. I like the idea of being green, and of saving a landfill from more diapers that will just sit for 7, 000 years. I really, really like the idea of saving money. I mean, this is child #3, here. But when I talked to Jason, he said, "I don't know. If I were you I wouldn't do it. You're going to have enough to do without keeping up with cloth diapers."
And really, he was telling me what I already knew was true. Especially about me. Let's review the facts:
1. According to my previous records, when a new baby comes, laundry is the first thing to go down. Yep -- add a person, neglect the laundry. Makes sense, right? But truly, this has been the way of it. And cloth diapers = even more laundry. How can I be sure I'm going to get diapers washed every day if I'm not even sure I'm going to remember to wash everyone else's underwear? And while Jason is more than willing to help out with the laundry, I'm not sure it's fair to make him have to remember to keep up on cloth diapers when I'm the one who wanted to use them.
2. I'm homeschooling a child for the first time. We've decided to teach Natalie at home. I taught first grade for two years before she was born, so I feel confident that I can do it. But it's not the same as having a job where you leave home and only work with one age group. I have a kindergartener and a two year old. I teach while I'm at home. The day goes something like this: Bible, take Elsie to the bathroom, Spelling, recess (while I start a load of laundry), give them snack, wish that dirty dishes weren't staring at me, water the lawn because we'll be gone that night, Reading, take Elsie to time out for ______, Math, you get the idea. All this means I have no idea how I'm going to add a newborn to this schedule, and yet, the baby will often preempt the schedule.
3. I have a two year old. And I don't want her to feel lost in the shuffle. Big sister will get lots of attention because of school, baby will get lots of attention because she's a newborn. Little/new big Sis will need lots of attention, too. Well, and also, because she's two. Not giving a two year old attention sounds like a disasterous thing, if you know what I mean.
And so, I'll be using disposable diapers. And I'm a little sad. I probably should be relieved that I have excuses, but I liked the idea of it. And this makes me realize one important thing about myself: I want to do it all. I mean, last night on the way home from a weekend getaway with my husband I was thinking about how Natalie wanted to be Ariel this year for Halloween, and how I'd been planning on making an Ariel costume for her. Ok -- that right there is craziness. I do, in fact, own a sewing machine thanks to my grandmother, but it's still in the box. I've had it for months. Do you know the last time I sat down to a sewing machine? Seventh grade Home Ec. Do you know the first time I sat down to a sewing machine? Seventh grade Home Ec. Now, in my mind I figure it can't be too complicated to make a simple shirt and a tail that Natalie's legs will stick through. Maybe not perfect, but passable. When I'm being realistic I wonder if it will turn out like my cupcakes. And if I'm setting Natalie and myself up for disappointment (if I finish it at all).
But there I was, in that car, really thinking I could teach school, have a baby in October, and sew a mermaid costume if I got started on it right away. Then, after a reality check, I wondered if she would be ok with being Ariel as a human. We have a pink princess dress, and I could still use that fake hair color spray to turn her hair red. I figured Elsie could go as Belle, since the little yellow dress we have would probably fit her (it doesn't fit Natalie anymore). Um, but both of those dresses would require a sewing repairs. One would require a new zipper. I have never sewn on a zipper. Surely I could find a youtube video or google it or something.
Do you see how crazy this is? How I go back and forth? Do you know what is most likely to happen? Most likely, I will publish this post and then forget about Halloween until mid-October. I will then either stress myself out with dress repairs while my house looks like the Salvation Army blew up inside it, or I will find some simple solution (uh... headbands with paper ears taped to it? We could be the three bears...) and feel like a lame mom.
You see, this is why I cannot cloth diaper. If I'm going to spend the money up front I have to stick with it. There will be no turning back. And as much as I sometimes aspire to be a supermom, I can only do so many things well.
The other day, I asked Natalie to get something for me. I told her that it was on the side table next to the couch. She told me that she couldn't find it.
"It's on that little table right there, next to the couch."
"Oh," she said, picking up the requested item. "You were hiding it from me."
"Well, I wasn't trying to hide it from you!"
Sometimes I wonder if God thinks that very thing. We moan about how hard it is to find an answer, or to find Him, and all the while He's speaking to us (or just not saying anything different from what He said the first time). I can see Him laughing, just like I did.
So a few days after I was feeling sorry for Natalie at the parade, I felt sorry for Elsie about something similar. And then sorry for Natalie over something else. And I felt like God asked me, "Are you going to keep feeling sad about things and have a victim mentality? Is that what you want to pass on to your children?" And I decided to say, "No, thank you. I think I'll pass on that."
It's so true that you can never determine what other people will do, or the effect in circumstances that decision might have on you, but you are always in control of what you do. Sometimes I wish I had control over what other people did, but that's not true power. True power is taking control of your own life, actions, emotions, and words by making purposeful decisions. It's funny to say that when life hands you lemons you're going to throw them back and demand chocolate, but that's just shaking your fist at the wind. I think it is probably much better to take something sour in your life and turn it into something sweet. Like lemonade, you might never be able to completely erase the tartness, but the taste of the end result can still be memorable and enjoyable.
Hopefully, this happened for Natalie. When we got home she told Jason about the parade, and was angry about the pushy kids who got all the candy. Jason, being removed from the situation, was in a much better frame of mind than I was, and suggested that she forgive those kids. He led her in a prayer where she spoke forgiveness to them, and she hasn't mentioned it or complained about how little candy she got since then. I think she really let a spirit of forgiveness take root in her heart, instead of bitterness.
Jason and I drove home from a family reunion Saturday night, and I started tearing up. Not everything in his life has been perfect, of course, and sometimes he experienced deep hurt, like when his parents divorced. But out of that situation, Jason's mother decided to move to Wyoming, where Jason worked with a girl who decided to tell him what Jesus was really like. Because of that, Jason decided to give his life to Jesus and attend a homegroup. Then he decided to go to Bible College and meet me. And marry me. And move to Wyoming where the leader of that homegroup is a leader in our church. A lot of God's goodness was evident to me in that moment, and it was overwhelming.
If I really believe that God works all things together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose, and I really believe that His forgiveness has the power to change lives -- when I am forgiven, and when I choose to forgive -- then hurt will have no place within me.
When I was in Bible college, I once met with one of our church leaders. In the middle of our meeting, after asking me a few random get-to-know-you questions, he looked at me and said,
"So, you're not one to push and shove your way to the front. You're content to wait in line for your portion. But -- sometimes that means you don't get what you want."
He pegged me so well that I think I only managed to pull myself together enough to nod. And then I listened very closely. Because I knew he was going to tell me the solution to this problem.
Except he didn't. And he didn't the rest of the meeting. And he never brought it up after that. And there have been times in my life that I wished he would.
I took the girls to a parade last week. In years past we've left with so much candy that I've learned to bring an ice cream bucket to collect it all. To kids, that's what a parade is: candy. And an occasional group playing music. But the music isn't fun or important enough to get them excited about going back. I got mixed up trying to find the spot where we stood last year, and ended up in the worst area possible. I could tell even before the parade started that this was no good. But it was too late to find another place. So we stayed on a corner that a hundred other (older) kids shared. For the first hour of the parade Natalie had three pieces of candy in her bucket. That's because one woman handed me a packet of gobstoppers before the parade even started (she was promoting Mothers Of Preschoolers), and another mom watched her two boys dive after a pile of candy and collect the whole thing. She made them both give Natalie a piece. Elsie was much too hot and disturbed by sirens and crowds to do anything but beg me to hold her so she could bury her head in my shoulder. So the only help I could give to Natalie was to look a few floats down and give her a heads up when people might be throwing candy. This is pretty much how our experience of the parade went this time: There were not as many people throwing candy as last year (I think we stood at the beginning of the parade last time, and in the middle this year, so maybe a lot of it was already gone). A lot of the people threw candy before us and then not again until after us. When people did throw candy our way, they sometimes threw it too close to the middle of the road. But even if they dropped it right in front of Natalie, it was gone before she could even bend over. Seriously, watching the other children was like watching the reverse effect of flipping on the light switch in a room full of cockroaches. About 5 people handed out frisbees to the four or five children in front of Natalie, then ignored her hand held out patiently, and then continued giving frisbees to the next three children after her. There was one nice man who saw she had nothing and purposefully dropped three pieces of candy directly into her bucket (thank you, Lord, for that man!), and one friendly girl who gave up her ice pop when the woman carrying ice pops got mobbed 10 feet ahead of us. But it was mostly disappointing, and Natalie almost cried more than once. And I was telling myself that I was taking them straight to Dairy Queen as soon as Natalie told me she was ready to leave.
It was one of those times when I wished I knew how to get what you want without being pushy or obnoxious.
So . . . anybody out there found the secret? To either getting what you want or, you know, ending hurt in the world in general?
With the release of Toy Story 3, Natalie has been interested in watching the other Toy Story movies that she'd never seen before. So, thank you very much, Netflix, I will take a copy of Toy Story 2. We decided to make a movie night out of it. So there we were, in the living room eating popcorn, when the toys turn down the Barbie aisle of Al's Toy Barn. Their jaws drop, their eyes bug out, and I was sorely disappointed. I don't want my girls thinking this is a normal way for guys to act around girls, anymore than I want them to go around scantily clad like the Barbies.
My children are still very innocent, and I like it that way. When the dentist asked Natalie if she was dating, she gave him a blank look. She doesn't know what that means. When he asked if she had any boyfriends, she knew how to answer. She has lots of friends that are girls, but only two close friends that are boys. "Yeah, I have two -- Avery and Ethan."
My mom took Natalie and her cousins to the store while we were visiting, and Natalie came back with a Polly Pocket pool set. It's got a pool, swimming suits, clothes, Polly, and a boy. Natalie says that the boy and girl are brother and sister. I LOVE that. Because, why else would a girl and boy hang out together in their swimming suits unless they were brother and sister?
So Disney, go ahead and make movies for children. I mean, I'm not crazy about it when you put scary parts in, or make the villain a witch doctor like in your last princess movie. I'm still watching you pretty closely before I decide if my kids lay eyes on you. But please, could you spare us some of the junk and make movies for children?
I'm putting up an old post today, since it is what I have been thinking about this week. I love you, my Elsie Joy-comes-in-the-morning!
I was holding Elsie this morning before Natalie woke up, and I was struck -- as I often am -- with the thought of how blessed I am to have her. Elsie is my miracle baby, which is funny because there was never anything wrong with her, as is usually the case when that term is used. My pregnancy and delivery were textbook perfect, as a matter of fact.
When I became pregnant with Elsie I had finished recovering from a surgery from an ectopic pregnancy only two months earlier. Jason and I sat down on the bed, looking at a stick with a little pink plus sign, and didn't say too much. Really, we were expecting that plus sign, we'd been trying for that plus sign, but we were still in shock.
After Elsie was born, at my six week check-up, all I could do was sit and stare at the little pink bundle in the carseat. It was a year and two weeks after my surgery. And the thought hit me, I could have spent this last year with no pregnancy, and no baby. Jason and I could have spent the last year trying, and being depressed, wallowing in pain and sadness. Or I could have become pregnant and spent nine months in oppresive worry. In fact, I remember telling Mary R. that I didn't know how I could ever become pregnant again without being in constant worry (She wisely spoke words that I will always remember: But Eleanor, worrying only takes away. It never adds). Instead our story had a different end -- a different middle even. It was a time of great healing for us, of expectation, of hope.
It's that of that story that Elsie continually reminds me. Please understand that I am not saying -- and would never say -- that a loved one lost can be replaced by another. But Elsie is a reminder of the abounding mercy and the abounding love of God in my life. Of all the ways things could have been, but weren't. She makes me grateful for so many other things, and for so many other people that I still share this life with. That's why Elsie is my miracle baby. I see in her the miracle of God at work in our lives.
Let us bow our heads and have a moment of silence for ice cream.
...
Ah, yes. Extra creamy vanilla with some Hershey's chocolate perfected drizzled over the top. And it is even more enjoyable to me that I'm eating it now when the girls are asleep. Ice cream as a family affair is fun, but by yourself, it is indulgence. Like taking a bubble bath (and when was the last time you did that?)
Wait, let me take another bite.
Sigh.
I have rules about ice cream. Actually I'm just taking these right off the top of my head, but I think they're true just the same.
1. Never waste the calories on a flavor you don't REALLY enjoy. (When I find one I'll let you know...)
2. Always take just a little less than what you really want to eat. You'll feel self-controlled. Empowered, even. At the bottom of the bowl you will still want more, but you'll say to yourself, "Ahhh. That was just the right amount of ice cream."
3. Eat it when you can truly enjoy it. Maybe this is why I like to eat it when the girls are in bed. I have a desire to savor my desserts. Have you ever been at a restaurant with friends, and happened upon the most amazing dessert OF YOUR LIFE, but one particular individual just keeps talking and talking and talking? And you love them and all (truly, you are there for the friend, not the dessert) but you just want to say, "Will you excuse me for one moment while I soak in the luscious, smooth, and (probably) chocolatey-ness of this dessert?" Of course, you don't. You would never, ever say this. But occasionally after a good bite you think, "This dessert is slipping away from me!"
There. My ice cream is finished. My inspiration has been devoured, and therefore I have nothing left to say.
Ok, I admit: I have commenter's intimidation. There are blogs I read on a regular basis that I will not comment on. Way too scary. Sometimes I don't comment because I have nothing to say that wasn't already said by someone else. Sometimes it was so beautiful that it seems inadequate to write "That is so beautiful." But mostly, on these particular blogs, I don't comment because these people are cool. And you know that saying, Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt? I'm trying not to be a live demonstration of that one. Well, the "remove all doubt" part anyway (ok, and the being thought a fool part, too. But I'm only in control of one of those things). A few times I have bucked up enough courage to leave a comment, and usually I have regretted it. Even tortured myself with it. Surely I sounded dumb. Ridiculous at best. Why did I ever comment? They would never know I was even reading their blog!
One blog I read is maintained by a Christian chic-lit writing pair. If you've never read a post by these gals, you should go browse a couple. I find them very entertaining. But I never comment. Oh, no. In fact, they have contests where they give away books they've written if you tweet about their new book coming out, or write a blog post on a certain topic. I seriously considered entering the last one because, wouldn't it be so fun to win? But, no. Because those other people who are so cool that I don't want to comment on their blogs? They read AND are brave enough to comment on this one. And . . . what if I won (they announce the winners via a blog post) and thought, "What, she reads this one, too? Does she have to invade everything we read? Isn't there anything left that's just fun for us?"
You have to understand, I know that line of thinking is silly. These are nice people; they probably would never think that about me, or if they did, they would be remorseful immediately afterward. But I still feel like I can't take the chance. And so, it looks as though I will not be winning free books anytime soon.
I would like to take this moment to say that if, by chance, I have regular readers out there who are afraid to comment here, you really shouldn't be. Honestly, haven't I shown you enough of myself to prove that you are cooler than me? Be free. If you don't like to comment, I'm cool with that. But if you are one who sits there, holding yourself back so that you won't comment and feel dumb later, please don't. After all, blogging is slightly narcissistic -- bloggers like to know that people are reading what they write.
So, is there anyone else out there who joins this silent frustration of commentor's intimidation?
Monday, April 26, 2010
Dear Jason,
Twenty-eight years ago today I was born, and you were three months old. There was no way that we could have known what God had planned for us.
Hello. My name is Eleanor, and I'm a distracted messie.
I don't really know how this happened, or when my family first noticed it. I suppose it's hereditary. I first learned to recognize it when my mother gave me a book -- one that I think she had been given herself -- called, "The Messie's Manual." In its chapters I found descriptions of myself, nodded my head, and even laughed out loud. I'd never before known that my problem was so common.
I don't think my father is a true "cleanie;" he probably falls in the "4-6" group on the given scale of 0 to 10. "0" = disaster, "10" = perfection. They say "0-1"s don't even come to a Messies Anonymous seminar. They don't care enough to want to change. "7-9"s are cleanies; there is really no need for them to attend a seminar like that. It's the "2-3"s that need help. Although, "4-6"s sometimes come to learn and get a little better.
To be brutally honest, I actually fall into more than one category of messie. I think it was 3 or 4. Yikes. But "distacted messie" is the one Jason and I laugh the most about. I've come a long way since I've been married, believe me. In fact, I have a mental list of things I want done around the house each week, and I'm really good about getting them all done. Well, I was before I became pregnant. But like I say, I was pretty proud of my progress.
Lately one child or another has been waking up in the middle of the night, and sometimes I have trouble going back to sleep. After being up for an hour and a half last Saturday, I decided to get out of bed at 5 in the morning. I figured I could pick up some toys that were scattered in the den, start some laundry, and maybe even wash the dishes I was too tired to tackle the night before. I started out well enough in the den. But when Jason walked out to see what had become of me a few minutes later, I felt a little sheepish.
"I couldn't sleep, so I came out here to pick up a little bit. But then I saw this book I've started and realized that I hadn't read the forward yet, and I really wanted to . . ."
Are you beginning to understand what a distracted messie is?
Yesterday I was driving alone in my car to Wal-Mart. The "alone" part of that sentence is rare enough, but I was also sporting a new haircut and a scarf Jason brought me from Israel. I was feeling pretty good. Pretty stylish. Even evniable, you might say.
I stopped at a red light and noticed a red convertible on the other side of the intersection. And it occurred to me that I didn't need one. I was pretty sure I felt just as amazing as that guy did in his costly car with just my $18 haircut. Or with just my $3 scarf.
Maybe that's a guy thing, I thought. Needing to spend lots of money to feel important, instead of just having a new hair style or a new accessory.
Until I drove past and saw that the driver was a woman.
Hey, everybody! It's that time of year again -- Easter, which for our church means "The Veil", our original musical production. This year some of the characters (including yours truly) are blogging on our church website, so if you're interested you can go here to check it out!
For starters, I am pregnant. I smiled as I typed that; it feels good to push that news out further than my family and hometown friends. I've wanted to post it on facebook, but things keep making me wait. And since I've gone so far to write that sentence, I might as well explain what those things were. Because of the title and all. I always have an early ultrasound now, because of my past ectopic pregnancy. When the doctor had searched for only a few seconds, she said, "And it looks like there's two in there!" Sure enough, two beautiful, black circles were in the pictures we took home that day. She scheduled another ultrasound in three weeks, to get heartbeats and make sure everything was ok with the babies. For three weeks, Jason and I pictured our lives as parents of four, as a family of six. We thought about the extra baby equipment we would need, whether or not we'd get two boys to balance out the two girls we have, what it would be like to go places with two little babies, pictured each of us holding one in church. We weren't able to hold back our excitement, and told almost anyone with working ears. It was so hard to wait for that next ultrasound, so hard to wait to post those pictures on facebook for the whole world to see. But the next ultrasound picture had one baby. The doctor said the other twin "absorbed." I'm sure that's supposed to be a less painful way to announce that kind of news. And you know what? It's really hard to know the right way to grieve and celebrate all at the same time. It's hard to tell people here our sad news, and still tell others whom we haven't talked to recently our happy news. I really thought that maybe some time this week I would tell the cyber world that we're having a baby; that maybe that would help some of the excited feelings I wanted to express to get flowing. But one friend announced a pregnancy last week, and another this week. And . . . I don't know. I don't want this baby to seem like "another baby" to someone else. I want this baby to be special, to have it's own important announcement. And so I wait. And I pray. And sometimes I cry. And I try to sort things out.
So as not to leave anyone feeling depressed, I'll share the other things on my full plate of everyday thoughts. Jason is in Israel for two weeks. He left yesterday. Two weeks, People! He's never been away that long. And after only one day of him being absent, Elsie has learned to say, "I want Daddy." Which would be sweeter to me if I didn't now have to explain X number of times per day for the next 13 days where he is. To a child not yet two.
Speaking of Elsie, we're potty training. We started last Monday, and had almost zero results for 3 days. I was not really expecting that. I mean, I was expecting her to fight me sometimes, but I wasn't expecting her to scream nearly every time we walked into the bathroom, or for her to knowingly "hold it" until a time when she wasn't on the toilet. By day four it was mildly better (only sometimes did she scream), and then she got sick. "Throwing down" kind of sick. Strangely enough, I think this has been a fortunate turn of events in the potty training scheme of things. We put her in diapers, but kept taking her to go potty, and she started having more hits than misses. Or at least, equal amounts of hits and misses. And I've noticed now that she doesn't cry when we go to the bathroom unless she is really not going to go anyway. AND -- sometimes . . . she comes up to me and whines, and when I ask her if she needs to go potty SHE SAYS YES. (Well, ok, she says, "yeah." She doesn't actually say "yes" yet.) And then she goes potty! It is truly amazing to me how I thought some of these things would seem routine or old hat with child number two, and they are so not. I am so stinking proud of Elsie sometimes that I think the zipper on my sweater is going to burst.
The last thing that I'll mention is that my kids are really cute. Tonight we were eating dinner. It was a lot quieter than normal -- in fact, there was almost no noise at all. Usually we're all vying for Jason's attention and conversation (because let's face it, the three of us have spent ALL day together and we have nothing new to say to each other by the end of the day). But the silence wasn't uncomfortable or boring. I just used it to stare at my girls. To marvel again at the grown up faces Elsie makes that look so ridiculous on so small a child that I laugh out loud. To look at Natalie one more time to make sure I'm not missing anything, because she's growing up so fast. To look at these beautiful faces that walk around my house everyday like they belong to ordinary people. And I'm so glad I'm their mommy.
You can't remember the last time you ate an entire apple by yourself.
You say things like, "Pull up your pants, please" or "Tuck that piece of hair behind your ear."
Or things like, "Do you want to say thank you to your sister? Or do you want to sit on your bed?"
You feel accomplished when you clean a room, only to turn around and find the room behind you has become a disaster area.
Somewhere in your house is a small, electronic something that needs a new battery. And you know this because it won't stop playing the same three notes over and over again.
Today you cleaned up a water mess on the floor. Tomorrow you will be sweeping up half a box of cereal.
You own a crayon/marker drawing that did not make it to the paper.
You helped confirm the statistic that parents of 2-3 year olds answer the question, "Why?" up to a staggering 70 times per hour.
The bulk of books you read are finished in 3 minutes or less.
A bag of tiny marshmallows can save your day.
You hear "I love you" randomly throughout the day.
You can't wait for bedtime -- because you love the snuggles.
You realize you're already doing the most important thing you'll ever do.
It used to bug me when people said, "One day at a time." It seemed like what they were really saying is that they were putting off action on something I wanted to see happen soon! But lately, this phrase has become very comforting to me. When I'm stressed out, or starting to worry, or think "Holy Cow, how am I ever going to do this? And if I do it today, how in the world will I do it tomorrow?" -- then suddenly, "one day at a time" can make me stand back and take a deep breath. It's sort of been my mantra lately. Because I can take on this next step; and when I do, I know I'll be able to handle the rest of the day, too.
And that's sorta all I have to say about that. Because I'm kind of busy taking things one day at a time right now. But I will add that the most comforting part of "one day at a time" is that it's a Biblical principle, too.
"So do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
I've been thinking about faith lately. And people like Joel Stockstill. Joel Stockstill is the youth pastor of the biggest youth group in America. He has also lived with kidney failure since he was sixteen. He is now in his early 30's. So two or three times a week, for three hours at a time, for the last fifteen years he has gone into the hospital to have dialysis. I follow him on twitter, and he writes things like this:
"today i am still basking in thankfulness that Jesus has given me life for 30+ years. Many have passed on & yet HERE I AM! His Stripes 4 me!" "Today a day of rest and treatment. Wait,1 of those doesn't go! Treatment isnt Gods best. I reject all reliance on medicine & embrace healing" "Claiming total miraculous healing today in Jesus mighty name! perfect function in kidneys and restoration of all things stolen by the enemy"
"Today my petition and confession are the same 2 BRAND NEW KIDNEYS!!! i will settle for nothing less & stop at nothing to receive Jesus best"
He totally inspires me to believe God for . . . anything, everything! But sometimes my faith gets tangled with doubt. Because now I have a daughter that I'm trying to teach about faith. And I know what I think about the power of Jesus, but . . . what if she becomes disappointed? What if I keep confessing healing over her, and she never gets rid of her glasses? I mean, I'm confessing complete healing in her eyes while I stand there looking at her through my own glasses! I've answered several calls for healing, and prayed over my own eyes with no noticeable difference. What if that doesn't inspire her, but makes her think I'm foolish?
I can handle waiting for healing. Everything worth having is worth waiting for, faith is the substance of things hoped for -- you guys have heard the same messages I have. I'll keep standing, but I want Natalie's faith to be unshakable, too. What do I tell her about people who believe for healing and die in sickness? Because that happens.
But who has more faith: the person who thinks it's pointless to believe and is never healed, or the person who believes without wavering and is never healed? Which is more likely to be healed? Which is more likely to move in a spirit of healing? Of course, it's the person who believes.
So I will believe for me and for her. And for both of us to have great faith.
I used to feel a little guilty when I thought of my two girls. When Natalie was a baby, she had my attention every moment that she was awake. As a toddler she said lots of words, could count to 10 in English and to 5 in Spanish, and could sing her ABC's.
When Natalie was almost three, Elsie was born. And it actually came as a shock to me that I could not devote the same kind of time to her as I had to her big sis. I'm not sure really what I my expectations were, but they were not grounded in reality. I couldn't read her 3 books and sing her ten songs before every nap -- like I had with Natalie -- because I had a three year old who also needed attention (and wouldn't stay out of the room that long, anyway). I could easily get to the end of a day and find that with keeping house, giving bathes, making dinner, and chasing Natalie, I hadn't read her a book at all, or counted to 10, or sang the alphabet song. Some days I felt good if I could just get everyone fed, clothed, and down for a nap.
As Elsie has reached toddlerhood, I've noticed that she hasn't hit all those "milestones" as quickly as Natalie, and it made me feel guilty. Surely this was my fault for not reading enough books, or talking to her enough, or trying to get her to crawl sooner.
But after lots of prayer I've realized that there has been an exchange on both sides. Elsie may not have as much one-on-one time, but she has way more family time, because Natalie and I are with her all day. She has an extra person to laugh at her funny faces, to give her kisses and "I love you's", and to help her. She always has a family member by her side when Jason and I leave to go on a date. She has positive peer pressure to use a napkin, or the toilet. When I'm making dinner, she still has someone to play with.
I was measuring my love and attention to her based upon what she was doing, instead of basing it on . . . well, what it actually was. And while Elsie may not have the same memories of mommy-daughter time that Natalie does, the overall message is the same: that she is loved.
This little stool sits in the girls' bathroom (or do stools stand?). Ruth has one similar to it, and we've had them for so long that I don't even remember how old we were when they came into our possession. If you could hold it and turn it over, here is what you would see written underneath: Handcrafted by Floyd and June Spidle. Eleanor, Jesus loves you! So do we!
And underneath their names is a phone number. I've often wondered if that could really still be their phone number after nearly thirty years. I don't remember Floyd and June Spidle. I don't remember how old they were when we knew them. I don't remember what they looked like. I don't remember if they lived close to us, or if they used to give us candy. I only know, from what my parents have said, that they were a spiritual mother and father to my parents, and that he built the stools and she painted the characters on them. I don't even know if this was something they did for a lot of people, or just something they did for us.
When I was fourteen, a family moved to my hometown and started attending our church. She was pregnant, and after a while I became their regular babysitter. For a season, I went to their house every Saturday. I remember that it was this often, because I basically spent my Saturday morning waiting for the telephone to ring. If it didn't, I became a little sulky, because they weren't going to need me that week. When we had special events at our church that I thought they might attend, my insides jumped with expectation and hope. I had fallen in love with this family. At first, I just loved their baby boy. He was a roly-poly ball of adorableness, and I loved him from his round little head to his round little feet. When he grew a little older, we would jump down the stairs together holding hands. I blew him bubbles in his backyard, and pushed him in his red and yellow Fisher-Price car. I was sad when it was time to put him to bed because then the fun was gone. But I couldn't have been more delighted than the night when I put him to bed, told him I loved him and heard him whisper back, "I ov oo." In fact, I put it in a calendar. I discovered I loved his parents, too. They had southern accents, and really -- who can resist that? They were always saying kind and encouraging things to me, and blessing my heart. The car rides to and from my house were full of friendly conversation and jokes instead of uncomfortable silence. They gave me gifts, and cards telling me how much they loved me and appreciated all my help. We even ate dinners together and watched movies together. Honestly, I was a little insecure around them, because they were so cool, and I loved them so much and wanted to always make a good impression. But even with that teenage insecurity, I still felt that they were the first adults that could be my friends, too. They moved away when I was a junior in high school. Several states away. I was devastated. My parents took me to their house the night before they moved so that they could help pack and I could watch their little boy. I was so jealous over that little boy. I was honestly irritated that night when anyone hugged him goodbye, because I knew they didn't love him nearly as much as I did. What fakers. The mom had given birth to another baby the month before; a girl. I sat in a room with her just before it was time to leave, crying because I wouldn't see her grow up. Somehow I pulled myself together enough to hug everyone and say goodbye. But I was crying before I could walk down the driveway to my parents' car. And I didn't stop until I fell asleep that night.
For the first few years I was able to keep in touch with them, but after I went to Bible College I lost track of them. They had moved a few times, so the phone number I had was useless. Last year someone told me they had gotten divorced. I was heartbroken. My friend didn't really know any other details, which made it worse. I had witnessed how madly in love these two were, how could it be possible that they divorced? A few days ago on facebook, I asked a mutual friend if he had any contact information. Yesterday I received his reply. He told me that both of them had remarried, and that he didn't have any information, but that he had always gotten a hold of his friend by googling his name and city. I tried over and over again to get some sort of connection with them from the internet -- a phone number, an email address. I actually found the husband, but couldn't get his information without paying for it. Which seemed a little intrusive, if nothing else. After I had given up (for the day, anyway), I went into the bathroom and cried. And cried. That's where Jason found me when he came home from work. I just kept thinking of that beautiful family. Of that couple that had been been so important to me, and made me feel special at a time when I was self-conscience and unsure. And oh, the babies. Those babies that I would have done anything to shield from pain. That I had held and kissed and prayed over. And all I could do was resolve to be important to someone, and make them feel as special as I had felt.
But last night, after the tears were wiped away, I thought of something else I could do. I spotted the little stool in the bathroom. And I wondered if Floyd and June Spidle loved me as much as I loved the family now broken and far away. I wondered if every now and then they prayed for me, maybe even still. I wondered if they had prayed for me when I was walking through difficult times in my life. And I remembered that, though we sometimes think of prayer as a last resort, it's really the most powerful thing we can do.
As I was praying this morning, I started thinking of our finances (probably not an unfamiliar story). We were able to pay off a significant chunk of debt last year, and I felt compelled to believe God that our debt levels would be lowered by twice that amount this year. That would truly be an act of God, as just the amount cleared last year was most definitely an act of God.
I started thinking about Abraham. You know, there was really no reason he was so blessed -- other than he belonged to God. I mean, every where he went it seems people were throwing money, sheep, and livestock his way. EVEN WHEN HE LIED TO THEM. Seriously, it was not based upon his perfect behavior. It was based on the fact that God had marked him, and wanted to bless him. And so everyone in his path showered him with gifts. Isaac was the same way. God had made a covenant with Abraham, and He was going to continue it with Isaac. Even though Isaac lied, too.
So many times we want to make the blessing about us. We did something so great, that we caught God's attention, and it made Him want to bless us. Can we just laugh about that? Um... God just wants to bless us. Just because. For no particular reason. The same way we want to bless our kids. It's not based on whether we do everything perfectly, because Jesus died for our imperfections, and when God looks at us, He sees us the same way He sees Jesus. And while it's good to do right, God's not as stuck on that as we are. He just loves us and wants to pour out blessing on us. Do we believe this? Or will we allow our unbelief to stand in the way of the blessings waiting to be poured out?
I, for one, want to stand right under the spicket.
About two weeks ago, a man in our church told me that he felt like God gave him a word for me. God told him, "Tell her to write the book." I was thrilled. For about 10 minutes.
You see, basically everything I read about getting published is depressing. "It's really hard to get published. You're gonna work at it for a million years before you write anything an agent even wants to flip through. And the way that the book world is going will make it even harder in the future. With the economy the way it is right now, you shouldn't hold your breath. It probably won't happen for you."
Ok, so I've only actually read the first and third sentence, with many hints about the fourth. But that is definitely the feel you extract from these professionals' writings. I want to write a book, but besides this blog, I haven't done any writing. Why write a book when you don't foresee a wind chill blowing through Hades anytime soon?
We had a church conference last weekend. The guest speakers were a couple who have written many books about things like joy, hope, believing and declaring God's promises. More than once I heard him say, "If you want to write books, then start saying it about yourself. 'I write books well.'" He probably only said it twice, but it could have been 20 times the way it reverberated through my head. Speaking it is a big part, but believing is everything.
I remember what I had written here, only about two weeks ago. That God spoke identity over Abraham before the promise came. That God even gave him a new name, so that Abram would be saying "Abraham" over himself even while he waited for his promised child.
Deep Breath.
I write books well.
P.S. They also said if God highlights something to you in a book or in a message to write it, speak it, and use it as a sword in that season of life. So if you hear me walking around muttering, "I am anointed to raise wonderful children in the Lord," don't worry that about me talking to myself. I'm just picking up my sword.
Ahem. Well. This little shout out really should have gone out yesterday, since that is my sister's actual date of birth. But I wasn't quite as on top of it yesterday as Jeremy, who threw my sis a surprise birthday bash. He gets the trophy this time. But Dear Sister, I do have a few things I would like to say to you on this truly momentous occasion. And while I don't have 30 of them, I would like to list a few of the things I love about you here.
- You always listen to and truly appreciate my stories. I'm sure this is no small feat.
- You are a great worship leader. I love worshiping with you, and watching you interact with Jesus.
- You are wise. So many people (and obviously I'm including myself) have benefited from your practical and spiritual advice.
- You once said to me, "I'm always on your side. He has to EARN his way into the family." I'm glad that you weren't going to give just any boy that special place in our family. And I'm also glad that when he proved himself worthy, you gladly gave him the title "brother." And of course, I'm really glad to know that your always on my side -- ha!
- How many times did you help me with my homework? How many times did you listen to me lament that I wasn't courting Jason yet? How many times did you make me pray for Abigail after we'd fought? (Ok, so I didn't really appreciate that last one at the time. . .) Thanks for always having my back.
- You make me laugh. Hard.
- You have great kids. Thanks for raising great kids.
- That time you chased Tyler down the street after he called me a nerd, that time you were going to "take" Jeff "outside" for . . . I don't even remember -- thanks for protecting me. Even though I didn't know what a nerd was.
- Once we stayed up way past midnight . . . yeah. Good times.
-You have been a great example to follow. Thanks for being a big sister I could look up to. And thanks for not beating me up during that period in my life when I followed you all around the church building even after you told me to stop.
I love you so much, Sister, and I'm so glad God gave you to me. Happy Birthday!
I read Gen. 17 today. It's the chapter where God renews his covenant with Abram and gives him a new name, Abraham, "The Father of Many Nations." The thing that strikes me when I read this passage is that Sarah was still barren. Yet, God calls Abram a father -- of many nations! I love that God was speaking identity and promise over Abraham before it was even fulfilled. God was so sure of His promise to Abram that He changed his name.
"Nah, 'Abram' just doesn't fit. We need to call you 'Father.'"
Abraham couldn't do anything (more than he had been) to give Sarah children. Only God could bring His promise to fruition in Abraham's life. Yet God insists on identifying him as 'father'.
It was when I looked back two chapters, in Gen. 15, that I was a little surprised. These chapters had been broken up over two days, so I didn't quite put everything together at first.
In Genesis 15, God comes to Abram and says, "I am your shield, your very great reward." Abram has this awesome experience as God takes him outside, tells him to look at the stars and count them, if he can. Because that's what his offspring will be like. This is the fourth time God has told Abram that He would give him children, but only after this time does the Bible say, "Abram believed the Lord, and it was credited to him as righteousness."
And yet, in THE VERY NEXT CHAPTER, Sarai is disappointed that the pregnancy test came back negative again, and so she pleads with Abram to take her maidservant, Hagar, and try to produce a child with her. AND HE DOES.
What?! What happened to your amazing experience with God, Abram? What happened to finally believing what He said? What happened to the four times God visited you, and the altar you built between Bethel and Ai, and the covenant God made with you?
But it is after all of this that God comes back and says, "Oh, and by the way, we really need to change your name. 'Abram'? I'm thinkin' no. Let's go with 'Abraham', 'cause it means 'The Father of Many Nations'. And that's who you are, Abraham. Not Abram."
What a testimony to God's overwhelming love and undeniable promise that He would come back around and still choose to do this work in Abram. What tender mercy, that caused him to see Abram's doubt, and come back around to encourage him with a new name and yet another reminder of the promise.
And so as I look out at the horizon of 2010, I want to remember all the things God has promised me, over and over again, just as he did with Abraham. And I want to believe. And when I'm doing everything I know to do and it still hasn't happened, I want to just trust God. I want to remember that "He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it."
