proof positive

For those of you who read my last post and are feeling concerned about my qualifications for motherhood, I want to reassure you (if it were possible) with the following facts:


(First, I know I don't deserve them.  No one ever deserves the gifts they are given.)

I love to hug my children and they hug me back.  The feeling of one of my offspring snuggled up trustingly beside me is immeasurably precious.

They smile when I kiss them.

I enjoy working beside them, cooking, or sewing, or doing yardwork.  I even enjoy teaching them these things.

According to them (despite my offering proofs to the contrary), I am a kind, patient, and funny mother who is never selfish and always puts them first.  (Let's just chalk that up to the optimism of youth, shall we?)

I love giving them good things - a favorite meal, a sweet treat, a small gift picked up while I'm running errands - just to see their faces light up with pleased surprise.

They trust me.  Confide in me.  Offer their journals to me to read.

I ask for their opinions and preferences when we make schedule changes or plan family week (photos coming soon ... !).

They still call me Mommy, despite hearing their friends move on to "Mom."

Most of my waking hours are spent considering what is best for them.  They fill my prayer time; God has heard more from me about my children than about any. other. thing.

I trust them.  I regularly answer their "Should I ___ or ____ ?" with a confident "You may choose.  I trust your judgement."

It's true that I dearly love Quiet Time.  It's true that evenings, after the children are in bed and it's just me and my Farmer, are one of my favorite times of the day.  It's true that I look forward all month to the time when my own mom comes to spend the day with my children so that I can (one sweet day a month) meet a friend, or go shopping for fun, or walk in the park with just my thoughts and the birds to listen to.

I am wired for solitude.

And I am a mother.

And I love my children.



[I just don't love to play their games.]

child's play

There are times, I will admit, when - caught without a legitimate reason to decline - I get roped into coloring with Lil' Snip, and I end up enjoying it.

Times when the playdough comes out and he's been deprived of my company to a guilt-inducing extent and before I know it, I'm rolling and sculpting, having fun.

And then, there are times like today.

When I'm on the floor, prone, a reluctant driver of Hess trucks (I never get the one I want, no matter how sincerely he seems to be offering it; in Lil' Snip lingo "Which one do you want?" is code for "Which one do you think I want you to have?"), and I succumb.

As soon as he seems to be adequately involved in truckplay, I close my eyes and take a micro-nap until he notices, which I am happy to say can be an entire minute or longer.



Just wanted you to know, from one "supermom" to another.  {*wink*}

my one goal for the summer

I just read about a momma who was feeling discouraged by all the mommy-bloggers who are sharing their goals for the summer.

Well, I can hardly stand for that, can I?

Especially when I just explained how into rest I'm going to be for this season of my life.

And even more especially when we're supposed to be encouraging one another, we Christians.

"Love does not boast ..."

So hear this, precious discouraged momma, just wanting some rest and receiving what looks like law instead:

When you get a moment to sit down and read something (which, okay, never happens.  So go ahead, put down what you're doing and take a moment anyway), flip through your Bible to the Gospels, and you will find Good News:

You'll find that Jesus doesn't offer how-to's on goal-setting or productivity or even efficiency.  When we are weary, he offers rest and refreshment, encouraging us to choose the "one thing needed" like his friend Mary did - to sit at his feet and listen to his words, to abide in his words.

Let this be your one, simple goal for the summer:  to sit at his feet, and listen.  

The dishes will get done, somehow, sometime.  The laundry will, too.  You'll manage to feed the family.  And the rest?  The Pinterest-worthy living room decor and the photo shoot matching outfits and the extracurriculars for the children and all the rest?  They're optional anyhow.

Take a few minutes at the start of your day - even if it's while spooning baby food into that sweet little mouth - to read (yes, even aloud!) some words of Jesus.

They are your true food.

They will nourish you for your tasks (and help you to discern which tasks to do, and which to let go) far better than facebook or shopping or even texting a friend.

Summer camp (or even VBS) for the children won't do it.  Moms' groups and swimming lessons and dance lessons and summer sports (all fine and dandy things) won't do it.  Hard as it is for me to admit this, even a vacation in the islands won't do it.  Nothing will nourish you, nothing will restore your spirit, like the minutes you spend sitting at Jesus' feet.

And, this:  it is okay to sometimes sit down and gaze at the distant trees, even when your work is not done.  Because let's face it, it's never going to be done, that work.  Never.  And you will wear yourself ragged and wretched trying to stay abreast of it all.  Just stop.  Let it go.  Sit down and watch your babies (however old they are) play.  Go outside and marvel (quietly, tiredly is okay) at something God has made.

Let it feed your spirit.

Choose the one thing, this summer, that is needful:  sit at Jesus' feet, and listen.

< < < - - O - - > > >

[and if you like sentimental rhymes, this poem - which I eventually memorized from seeing it so often - was on my mother's fridge growing up, printed on the faded front of a card.]

Priority

Take time to smell the lilacs

And feel the warm bright sun,

Take time to look at rainbows;

Don't wait till work is done:

There'll always be a cobweb,

Some finger marks or dust,

Weeds to pull, a lawn to mow,

And something gathering dust.

We must remember lilacs

Bloom just once a year,

And you can see a rainbow

Only when it's here.

~ by Shirley Harvey

grace for Mothers' Day

Like many church-going moms, I suppose, I find Sunday mornings a little more "get-up-shower-make-breakfast-braid-their-hair-find-church-library-books-and-Lil'-Snip's-good-shoes" than "relax-in-bed-while-we-serve-you-breakfast-y".

So in a rare stroke of genius last year, we decided to celebrate Mothers' Day ... (are you ready for this?) ... on Saturday.

So it was yesterday morning (after a week of hushed planning and negotiations) that I stayed in bed late, as instructed.  My Farmer got Lil' Snip up, pottied, dressed.  I lounged, and read that little book of quotes and verses from the nice people at Our Daily Bread (which we usually keep in the bathroom).  Lil' Snip came and bounced up beside me to try the bed (which he never sees me in, since I get up long before he does in order to keep sane).

Four pages and two visits from Lil' Snip later, I heard an orderly procession of footsteps coming carefully up the steep stairs to the bedroom.  My breakfast had arrived, along with cards and gifts!

Eggs, toast, bacon, coffee, chocolate, a special Spice-decorated brownie, a fragrant posy, cards & coupons galore for backrubs, coffee-making and "anything you want!" all tastefully arranged on a tray for my convenience.  Also two plants started from seed, sugar scrub and lots of kisses.  They left me with my favorite music playing, and a bell - in case I needed anything - traipsing back downstairs to eat their own breakfast now.

(Naturally I had to test the bell, and all three came charging up the steps to hear my request for orange juice, then argued eagerly on the way back down about who would get to pour it and who would get to bring it up to me.)

When I finally reemerged from this delicious little vacation, Spice told me how she had liked to hear my fork clink while she was downstairs eating her own breakfast, because she knew that I was eating the eggs she had scrambled for me.



The night before, my sister and I went to see a movie, "Moms' Night Out" (which I highly recommend if you have in any way helped to raise children, or if you just want a good clean laugh).  On the way home we talked about parenting, and how it reveals our weaknesses.  I told her that Spice, finishing The Little Princess again the other day, had sighed and said that some books are so good that you can read them over and over, and every time you find something new, that you had missed before.  "The Bible", she'd added, "is an excellent example of this."

I could not have said that myself, at Spice's age, being a nominal Bible-reader then, already so jaded that I sincerely thought it would be best if children were not exposed to the Bible until they were 12, so that it would be fresh to them.  (I'm pretty sure I hadn't even read the whole thing yet, whereas Spice is already on her second time through.)

And here is my offspring, so like me in so many ways, saying that she can read the Bible over and over and get something new from it each time.

That, my beloved readers {all two of you ;)} is God's grace.

You and I both know that the few pathetic shreds of righteousness that I may think I have to offer God could not begin to effectively counteract the sinful, self-centered life I lead, that my children are privy to every day as they watch me lose my temper, demonstrate a lack of self-discipline (hello, chocolate?!  unclean house?  unkempt yard?), succumb to fear and depression, and on and on.

My life, in other words, could not naturally produce children who consider God's Word one of "the best books", to be read and re-read so as not to miss the goodies to be found in it.  (Let alone children who "rise up and call [me] blessed", sincerely thinking - until I provide specific & readily-available evidence to the contrary - that I am perfect!)

Only God's grace can do that.  God, who "calls into being that which does not exist." (Romans 4:17)



God's grace may work in mysterious ways.  In the past 12 years I've pondered often the meaning of 1 Timothy 2:15 - "But women will be saved through childbearing - if they continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety."

I'm no theologian, but I'm beginning to wonder if this verse is more about opportunity than position.  By bearing (and raising) children, God gives me an opportunity to grow in faith, in love, in holiness and propriety.  Do you see it?  Nothing in my life prior to raising these precious (and sometimes infuriating) children has stretched me waaaaaay past my limits in quite the way that they do.

I need more faith, now.

I need Grand Canyon-sized resources of love, now.

I need holiness & propriety more desperately than ever, now, because I want to be a good example for them.  I want the best for them and (scary thought!) I know they're watching me.

So just perhaps, raising these children is a God-given opportunity to "work out [my] own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure." Philippians 2:12, 13

Trust me, there's plenty of fear and trembling involved already.  But I want to stand firm on the second half of that now - "it is God who is at work in you".

Maybe you want to, too?  Let go, trust God, and let Him do His work in you, for His own good pleasure.

The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not be in want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside quiet waters.

He restores my soul.

He guides me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil,

For you are with me;

You rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies.

You anoint my head with oil,

my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

taking off the rose-colored glasses

If you have children (or ever hope to), R.E.A.D. this!  Jen Hatmaker exposes the secret thoughts shared by every honest mom everywhere.  (Well, at least her, and me).

Ahhh, it was hilarious!  Thankyousomuch Jen Hatmaker, for a great Saturday morning laugh.  And also for {inadvertently} validating how I feel so much of the time as I fumble through teaching my children at home. 

The Guilt. 

But you know what?  We're all in it together, aren't we - grumbling at how hard it is (some more hilariously than others, thank you Jen) but DOING IT ANYWAY because, well, it's right, and even though we sometimes want to take a permanent vacation from them, they are our children and we would pretty much offer our lives for them. 

Oh wait.  We ARE.

the farmer takes a wife

Remembering this evening, first posted two years ago ... my children still astonish me, and leave me amazed that a subdivision-raised girl like me could have daughters (and a son) so confidently knowledgeable about things I am only now discovering, both about the natural world and myself.  May God Himself sustain their faith and make it sure.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This evening, after supper, I walked with my Farmer (who carried our son) and three daughters, back behind the barn and along the ridge through the cornfields to the neighbor's pig barn to watch giant tractors bring their manure-spreaders in to be filled.

One was green (John Deere).  The other was red (Case IH).  The green one had huge double wheels.  The red one was hinged in the middle ("articulated", to those in the know).  Both pulled 7300-gallon tanks of liquid manure, the weight spread over three sets of tires (the front two could be lifted free from the ground).

My daughters held their noses and exclaimed over how big the tractors' wheels were.  My son, ears covered by his fleece cap but his little legs sticking out, chilly, where his pantlegs had ridden up, just gazed around in wonder at the wide, wide world.

I watched them, my children.  I am their mother - these offspring so foreign to me, sometimes.  They know so much about tractors, growing things, and manure.

We drove out to buy milk from a neighbor's dairy this morning.  We spotted some new calves and day-dreamed about having one at our house.  Sugar, in her 9-year-old wisdom,  said we couldn't keep it in the barn, though, or it might get hoof disease.  Hoof disease?!  Was that in the science curriculum somewhere that I missed?

On the way home,  I admired the green growing in a field and Sugar said it was probably rye.  

After we (well, I) had marveled long enough at the giant tractors, we headed back home over the cornfields.  Sugar and Spice ran ahead, hair flying brilliant in the setting sun.  Nice stayed with me, hanging on to my arm and telling me what a nice mommy I was.  Lil' Snip bounced along on Daddy's arm and just looked and looked and looked.

I wonder what he was thinking ....

How to be a Good Mother, Part 2

Once more I have the pleasure of introducing a daughter-writer to you, this time Sugar, who caught the spirit of things with the discovery of Spice's Tips, and wrote up a few of her own.  I do, of course, plan to present them both with their lists upon the births of their first children.  It will be my greatest joy to watch them succeed where I floundered.  

I present to you:


Sugar's Tips on How to Be a Good Mother:

1. Make sure you know who is responsible for the problem.

2. Try to be patient, so that the noise level won't have your contribution.

3. Make sure your punishment works, that is, keeps them from wanting to do it again.

4. Try to understand why they did it.

5. Don't expect too much of them, remember, they're human too.

6. Set a good example, they watch you and look up to you.

7. Set options : "Do the right thing or you'll have to...", but not as a threat.

8. Give them a little responsibility, just enough to make them feel important, but no more than they can handle.

9. Stop habits as soon as they start, that's when they're easiest to stop.

10. Don't put up with whining and begging, it makes everyone unhappy.  Instead, imitate a cheerful voice.

11. Teach your children to respect one another and one another's needs.

12. Tell your child what they did wrong,what they should do instead, and give them a chance to do it before you apply punishment.

13. Don't make punishments too hard.

14. Eat healthy foods most of the time, it'll keep your teeth in good condition.  It will also teach your children good habits.

15. Don't accuse your child of doing wrong, ask them if they did it or not.

16. Make sure your children tell the truth, teach them to speak it early on and they will always remember it.

17. Teach your children good habits while they're young, so that they're won't be as many bad ones to break.

18. Talk gently, not angrily or in a cross way.

19. Explain your feelings.  It will help your children feel ashamed if they did wrong, and eager to help if you're sad.

20. Keep a personal "mother's diary" to look back and see your progress at being a patient mother.

21. Don't say 'no' right off when your child asks you something.  Give yourself time to think it over; then they will know that you actually decided what was best for them.

22. Help your children understand your choices.

23. If your children go to school, make sure they learn housework as well as play.

24. When you tell your children something that they're to do, explain how to do it so that they understand and don't forget it.

25. Don't let your children stay up very late, remember; "early to bed, early to rise, makes a man (or child) healthy...and wise.

How to be a Good Mother

Dear Readers,

Today I have the pleasure of introducing my daughter Spice to you, by way of a guest post written by her.  She has been collecting ideas on how to be a good mother, and writing them down in her journal, in order to be able to consult them when she is in the position of raising children herself.  Spice has generously allowed me to not only read her list (asterisked tips to my special attention - I'll let you guess which ones!), but has also agreed to share them with you here.

Without further ado, I present to you:



Spice's Tips on How to Be a Good Mother:

Tip #1 - Always be sympathetic, not ever cross or stern.

Tip #2 - Always make sure that your child is actually sorry.

Tip #3 - Only give children punishments that you know are helping.

Tip #4 - If a child does something wrong, do something kind to them and they will be sorry.

Tip #5 - Never scold, explain things gently and only if the child still rebels or is mean, scold or punish.

Tip #6 - Explain how you feel to your children, if they know how you feel they may try to act better.

Tip #7 - Ask your children what they think.

Tip #8 - Make sure your children (or child) know that you understand their side of the problem.

Tip #9 - If your child is whiny, gently tell them the options, then if they are still whiny give them the punishment.


Pretty good, aren't they?  I'll keep you updated when she has more for us ....

to be a mother

crocheted white lace placemat.

aqua glass of white-bell'd lily-of-the-valley.

smiles.

homemade cards.

"'oooh' over MINE, Mommy!"

eggs they made, and toast, and coffee.

the gift of 'go.'

a parking-lot pause, to breathe.

sun-filled car & friend.

drumbeats, goatskin under palms.

mushroom and goat cheese and spinach between bread.

downpour.

coffee again, and calories just because.

fingering all that beauty - beads & cloth & stone & wood.

talking lost & found, conflict & surrender.

home.

quiet.

breathe in.

hugs.

gingerbread pig dough and supper soup to make, and letting them stir.

bed made up with fresh sheets, by daughters.

ducks outside (mostly) where they belong.

piano music to Spanish crooning.

contentment.

I am a mother.  Somehow, they love me, those little people whose lives depend on mine for so much.  Somehow they forgive my faults, and - oh God! - forget them, besides.  They say I'm fun, and cheerful, and pretty and they truly see that in me.  These are gifts I never deserved, never thought to ask for.  

I've learned about God's love by watching Him form it in me for those little ones, growing so fast into what He made them to be.  What I didn't know was that He's also teaching me about His love .... by loving me through them.

and to top it all off, a rainbow after supper, interrupting dishes and baths-to-be.

Happy Mothers' Day 

to all of you who mother.

on rainy Monday mornings

It's a rainy Monday morning, and somehow there are candles lit, soft music a background to children playing and studying and working, laundry whirring in the machine, and peace reigns.  Remarkable.

I am not a morning person.  NOT.  So (this will sound like backward logic, but stick with me) I have to get up early enough to have some time to myself before I start my jobs (mothering, homeschooling) just like I did before children, when I left home to work.

So I get up at 5:30 (well, 5:42 by the time I'm done hitting the snooze button) to give me time to shower (which is to say, "wake up"), read my Bible (or something "inspirational", which yes, is sometimes email or facebook), make and eat breakfast with my Farmer, and have a few minutes to [eat our chocolate allotment and] chat a little before the troops descend.  At which time I go get Lil' Snip, still miraculously confined to his crib.

The troops, sometimes also referred to as children, wake up between 6:30 and 7, but our mantra is "morning time is quiet time" (to keep Mommy sane, basically), so they may read quietly in their beds (Bibles, Bible storybooks, etc.) until 7, then they dress and make beds and put away pjs before they come down, by which time I am fully awake (most days) and have hopefully found a good attitude about life.  Lil' Snip, as yet unfamiliar with our morning mantra, chooses from an assortment of activities of his choosing:  singing, banging on walls, thumping feet on crib, telling stories to his bear, exclaiming over something he can see from his window, or wailing for no discernible reason.  He also showed me yesterday how he lies on his back and kicks his feet in the air.  Never at a lack for entertainment, that one.

Not the system for every family, I know, but it works well for us, keeps Mommy out of professional therapy, and helps the children's mornings to go more peacefully, too.

It hasn't always worked so smoothly.

In the pre-reading era, a lot of intervention was needed.  Certain sisters hit and/or taunted certain other sisters.  Certain sisters tattled.  Certain sisters wailed with remarkable volume and intensity.  Loud thumps startled my Farmer and me from our coffee.  I despaired of ever, ever, EVER enjoying mornings.

But, little by little, we have somehow, by God's most generous grace, been insistent on our standards for mornings, and now it is hard (and yes, almost humorous) to remember those infuriatingly tumultuous mornings of so long ago (oh, say, last year).

Of course, now that I wrote this, tomorrow morning may be a crazy-maker ..... but I'll be able to read this and remember that peace is likely to reign again, someday ....

what did you do all day??

When my Farmer comes home in the evening, we sit down to supper, thank God for his blessings, take a deep breath, and, after a bite or two, ask each other about our days.

"How was your day" I might ask.  And he'll tell me about spading and invoices and fertilizer and equipment design and interpersonal management.

And then he'll ask me, "and what did you do today?"

And I'll think to myself, now there's a good question.  What did I do today??  "Laundry," I might answer - usually a safe guess - or, "cooked supper" which is also nearly always true.  But the day is many hours long, is it not?  I'm pretty sure I didn't spend all of them doing laundry or cooking supper.  What, then, did I do??

So one day last week, after my Farmer waved goodbye from the Box (our Scion xB) as he turned out the driveway, I grabbed a nice long receipt from Kmart, and turned it over to keep tally on the back.  I was determined to find out just what I did do all day.

I got as far as 1:30pm.  Here's what my research found:

5:34 (I had to think back a bit from when I started writing around 7:30) - hit snooze on alarm
5:38 - hit snooze again
5:42 - hit snooze, roll over, turn alarm off and get up.  Shower, contacts, dress.
6:10 - check email & facebook while making coffee, read Bible
6:40 - make eggs for my Farmer & me; eat together and chat about our week

7:15 - 9:00 - a bit of a blur as the children come down for hugs & get their breakfast ready, put away dishes, feed cats, etc.  I get Lil' Snip up, change his diaper, spoon oatmeal into his mouth while he distracts himself with Legos, dress him, tell everyone the agenda for the day (we're on spring break, so no schoolwork - hurray!! - just housework and play plans).  Somewhere in there my Farmer kisses us all and goes to work, I start some laundry, oversee the girls' morning chores, take some clothes to the attic for yardsaling next month, and play Legos with Lil' Snip and Nice.

9 - 10 - put Lil' Snip in his crib for some morning quiet time, work on the budget, place an Amazon order, continue to oversee the girls' chores, and then bring Lil' Snip back down to play.

10 - 10:30 - comparison shop on Amazon for purses I will probably never buy.

10:30 - 11 - brief phone call from a new friend, business call to the dentist to make appointments and inquire about getting a crown (ugh), switch the laundry over to the dryer, make up some baking soda shampoo, and take the mail out to the mailbox.

11 - 1 - play Legos, start beans for supper, experiment with neodymium magnets and duct tape, look for my crab soup recipe, clean recipe box, fold laundry, try (and, largely, fail) to find out online whether it's better economy to buy new or refilled HP ink cartridges, read the grocery flyer and make up my list, during lunch when Victoria Falls comes up in conversation look up and admire video footage of the falls on youtube and possible origins on wikipedia, take photos of Sugar's birthday duds, load photos onto the computer and send them to my sister-in-law, read to Lil' Snip & put him down for his nap.

1 - 1:30 - read to Sugar, Spice, and Nice from Those Happy Golden Years, send them upstairs for quiet reading time, and work on my homework for the Bible study we're doing in our moms' group.

At which point I evidently abandoned my receipt (which was nearly full anyway).  Let's just assume it was more of the same:  lots of unremarkable little things that end up taking all day, and don't make for very interesting conversation.

But at least now I know.

[and, for the record, writing and editing this post took me about three hours - interspersed, of course, with receiving various mysterious blanket-and-ribbon-wrapped Lego creations, charting cross-stitch on graph paper & counselling a frustrated stitcher, putting down Lil' Snip and getting him up from his nap, receiving a ten-I-mean-40-minute phone call from a friend, getting everyone outside and then getting distracted and accidentally weeding three flowerbeds, coming inside for a pruners and seeing that it's time to make lunch ....]

separated? never!

It had been one of those days:  Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice at each other's throats like wild dogs, bickering and blaming and outright brawling, and under and around and through it all, Lil' Snip's grating whine - when did he become a whiner?! - insisting that someone hold him, that someone read to him, read to him, read to him, again!, that someone play with him - nooooo, this way!!

I was ready to die.  [sorry, I know it's dramatic, but that's the way it was.]  Actually - by God's grace alone - I had died, over and over, to my self that day.  And as naptime mercifully approached, and I tucked the loudly protesting toddler under my arm and carried him, struggling violently, up to his cage, I mean crib, God shone His light on my heart, and taught me something beautiful about His own.

I still loved that Lil' Snip.  He had been purely intolerable that morning, and somehow I had not only tolerated him, but I still loved that inharmonious, recalcitrant bundle of muscled will.  All his discordant belligerence, his complete lack of courtesy and grace had done nothing - nothing - to separate him from my love for him.  I was happy to be separated from him for a few hours, it's true, but at my core, my heart still beat love, love, love, love toward him.

And that's God's heart toward me, toward you:  nothing, nothing, can separate us from His love.  Sin keeps us from intimacy from Him, but even sin does not change His love for us.

When Lil' Snip awoke, cheerful and compliant (actually, his snit lasted a few days, but let's compress that for the sake of brevity), ready again to receive my love, I forgave* him his obstinance and accepted him gladly back into my arms.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? 

Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine

or nakedness or danger or sword?

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, 

neither angels nor demons,

neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,

neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, 

will be able to separate us from the love of God 

that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Romans 8:35, 38-39

-------------------------------------------------

* a difference here is that my toddler does not confess his sin; when we, however, "confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness" (I John 1:8-10).  Needless to say, another difference is that I, unlike God, am powerless to cleanse Lil' Snip from his unrighteousness, much as I would like to be able to!

refuge

Earlier this morning as my children and I performed our various obligations, Lil' Snip came running to me, tears streaming, wailing with toddler offense.  He flung himself at me, and with his sturdy little self came a flash of insight:  I am his refuge.

This is what refuge is - it's what you run to, when you're in trouble or afraid.  It's what you fling yourself on, when you need comfort, or help, or defending.

Even (sometimes) when the one who is your refuge is the one who you're angry with.

Cast all your cares on him, for he takes care of you.

I Peter 5:7

What do I run to for comfort?  facebook?  chocolate?  friends?  books?

Where do you turn?  shopping? exercise? work?

Not bad things, those, just not a true refuge, not a fortress, not powerful to save.

Let's run to the One who made us, who has loved us since before we were born.  The One who truly cares about us. The One who truly can and does take care of us.

He alone can comfort, help, defend and protect.  He alone is a Refuge.

God is our refuge and strength,

a very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,

though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea,

though its waters roar and foam,

though the mountains quake with its turmoil.

Psalm 46:1-3

my pieces

Motherhood, someone said, is having your heart walk around outside your body, a piece in each of your children.

I watched my pieces tonight.

One of them, we won't say who (winkwink), got his hair cut, and squirmed such exquisitely-timed squirms that you would almost think he tried it.  And then, when it was over, and his parents had reconciled, and the helpers (one to hold a bowl for the hair and one to provide commentary for the laptop tractor video that his father couldn't see because the haircutter's arm was blocking his view) had dispersed, and his mother was sprawled in a lawnchair to recover, then he came over with his charmingest smile, put his head in my lap, and said "more haircut?" so winsomely that I almost thought he meant it.  But then I saw the twinkle.

That boy is solid twinkle.  (Although sometimes the twinkle is temporarily obscured by certain other traits!)

Another of my pieces followed her biking sisters on her trike, down the grass, down past the house, down the treacherous-to-tricycles hill, but got distracted by the possibility of ripening red raspberries and never made it to the end of the lawn.  She found three that were red enough, and promptly ran back to the porch to give one each to my Farmer and me.

Generous to the core, that piece.

The oldest piece taught the twinkly-trouble piece how to go "wheeeeeeeee!!" down the little hill on a mini Big Wheel.  He laughed his head off and repeated it over and over, stopping only to offer his teacher a turn.

And where, we wondered suddenly, was the middle piece?  Off riding bike by herself, it turned out, and I remembered how, as a crawling baby, she would bore of the toys (or was it the company?) in the room we occupied, and strike out on her own for new territory.  I'm glad that her current explorations are still limited to what's within sight of the house, mostly, and that she still cherishes my company, at least when I'm tucking her into bed at night.

We took some pictures of the newly-shorn one, and tucked him giggling into his crib.  Sat dumbfounded on the porch a bit, dazed still by the speed with which life rushes past, and finally called the others in as dusk fell, to popsicles and prayers and praise.

Having my heart in pieces means more heartache, it's true, but there is more fullness, too.  We used to have that now-illusive "peace & quiet", true, but not nearly so much laughter.

It's a good trade.

multiple choice

Your toddler has developed a definite whine, despite no apparent physical maladies.  His insistent and, er, melodious "Mommmmmy - UP!" grates on your nerves and increases in volume as the morning progresses.  You have fed him breakfast.  You have held him.  You have reminded him to say "Mommy, up please" in his "nice" voice.  You have played trucks with him.  You have balanced him on one hip while trying to  make the printer do what all good printers should (namely, to print!!).  You have helped him pull a chair to the counter to watch you chop onions.  You have finally had enough.  You scoop him up lovingly, put his sandals on and hold his hand to walk outside.  He plays happily with a kitty.  You call over his capable older sister, instruct her as to his care, and kiss him adieu.  He breaks into a heartbreaking (and earsplitting) wail and trots after you, tears streaming down his bouncing little cheeks, as you attempt to head inside.

Do you .... :

a) ... turn around, pick him up with a resigned smile, and tell yourself that it's just for a season .... he'll be off to college before you know it?

b) ... turn around, lose your temper and tell him in no uncertain terms what you think of this childish behavior?  [irony intended]

c) ... walk resolutely back into the house, knowing that the boy is loved and safe?

d) ... walk back inside, wanting to cry yourself, completely unsure of what is best for him?

e) ... respond with wisdom and grace by _____________ ?

sometimes, love

Sometimes, at our house, we snap and shove and use mean outside voices.  Sometimes, we are irritated and selfish and resentful.  Sometimes we scheme and exclude and brush each other off.  Sometimes brows are furrowed in discouragement and books are closed too firmly and pencils are sharpened longer than necessary. Sometimes we frown when we could smile, and don't make eye contact, when we could.  Sometimes we cry, and love is hard to see.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, though, I hear a toddler call his sister sweetly, and she leaps up gladly to run to him.

Sometimes the two warring ones sit with heads together, reading fairy poems or "making" cat food.

Sometimes, unexpected, a sister offers to take her cranky brother outside so my Farmer and I can have a whine-less chat.

Sometimes, my eyes are opened, if only for a moment, to see the eternal reality at work in my family.  Training lasts only for a season; love endures forever.

[note to older mothers:  if I am deluded, somehow, please allow me my momentary delusion.  I need it today.]

save the storks

Just a quick note to spread the word:  a new movement/business is arising in Dallas (home of Roe v. Wade) to save the lives of unborn children.

It's called Save the Storks and its method is simple - outfit a Sprinter van with sonagram machine, a licensed operator, a counselor, a tidy and attractive interior, and park outside an abortion clinic.  Approach a potential clinic customer with a smile and an offer for a free sonogram.  Provide the service with love, and connect her with Get Involved For Life in order to meet of her pregnancy or quality-of-life needs.  They're prepared to call a cab for her if she needs a ride to the nearest pregnancy center.



Save the Storks is raising money to outfit these vans and then GIVE them to pregnancy centers.  They need our money, yes, but after that, they are going to need our baby clothes, our time, our prayers, our myriad talents, our spare rooms, whatever it takes to care for the moms and babies who need us.


Save the Storks Dallas Bus Story from SavetheStorks on Vimeo.


For more information, check out this article on Save the Storks, or visit their website, www.savethestorks.com.  Give what you can, and spread the word!

The wings of the ostrich flap joyfully, but are her feathers and plumage like the stork's?  She abandons her eggs on the ground and lets them be warmed in the sand.  She treats her young harshly, as if they were not her own, with no fear that her labor may have been in vain.  For God has deprived her of wisdom; He has not endowed her with understanding.   ~Job 39:13-17

a way out

If you've read many of my posts, you know by now that I do not consider motherhood to be for the faint of heart.  If you're a mother who finds her job a breeze, you will probably want to just move along, go check out Pinterest or read the Post or something, because this one will just make no sense to you.  For the rest of us . . .

 : : :

I know no one really enjoys having sick children (and if you do - I really, really don't want to hear about it), but the last couple of years I'm embarrassed to say I have become downright fearful about it.

Having grown up on granola and garden veggies (thank you, Mom & Dad!), I've always been interested in God-made, health-promoting nutrition and remedies for sickness.  My "medicine cabinet" has included ginger, elderberry, aloe, prunes, honey, lemon, vinegar, garlic, chicken broth, and Vitamin D (and, yes, Band-Aids & Tylenol).

I guess I kind of got to thinking I had the sickness thing covered.  My insurance was starting to look pretty tight. . . . until the fear started.

I would hear a friend mention her sick child, or read on facebook about a bug going around, and begin to scrutinize my children for symptoms.  Were their cheeks overly rosy?  Did they seem lethargic?  Was anyone's appetite suspect?

I'd go to bed fighting images of my children, sick in the night - literally battling the anxious thoughts parachuting into my mind like trained stealth invaders.  I'd pray.  Sing.  Recite scripture.  I'd visualize each child healthily sleeping, dreaming of rainbows and kittycats.

Eventually, I'd go to sleep.

It was exhausting, to say the least.  And it didn't always work, for long.  And even when it was working, the fears just seemed to come along all the more frequently, as if to make up for lost ground.

I knew it was no way to live for a Christian professing faith in God.  But I didn't know of any way to deal with it other than battle.

And then - a book.  I am always humbled that God, who knows my love for reading, is willing to speak to me through other people's books.  Hinds' Feet on High Places was on my reading stack, and was teaching me about living a life of faith.  At one point in the allegory, Much-Afraid, the protagonist with whom I could  identify all too well, was in the desert of suffering and slavery.  In all the barren landscape, she spotted a single flower, called Acceptance-with-Joy.  She realized that since she could trust the Shepherd, she could trust whatever he offered her:  even suffering.

Not long after reading that, I had another night of fear.  I was waging my usual mental battle when I remembered Much-Afraid and her little flower.

What if ... ?

Like a shaft of sunlight entering a dark room I saw the way out.  Acceptance-with-Joy!  If God wants to give me sick children to take care of, then I will accept that with (eventually, I hope) joy.

Immediately Fear vanished like a bogeyman falling through a hidden trapdoor.  Gone!  I was free!  I could hardly believe it could be so simple.

 : : :

As long as I insisted on having healthy children, Fear always had an entrance:  "what if your children get sick?!?!"  And as long as I panicked in response ("oh, no!!  what if they get sick?!"), Fear had a place to stay.

When I could respond to Fear's "what if - ?!" with a trusting, "Then I accept that with joy", it took the wind right out of Fear's sails - and left me submitted and secure.  This yoke I've put on is easy; His burden is light.

I kind of like submitted and secure; it sure beats anxious and fearful.

I still have my "medicine cabinet" for preventing and treating real illnesses as they may arise, but that particular Fear is dead and buried, and I am beautifully free at last - to trust my Shepherd, and to enjoy my children without worrying unduly about tomorrow.

"...the moon sees me"

The moon outside the window rises round and white, so bright it throws shadows on the ground beneath the pecan tree.

An hour just passed. And in that hour, ordinary enough, a little boy bounced on a trampoline. Two little heads pored over a book and a magazine. A daddy paged through a tool catalog. A mommy smiled at her children over the top of her novel. A little girl catered to her brother's wishes, spreading blankets over sofa cushions for him to tiptoe over.

My Farmer read a tiny board book to Lil' Snip. Sugar showed us children's artwork from her magazine (while being tickled by Lil' Snip, who is always learning something new & useful), and read us horse poems, and the good jokes. (“Knock-knock. Who's there? Cash. Cash who? No thanks, I prefer peanuts.”).  Nice tried to distract Lil' Snip off of the trampoline (so she could use it) by teaching him how to open drawers in the filing cabinet.  Spice read aloud from her book of stories, dramatically, to anyone who would listen. Lil' Snip sat up straight beside her on the cushionless chair. 

On the elliptical, I laid aside my novel to listen to Spice's story, and gave Lil' Snip a ride till my arms begged for mercy. He's heaviest after supper.

Then we all kissed Lil' Snip good-night and my Farmer tucked him in. Coloring books and crayons came out till second bedtime was announced.  We sang and read and thanked God for the good, and now they're all tucked under their covers, tissues close by for the sniffly ones.

The moon is up in the pecan branches now, high over the house, full.

I'm full, too.

                    I see the moon and the moon sees me,

                    Hiding under the old apple tree.

                    God bless the moon, and God bless me . . .

laying it down...

... again.

And again.

... and yet again.

This Jesus guy, he means business.  I guess I should have figured that out when Peter, all pious intentions, asked how often one ought to forgive, and offered seven times, magnanimously, he thought.  This Jesus corrected him:  "not seven times, but seven times seven."

So when he says "whoever wants to follow me must deny himself", he means that, and he means it all the way.  Not just once and done, but daily.  (He knows we need the practice, I guess)  If you tell him that you will, that you want to follow him and you're willing to deny yourself in order to do so, your incomplete comprehension is no impediment to him.  He just sets about teaching you.  Right away, if not sooner.

I got me a teaching this morning.

A few days ago I finally bought an armload of material for making curtains for our bedroom, five windows-worth.  The idea had been conceived over a year ago, so now that I have the fabric, I was eager to get the project underway.

Just a little bill-paying this morning, and then while Isaiah had his "rest" (euphemism for "we all need a little break from you and 60 minutes would almost do the trick") I would lay out the first two curtains and get cutting.

But....

"... lay it down ..."

God's plans for my morning did not include making curtains.

He had in mind, instead, correcting pride in one daughter, and rebellion in another.  Scripture was called for in one situation, extra chores in the other.  Tears were involved in both.  Faithfully, pulling the Lion's share of the load on his side of the yoke, he led me true.  Spirits were softened, not broken.  Hearts were gently polished of imperfection until they shone.

It worked, and it was beautiful.  I was grateful, but still I cried.

It was "just" giving up my plans, my desires, my hopes for "my" time.... again.  Just another laying down.  Sometimes it seems that motherhood is knit almost entirely of this difficult, knotted, slippery yarn.

I am hoping it gets easier with time.  Or, at least, that I get more willing.