Library Storytime and Carpet-Burned Nerves

Tonight we went to the library, me and the three kiddos (my husband had to work late), to sign up for a reading program.  It was a sweet little story time with music and coloring and snacks (and, of course, a story). 

We were among the first to arrive (because there is NEVER "on time" in this house-- only super early or late).  There were a few children sitting quietly on some carpet squares laid neatly on the floor.  My oldest wasted no time showing the other children that the carpet squares were not there to sit on, but to PLAY with!  When one mother chastised her son for picking up one of the squares, I felt shame radiating red from my heart to my face.  The message was clear to me even if she never meant to send it: If you were a good mom and a good citizen, you would not be letting your children mess with the carpet squares.

Meanwhile, I had let my two-year-old out of the stroller to risk him being out of control rather than listen to his piercing howl at being fastened in.  He went to join his sister in moving and picking up all the neatly organized squares -- does anyone else's children behave like this?  

Chaos ensued.  Okay, maybe not actual chaos in the library, but chaos in my heart, in my brain, in my nerves.  When my daughter got up in the middle of the story to go stand right in front of the storyteller, I felt those nerves like a carpet burn.  Then my youngest climbed out of the stroller (what one-year-old is able to get out of his stroller by himself?!)  I had to set down the middle one (who ran to the unguarded cookie table,  I might add) to pick up the climber -- severe carpet burn on the nerves.  When the evening (can I call it an evening when it was just half an hour?) finally ended, I was counting down my daughter to come with me while carrying a screaming and kicking two-year-old to the stroller.

By the time we walked in our front door, I was miserably short-tempered, and yelled much more than I care to admit or remember.  Later, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that God gave my children me as a mother, that He chose me, and that whatever quirks I have, He still picked me for them.  He could have given them any mother in the world, but He picked me.

Then I realized, it's not about me.  

Have you ever been on a missions trip?  You go to a less privileged group of people expecting to dramatically influence them, bring about some good in their lives that they can't do themselves.  Sometimes I get delusional before the trip and think it's about us helping them.  But more often than not, I realize that I am touched and transformed by their situation and often by their faith.  In the end, they help me understand more about God's love and faithfulness and ultimately readjust my life attitude.

It's the same with my kids.  

While God certainly picked me to be their mommy, He picked them to be my kids.  He could have given me children who sit quietly for pinterest-inspired crafts.  He could have given me children who love to look at books quietly for long periods of time.  But He didn't.

He gave me my kids, bursting with energy to the point where I think it might actually harm them to sit still.  My kids, who rarely get to help wash the dishes because they'll bang them against the sink until they break.  

Although I've often thought that parenting refines and shapes people, I'd never considered that God gave me these specific children to refine and shape me in specific ways.

It's not easy, and I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow and yell some more, but maybe seeing my kids as God's shaping tool will help.  Help me open my mind in those moments of carpet-burned nerves.  Maybe I'll be able to see through my own emotions and know that God has something to teach me beyond "be a better mother".  Maybe He wants to speak to my laziness or selfishness or hurried-ness.  Maybe in those unglued moments, He wants to chisel away something ugly to reveal beauty underneath.

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts.  Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life."  Psalm 139:23-24, NLT

My Kids are my Nice

I was in the bathroom this morning staring at our brown ottoman.  It's riddled with small holes and has several spots that have been rubbed off.  My children like to turn it every which way and climb on top, often  shouting  singing and calling it their "stage".  "Do DOOOO!  Do DOOOO!" (Hear "Let it go!  Let it go! from my two-year-old who has some slight speech delays.)

The ottoman now sits in our bathroom against a blank wall as our bath time stool.  It was one of the few spots in the house where it didn't give the children access to something breakable or dangerous.  And it saves my back and my knees at bath time.  Definitely a good thing.  :-)  As I looked at it, I thought about all the items in our house that show obvious signs of wear from our beloved children:

• The beautiful wooden table and chairs (handed down from my grandmother) with permanently crusted food in the cracks and glitter sparkling innocently in the crevices.  
• The broken blender from the same sweet two-year-old.  And the broken sheet of glass that goes on top of my dresser. 
• The dried banana slime and spoiled milk spills from dripping sippy cups in places I don't even know about...

You get the idea.

I should replace that ottoman, I thought.  But it would just get beat up again.  

At that moment a comment came to my mind, one that a woman I know well used to say around her children,

"You can't have anything nice with kids."

Immediately I chastised myself for even worrying about the ottoman.  My heart broke for her kids.  I dream of a home that's always clean and people walk in and think, "what a nice environment!  this is gorgeous!  it smells so nice!", but that's not the most important thing.  

I love it when my kids use that ottoman as a stage.  I will take my crusted chairs every day when it means that I get to watch them try new foods and see their eating skills improve.  And leftover glitter is a reminder of the fun we had making salt dough Christmas ornaments together.  Every sign of wear and tear is evidence that I'm blessed to raise children.  I get to hear their squeals of laughter at tickle time and read them bedtime stories and watch them grow and mature daily.

You can't have anything nice with kids?  Okay -- maybe you can't have nice furniture with kids.  But who cares?  My kids are my nice.

My kids are my nice.


"Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.  Children born to a young man are like sharp arrows in a warrior's hands.  How happy is the man whose quiver is full of them!  He will not be put to shame when he confronts his accusers at the city gates."  Psalm 127: 3-5, NLT

Moms' Night Out.

YES.  PLEASE.

My church recently played the new comedy, Moms' Night Out.  If you haven't seen it, you should.

It's packed with the crazy adventures most of us moms face daily (fear of salmonella, markers all over the walls, kids screaming in your ear then turning on the adorable), plus some unlikely circumstances to up the excitement.

When I sat down to watch this, I figured it was going to be funny (which is an understatement -- it was hilarious, especially being a stay-at-home mom often in need of a night out).  I didn't realize that it was going to be thoughtful, or as thoughtful as it was.  

If you haven't seen it yet, I don't want to ruin it, but I had no idea that so many moms struggle with feelings of unhappiness and inadequacy.  Every minute of the movie (okay -- not the biker gang or losing my baby or having my van stolen... if I had a van... -- but the day to day mommy stuff), I couldn't stop thinking, THIS IS MY LIFE.

Children playing in the toilet, making messes all over the house until it is AWFUL, feeling so unglued that I want to hide in my closet and eat chocolate, yep, the whole bag.  That's me.

And it can't possibly be just me, or nobody would have made a movie about it.  

I was reading in Romans this morning and came across this passage: 

"God has given each of us the ability to do certain things well.  so if God has given you the ability to prophesy, speak out when you have faith that God is speaking through you.  If your gift is that of serving others, serve them well.  If you are a teacher, do a good job of teaching.  If your gift is to encourage others, do it!  If you have money, share it generously.  If God has given you leadership ability, take the responsibility seriously.  And if you have a gift for showing kindness to others, do it gladly." Romans 12:6-8, NLT

So, if my job right now is to clean yogurt off our intricately grooved wooden chairs, change the diapers of my screaming son who is constantly trying to flip over and wriggle away, and bear the bruises of children who consider my body a jungle gym -- in other words, be a mom -- I need to do it well.  And, in fact, I'm the one chosen to do it well, the one God hand-picked for the job.  Only He had control over whom to give these beautiful children to, and He picked me.  Me.

I don't need to worry constantly that I'm doing a horrible job or that someone else would be doing a better job.  Nor do I need to worry what the mom across the street thinks when my daughter drops a marshmallow on the sidewalk and I tell her to pick it up and eat it.  I just need to be me, constantly changing for the better by God's grace, giving my best as a wife and mom every day.

Peanut Butter Fingers

My children love, and I mean LOVE, peanut butter.  Their great grandma introduced them to “peanut butter suckers” (read “spoons of peanut butter made to sound fancy and like candy”) and they’ve been begging for them ever since.  And the sandwiches!  Peanut butter with banana (toasted, of course), peanut butter and honey, classic PB & J.  Having apple slices?  Spread some peanut butter on them! 

Anyway, they love their peanut butter.  And, being young children, they aren’t super careful about where the peanut butter gets.  I mean, it gets everywhere.  Their fingers and cheeks are kind of a given, but I find it in their hair (all the way on the back of their heads), smeared on their chairs, stuck in the grooves of our wooden table, smudged on their bedroom window.  Today I found some in my daughter’s bed.  Seriously.

Now, I’m not so good with sticky fingers or slime of any kind.  When I make a wrap, I feel the need to rinse my hands after handling pretty much every ingredient.  (Set out the tortilla, spread on the ranch *rinse* lay out the meat *rinse* lay out the cheese *rinse* place the tomatoes *rinse* -- you get the idea.) 

I like clean hands, preferably clean and dry hands. 

But, my kids are messy, and they love peanut butter. 

So, I’m helping lead a teen girl’s Bible group this summer and the lesson this past week was on beauty.  The woman teaching read the story of the hemorrhaging woman in Mark 5:21-43.   She’s unimportant and considered gross and “unclean” by the community.  She sneaks up to Jesus in a crowd and touches his robe believing that will heal her.  It does, and Jesus feels it happen, so he stops to talk to her.

Jesus.  JESUS!  Like one of the most important and well-known people around.  He talks to her – the person that nobody else even wants to get near.  He had enough love and compassion in him that it didn’t disturb him to be around her.  He wasn’t afraid of being contaminated by her.

She reminded me of my kids and their peanut butter fingers, and I realized how ridiculous and unloving I can be.  During dinner, I lean away from their outstretched hands in order to avoid the gross, slimy fingers. Inwardly, I cringe at the goop, avoiding it if at all possible.  Too many days pass when I’d rather protect my skin from goop than let their hands touch me.

But Jesus sets a different example for us.  And it’s on an even grander scale.

I mean, these are my own kids, and I’m afraid of their slime.  How can I ever really love other people?  Jesus went to be with people whose lives were deep in the muck.  He talked to them, went to their houses, let them touch him, and loved them. 

It’s a small step, but it’ll be good practice: it’s time to let the peanut butter fingers touch my arms, and love the kids they belong to.  

A Rainbow for the Bride

This Saturday, I was watering plants outside my grandma's house.  The sun was bright, the air hot and humid, and the bugs numerous.  It had been a long day already, with a quick breakfast, shopping lists and plans.  As soon as I was done here, we were going to a birthday party, and then I'd stay home with the kids while my husband went out with friends.  It's going to be a late night, I thought as I watched the water stream from the hose and soak into the dirt.

Then I saw it.  A wash of color.  I moved the hose back and forth across the plants, searching this time.  Yes, there it was again.  

A rainbow.  

Interrupting my thoughts in the most subtle and beautiful way.  I kept swishing the hose over the grass to see more of it.  Then, another rainbow.  A double rainbow.  Just for me.  

It was as if God was saying, "Why are you so focused on the comings and goings in your life?  Why are you always searching for the next thing?  Just trying to get through until you can rest?  Look, I have a gift for you right now."

I laughed like a child, giddy with glee as I pointed the hose up into the air above my head, searching to see more of the rainbow.  It misted all around me and I saw the rainbow encircle me, reflecting off the droplets.

I looked in awe, soaking in the glory while the water soaked my hair.  All this for me?  It wasn't a rainbow in the sky, visible to all.  It was just for me.  Like a kiss in the dark, a secret shared between two souls.  The memory of it lingered the next day, bringing a smile to my face every time I thought of it.  Such a wash of color, completely unexpected in the hubbub of my day.

The Bible says we're the bride of Christ, His church.  It always sounded so formal to my ears, like an arranged marriage.  He comes to lead and provide and we go through the motions of a marriage, but romance?  Certainly not.  How would that even work with God?  But when I saw this rainbow, it was as if God was courting me.  Showing up on my doorstep with flowers He handpicked, just because He knew I liked them.

Then I remembered Hosea.  God instructs him to marry a prostitute to illustrate the way Israel's people committed adultery with other gods.  In the second chapter, God talks about holding Israel accountable.  Then he says, "But then I will win her back once again.  I will lead her out into the desert and speak tenderly to her there ... In that coming day," says the Lord, "you will call me 'my husband' instead of 'my master.'" (Hosea 2:14,16)

How interesting.  God wants to win Israel back.  He wants to speak tenderly to her.  Like a jealous man fighting for the woman he loves after she's had an affair, romancing her.  Even now, thinking of it, I feel warmth spreading through my limbs, delight bubbling up like laughter.  It's amazing.  God, who made the heavens and the earth, God, to whom we must seem like grasshoppers, is romantic.  And he wants us, is willing to fight for us, to romance us, to sacrifice His Son for us.  Like the hero sacrificing all to save the damsel in distress.

And He showed up on my doorstep with a rainbow, just for me, on an ordinary, busy Saturday morning?  Incredible.  

Dental Floss and Daily Routine

I recently went to the dentist.  Ah, dreaded appointment.  While I don't look forward to the tense muscles, the aftermath of laying stiff as a board for a half hour, the real horror lies in the question.

I can feel the anxiety building as I sit down in the chair, bracing myself for the polishing and the supersonic water tool.  I breathe deeply and look up at the white ceiling tiles to avoid the bright yellow light shining into my open mouth.  The turquoise face mask comes into view as she begins.  We get through nearly the whole cleaning before it comes up, that question I have to answer.  It plagues my worried heart.  Ever the responsible person, I feel drowned in guilt knowing my answer.  Another rinse, and I know it's coming.  Then it's upon me:  "Have you been flossing regularly?"

"No," I say.  I try to smile apologetically.  It's one of those daily routines I just haven't adopted.  Some nights I'm too tired.  Other nights I forget.  Sometimes I realize my appointment is approaching, so I floss a few times in a desperate effort to support a more responsible answer.

"Even if you can floss a few times a week to start, that will help," says the dental hygenist.

"Okay."  I know I'll try again.  Every appointment, I leave saying I'm going to floss, even just those few times weekly.  The first week or two, I stick to it.  Then I start making excuses.  "I don't want to tonight" and "I'll do it tomorrow night" and "If I miss it one time, it can't make that much of a difference."  It's like a New Year's resolution, so determined at first.  Then, by February, nearly forgotten.

More often than I'd like to admit, this is also how I treat reading the Bible.  It's a routine that should be practiced daily, consistently.  And yet, I put it off.  I make excuses.  "I'm too tired."  "The kids are already awake."  "I've got to clean the house."

But, even though the routine can seem tedious, that's the only way to intimacy with God.

It doesn't happen overnight.

Much like flossing, the addition or subtraction of one day makes little difference.  Whether I floss today or not has a minimal effect on my gums.  Whether I read my Bible today or not has a minimal effect on my heart.  But if I don't do it today, chances are I won't do it tomorrow or the next day.  And then I drift further away.

It's through daily immersion in Scripture that God changes hearts.

Psalm 119:11 reads: "I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you."

Ephesians 6 reads: "Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes... Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God."  

It's His word which gives us the strength we need day by day to fight evil.  Jesus even quotes this Scripture to Satan, "Man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord" (Deuteronomy 8:3).  It's His Word that nourishes us, His Word that breathes life into us, allowing us to see the world through a different lense.  And if we don't take the time to read it daily, consistently, then we miss out on God.

Do Lists and Spirit Fruit

The past few months, life has been pretty overwhelming.  With three little kids, housekeeping, bills, etc., I just can’t keep up.  I find myself feeling guilty every night when my husband gets home from work simply because I haven’t accomplished my do-list.  He’s usually very understanding, but I still feel guilty.

Before I became a housewife, I thought it would be simple.  I’d been teaching elementary school in a rough district with rough students. Every class period was an exercise in self-control.  I’d had to commute two hours each day.  Plus I still needed to do the normal adult tasks of daily life.  So little time.

When I left my job to stay at home with our baby (with another on the way), I thought I was cutting out a lot -- a whole job!  My stress should go down, right?  My new job description: take care of the kids.  No boss to worry about, no commuting, plus I could wear comfy clothes (and shoes!) every day.  But now, two years in, I have an enlightened perspective.  I see what’s involved in “taking care of the kids”: diapering, feeding, dressing, bathing, playing with, loving… there’s not even time for housework, let alone hobbies.

I feel my heart beating in my throat some days just thinking about the work that needs to be done.  But sometimes, I want to watch my daughter dance around the room like a ballerina.  When she holds out a stuffed animal and tells me he’s sick, I want to ask what happened.  I want to play with her.  I want to pay attention to my son as he learns new words, to savor every mispronunciation.  They outgrow them so fast.  I want to watch my youngest rock back and forth on his hands and knees, anticipating his first crawling step.  I don't want to tell them "not now" or "I'm busy" or "in a little bit."

But then when do I clean or cook?  When can I paint?  When do I finish planning those lessons for Sunday morning preschoolers?  I can’t be the best mom and have the cleanest house and pursue the most crafty projects and be the most faithful church volunteer.  It's impossible. And these are only a few of the ideals that tug on my heart.  There is not enough time, not enough energy to fulfill them all.  

As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m not perfect.  

Only a day or two a month do I reach the end of my do-list by the end of the day. And some days, a lot of days, it really bugs my perfectionist brain.  It’s like an itch in the middle of my back: I contort my arm and body trying to reach it thinking that once I scratch it, all will be right in my world.  

But here’s the truth: getting through my do-list is not really what matters.  I’ve deceived myself into thinking that the tasks that fill up my days are what matter the most.

That’s not true.

God’s opinion of me matters the most.  And He doesn’t care whether I crossed off every task today.  He cares about my attitude, about the state of my heart.  As a follower of Christ, I am supposed to be filled with the Spirit, the Holy Spirit who transforms my heart to act with these qualities: “But the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.  Against such things there is no law.” Galations 5:22-23

Nowhere does it say the fruit of the Spirit is daily productivity.  If I am truly filled with the Spirit, then the do-list is not my top priority.  I can be free of the burden of being a perfect housewife.  Does that mean I should neglect my responsibilities?  No.  But when I live with these characteristics on my heart, I’m altered.  I’m free to love and work without letting the do-list measure my success.  Acting out of love, I can change diapers, make lunch, read bedtime stories.  I can continue joyfully through my day of work with peace.  And if I work hard and don't finish it all, that’s alright.  It’s not how God measures my success.  He wants me to love, to be joyful and peaceful and patient, to act with kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.  I must let that be the measure of my success.  Not “What did I get done today?” but “Did I produce the fruits of the Spirit today?”

Mountain of Dishes

Have you ever been overwhelmed?  Too much to do?  Find yourself procrastinating whatever task looms?

For me, it was a mountain of dirty dishes.  Crusted cottage cheese bowls, placemats smeared with dried oatmeal, a large pot thick with layers of mac-and-cheese residue.  

All waiting for me.

So instead I sat staring at the toys scattered over the living room floor, watching the minutes tick by.  I knew I should get up and deal with the mess while the children were napping.  I kept thinking that those dishes might just disappear if I waited long enough.  

I can dream, right?

Maybe I could even take a nap.  Maybe fairies would come in and tidy up so I could wake up to order and cleanliness…  Oh, and they could vacuum!  And scrub the toilet!  And surely they’ll do the dishes for me!  Wouldn’t that be nice?  

Well, I’m sorry to say that no fairies arrived.  So, reluctantly, I got up and headed to the kitchen.  Every counter, including the stovetop and table, was covered.  Both sinks were full.  You may have heard of a magical thing called a dishwasher.  Perhaps you even have one!  In my house, that (not so) magical thing is… me.  

We do dishes the old-fashioned way, in a soapy sink with a washcloth.  So, I reached my hand into the leftover dishwater from the night before and drained it.  Cold, slimey water full of lettuce bits and noodle remnants disappeared slowly down the drain, leaving a marinara-tinged grease ring around the edges of the stainless steel.  

After a deep breath, I began moving dishes from the sinks out onto the counter to make room to wash.  

A few minutes later, I was scrubbing away. As I stuck my hands in the searing water full of fresh suds, I could feel my tension subsiding.  “I can do this,” I thought, “Just one dish at a time.”  Then I smiled at the thought, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matthew 6:34

Each day has enough trouble of its own.

As I stood in my filthy kitchen, washing one dish at a time, I realized that was all I had to do (in fact, all I could do) -- one dish at a time.  I didn’t even have to think about the pots and pans piled on the stove, not until I'd finished the dishes in my sink.  And even then, only one at a time.

Each day has enough trouble of its own.  I am a natural worry-wart, so I’ve clung to this verse many times.  But this time I processed the depth of my ineptitude, my astounding need for God’s grace and energy to combat my worry.  I had never realized that I need to take things one minute at a time.  God’s grace is sufficient for me, and I need Him desperately.  But not just once a day.  I need Him every minute.  I can’t run on my own juice any longer than that -- it all is God.  

Parenting Thoughts

Easter.  It truly is an incredible holiday.  We celebrate the most miraculous moment of our faith, that moment which gives us hope beyond possibility and reason.   So full of joy.   These days, it’s also full of candy.  While I shake my fists at the Easter market for commercializing another celebration of Christ, I’m divided.  In some ways I’m disgusted by the candy and Easter bunnies and the pressure to buy.  But then, it’s tradition, something to be shared and enjoyed in family.  And while it’s a tradition honoring spring and new life (Easter bunnies, eggs), the idea of “new life” is equally applicable to the Resurrection.  Even more so.  

After it’s over, though, we have LOTS of candy.  I don’t even purchase candy at Easter, but we end up with a ton. 

And my children know it.

“I want some more tandy,” she says.  Her eyes twinkle bright with the thought.  She stands in the kitchen, dressed in her pink pajamas.  Blond wisps spill over her eyes, tugged loose in her sleep.  I sip my coffee to hide my smile.

“Sweetheart, we’re not going to have any candy right now.  First, we’re going to eat breakfast.  Then later we’ll eat lunch.  If you eat your lunch, you can have a piece of candy after lunch, but not before.”  I try hard to sound firm, but I know.  I feel her desire.  It’s strong -- sugar.  It calls to me in my adulthood.  Too many mornings I reach for a leftover brownie instead of oatmeal.  Or a chocolate chip cookie.  Or a piece of Easter candy…

“But I want some more.”

“I know you want more, but candy isn’t good for your body.  It makes you tired.  It takes your energy away.”  How do I explain the evils of something with no discernable immediate effects to my three-year-old?  She can’t possibly understand.  She’s never personally experienced obesity or the constant sluggishness that sugar can induce.  In fact, she does not have the capacity at this point in her life to even comprehend such delayed consequences.  What she associates with sugar is taste, the immediacy of melting chocolate on the tongue.

How do I explain?  I can’t. 

Why?  Because she and I think differently.

“‘My thoughts are completely different from yours,’ says the LORD.  ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.  For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.’” Isaiah 55:8-9

The developmental difference between parent and child is obvious.  Why then, when it comes to God, do I think I can understand it all?   I want the explanation.  I crave the explanation.  For every decision He makes.  Why, God?  Why can’t I eat more candy?  Why can’t I have more enjoyable experiences?  Why must I endure anything but lasting pleasure?  But I can’t understand the explanation any better than a three-year-old understands the limiting of candy.

“Please, I want some more,” she says again.  No, you don’t. I want to say.  You don’t understand the consequences.  I know better than you do.  Trust me.  

Trust me.

Is God always trying to tell me that?  Yes.  I know He is.  It’s only in the wake of early morning begging for candy that I hear it.  How childish I must sound to God.  Thankfully, amazingly, there’s hope.  The perfect Father rebukes me, again and again.  And I struggle to see that I can trust Him, always.  His thoughts are higher than my own.