tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80805743417229907672024-02-20T12:45:51.413-06:00mmUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-27243995348979488012021-08-25T14:04:00.002-05:002021-08-25T14:04:40.689-05:00A Different Season<p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">For the first time in 22 years, I came home from school to an empty house and began a new season of life. If I'm honest, a season of life I've pretty much dreaded since I started having children. I love my arms full. I don't know how to not have my arms full. I love noise, distraction, activity, movement, busyness, and all the chaos that can accompany fullness. But I can't keep my arms full simply because I'm afraid of what it looks like without my people to hide behind. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">Today, I felt myself take a deep breath and exhale for the first time in 22 years. Not because I'm happy my children are gone during the day. I'm not happy about that. I love them home. I took a deep breath because there's space to do that. Margin. For the first time in a really really long time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">I've had to remind myself all day: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Patrick Hand";">It's okay for my kids to have experiences that I don't direct. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Patrick Hand";">It's okay for my kids to be in circumstances that I can't control. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Patrick Hand";">It's okay for me to not see my children every minute of the day. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Patrick Hand";">They have a Heavenly Father who sees them, orchestrates their days no less diligently than He orchestrates mine, and He is working for their good...and it's okay if that good comes through other people. Selfishly, I kind of want to be the giver of their good.. I want every good memory to come from my hands. I want to see every moment of their life. I want to control everything for them. Because maybe I can keep them safe and protect their precious hearts and minds if they never leave my sight. Today, I'm having to trust the Lord MORE because I can't see all my people. I'm having to trust the ONE who can. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">As we walked to school, i gave my last minute instructions. Be kind. Look for the kid that has no friends. Be strong. I love you. Put on your mask. </span><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;"> </span><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">They walked away, side by side, and only Hope looked back to wave. I followed them with my eyes until the sparkly unicorn backpack disappeared through the school door. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Patrick Hand";">And then I turned to walk home. A horizon of hours in front of me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">And it's okay. My heart aches a little. The memories of a house bulging with littles is just that...a memory. All I've known and the people I've loved as long as I remember can exist outside of my sight at this moment. And it's okay.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">I walked home empty handed, but still full. I've had to stop living as though someone is missing. When Zach went to college, every high and low we lived without him felt somewhat incomplete because he wasn't there sharing the moment. That's a hard way to live...as though someone is always missing. Wishing all were there. Living as though those in front of you are somehow not enough. Does it have to be all, does it have to be full to be meaningful? Can there still be fullness in empty hands? Can there be fullness in silence? The answer has to be yes. The answer IS YES. This...these...whoever is in my home at the moment...or the silence that fills the space is exactly as God has planned for me in this moment. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">When my littles walked off today, I didn't weep like I envisioned. I sent them in knowing that their Heavenly Father can use other people to love on them today...and that's okay. I've felt so scatterbrained in the last couple years that I'll often startle in the midst of an event trying to remember where I've put my children. "Was I supposed to be picking someone up?" "Where did Hope go?" "Did I miss something?" I had the same thought halfway through my walk home. I stopped abruptly and thought "Oh shoot, where did I put Hope?" And then I remembered that my empty hands were exactly as they should be. And it's okay. And they aren't really empty...my hands are just resting a while...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">I'm not really sure what this season of life looks like, but it happens to every mama sometime in life. Today, it was my turn to turn the corner into that new season and have to trust that God has gone before me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">One more hour until they come home. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Patrick Hand;">Lord, let me faithful with the new time you have given me. </span><span style="font-family: "Patrick Hand";"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-69705098919170918572017-05-11T00:06:00.002-05:002017-05-11T08:55:47.885-05:00Class of 2017<br />
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<br />
<br />
Graduation invitations delivered.<br />
Party hosted last weekend to celebrate. <br />
Slide show done. <br />
Growing-up pictures spread throughout the house.<br />
Senior check-out complete.<br />
Senior track night over.<br />
Grades in.<br />
Graduation cap and gown hanging up trying to unwrinkle without having to be ironed. <br />
All that's left on my Graduation To-Do list is a big fat circle highlighting Friday.<br />
Graduation.<br />
<br />
Two days until graduation. How is that even possible? <br />
I think every mom must say that as graduation nears...how did we get here? <br />
There might be something uniquely tender about walking toward graduation with the firstborn. No matter how many babies you have left at home, the firstborn graduating marks a defining moment when the boundaries of the family unit expand outside the walls of our home. No longer will all my people be sleeping under the same roof at night. There's something about that thought that gives my heart a little squeeze. The floodgates of change seem to be opening. <br />
<br />
I admit I dreaded the thought of this...<br />
Anxiously anticipated walking toward this closing...<br />
Prayed that I would enjoy this whole process, but assumed I would just cry continually...<br />
Asked other mamas who loved being mamas as much as I do HOW DO YOU SURVIVE SENIOR YEAR????<br />
Purposed to focus on each moment and drag it out as long as possible...<br />
Boastfully promised to NOT MISS A THING...<br />
<br />
I've been surprised...<br />
At what I've missed...<br />
At what I've witnessed...<br />
Amazed at how much joy there can be walking this last year of high school... <br />
Unprepared for some of the struggles that I never foresaw coming...<br />
<br />
I missed him walking off the football field for the last time. I had literally been waiting an entire year to watch my senior son walk off the football field for the last time. A YEAR. The game ended...we had lost in the state quarterfinals...our season was over...and my son was just gone. Gone. Maybe I was bending down picking up toys from the bleachers...maybe I was texting my brother the final score...maybe I was hugging a fellow football mama...I don't know what I was doing but I completely missed it...the ONE memory I wanted for myself this year and it slipped by unnoticed...<br />
<br />
The reality is that some memories of this senior year just weren't mine to share...moments my son had with his friends...school dances...discussions I've only heard about it in passing...private jokes between the brothers...conversations held late at night in the basement out of eavesdropping range...emotions of losing a friend to cancer that could only be understood by fellow classmates. Sometimes I missed a moment that could have been mine looking at my phone...or taking care of a toddler...or being lost in my own thoughts. I haven't made every senior event...I haven't seen every "last"...I was late taking pictures of his final courtwarming...I missed a football recruiting trip with him...the "misses" are endless in my mind...<br />
<br />
BUT...I've also been surprised at what I've been allowed to witness...I happened to be there last year on the final day of school when my oldest walked out of the front door officially as a senior. I got to see the head held high and the confident strut as he and a friend laughed with the easy laughter of a senior. They were walking toward final year bigger, bolder, prouder than ever before. Oh my heart, I hadn't expected it to be so thrilling to see that moment. <em>The moment my junior became a senior...how could something I kinda dreaded be so shockingly exciting?</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I witnessed my son processing through a hard college decision, whether to play football in college or not, and ultimately making a choice that he knew would surely make his mama cry.<br />
"<em>Go where you think the Lord is leading" </em>we told him. <br />
But I didn't really mean it. <em>Stay close. Come home for weekends. Wouldn't that be best? Think of your siblings...</em><br />
Years ago someone wisely told me, "<em>Your children following God's plan for their lives will probably cost you something."</em> No kidding.<br />
We were driving to Texas for a soccer tournament when he said the decision was made.<br />
I willed him not to say what I knew was coming. <em>Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it</em>.<br />
He said it.<br />
<em>I'm going to Cedarville, Mom</em>.<br />
All I heard after he said the name was <em>10 hours away...10 hours away...10 hours away... </em><br />
Thank goodness for sunglasses. I quickly blinked back instant tears; took several deep breaths; let my heart finish exploding; bit my tongue to hold back the torrential flood of words ready to overflow and waited until I could speak positive.<br />
<em>It's an amazing school. I can see why you want to go there. </em><br />
There. I said it. His decision made. Our blessing given. All these months of pros and cons, all of the concerns we've asked him to consider about every school on his list, and this school emerges as his first choice. Not MY first choice; HIS first choice.<br />
The first decision he really gets to make that begins to plot the trajectory of his adult life.<br />
And as I cried myself to sleep that night in a hotel room in Texas, I felt the first glimpses of joy emerge as I thought of this next adventure for him. I lay there surprised that grief and exhilaration could intermingle in such a powerful way.<br />
Goodness, I'll miss this kid, BUT OH HOW AMAZINGLY EXCITING for him.<br />
<br />
I witnessed my son walking in for his last day of school. An unanticipated gift. The sophomore had taken their shared car to school early and so my senior needed me to drive him later for his last final. <em>"Can I take your picture?" </em>He turned and smiled. Not even an eye roll (that I could see anyway.) An unexpected moment given for me to capture.<em> </em><br />
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<em> </em><br />
<br />
A friend who has done this whole senior year thing before told me that by the time your child gets to senior year, he will be so busy with a job, school activities, friendships, that you get an opportunity to practice living without him before you really have to. That's been true for us. Our senior didn't even get to go on our family trip last summer to Colorado because he was on his senior mission trip the one week we had off. We had to vacation without him and practice moving through life minus one an entire year before I had anticipated. We survived...and lo and behold we even had some fun. We missed him...talked about him...and then kept on living life. It was a little foreshadowing of God's faithfulness in walking through the changes that are to come. <br />
<br />
This whole year as I've held on a little too tightly to our little three-year-old Hope, I've continually thought "<em>Yesterday...just yesterday...Zach was this age..." </em>He was the toddler bawling his eyes out because I dared to leave him in church nursery for an hour...the one clinging tightly at a park because he was so afraid of playing with other kids...the lone four-year-old standing beside his dad on the t-ball field because no way was he going to stay out there without a parent. But that four-year-old angel-faced, blonde-haired little boy is not the one going to college. God did not ask me to send that kid away. He wouldn't have been ready. It's the 18-year-old young man that's leaving. The one who for year after year has been growing, stumbling, excelling, failing, persevering, making wise choices, making foolish choices, maturing, demonstrating immaturity, holding his head high in confidence, hanging his head low in defeat, leaning on the Lord for strength, struggling to believe there's strength through sorrow...all of these 18 years worth of tiny moments that have grown him into the young man he is today. That's the kid going away to school. While I still see glimpses of the little guy who thought that I was the greatest person in the whole entire world, I now see someone who is ready to begin a new phase of life with the support of his family, but no longer fully leaning on them to make his big decisions. It's a little terrifying to turn the disciplining of your child completely over to the hands of the Living God. All the training we missed, the lessons we didn't teach, the rules we didn't enforce, the attitudes we didn't catch...<em>Lord, we offer this imperfectly trained young man up to you believing that YOU WHO BEGAN A GOOD WORK IN HIM WILL CARRY IT ON TO COMPLETION. You have been faithful to us. You will be faithful to our son.</em><br />
<br />
Hidden amongst the final football pictures of the season, I recently found another gift. One of our faithful photographers had captured the moment my son left the field for the final time and he uploaded them to our team website. While I didn't get to witness this moment in person, the Lord saw fit to let me see my senior walking off the field for the last time....even if just in picture form. <br />
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<em>Our hearts are full of excitement for this graduating class. </em></div>
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<em>Lord, thank you for the blessing of giving us this child...choosing this one to live under our roof for these precious years..</em></div>
<em>Our souls overflow with joy at the privilege we've had in raising him...</em><br />
<em>Lord, grateful and thankful we humbly offer this one to you from the Class of 2017.</em><br />
<em>Be glorified. </em><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-26786091281473704172017-03-30T10:08:00.003-05:002017-03-30T10:08:55.933-05:00To Whom Shall We Go?<br />
<em><strong>"So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, for what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." </strong> </em>(2 Corinthians 4:18)<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>NOAH LIVES</strong><br />
<br />
My son held it out to show me as he was heading to school yesterday morning. <br />
Still in the fog of losing a friend to a fast and brutal battle with cancer, my senior held out a patch given to him this week. It read, "<strong>NOAH LIVES</strong>"<br />
<br />
"<em>Do you believe that, Z? That Noah really lives?"</em><br />
<br />
<em>"I do." </em>he said. <em> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
"<em>Then that changes everything about how you walk forward through this grief."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
All of the future planning and joyous yearnings for "what's next" that accompany senior year of high school halted in December when a fellow senior was diagnosed with incurable cancer and given only a short time to live. Suddenly it was okay if time stood still on all of their future plans. It became hard to look too far ahead when that too far ahead might outlive a friend. But time never stands still and the short days of winter turned to blossoming days of spring and the senior class and our school faced a loss last week that I'm not sure anyone was prepared to handle. <br />
<br />
<em>"What good can come from this?"</em> In his anger, his frustration that God didn't heal on this earth, his grief, my son asked that. "<em>What good?" </em>I fumbled around. Gave some answers of the good I'd already seen. I offered some verses of hope straight from God's word...verses I know he's memorized...I could tell he had long tuned me out. He really didn't want me to answer. Sometimes I don't recognize moments when I should just BE QUIET. <br />
<br />
A friend texted, <strong>"</strong><em><strong>The truth is, we live in a deeply fractured world, and we don't always have a choice about being broken. But we do have a choice about where we let our brokenness lead us..." </strong>(Different</em> by Sally and Nathan Clarkson).<em> </em><br />
<br />
Questions. Fears. Doubts. Anger. Confusion. Hope?<br />
Yes, hope.<br />
My son, his senior class, our entire school, and much of our community are grieving the death of this young man as we come face to face with our own theology on suffering and death.<em> </em> <br />
All sorts of thoughts and emotions. <br />
Hard questions being asked...<br />
Maybe more unsettling are the hard questions not being asked...the unspoken...<br />
The unspoken thoughts left to their own wandering can lead to some very dark places. <br />
<em>Where will this brokenness lead us?</em><br />
I'm trying to carefully urge my son forward to ask the hard questions (<em><strong>with your Bible open</strong></em>), feel this pain (<em><strong>but please receive the comfort of people around you</strong></em>), do not ignore the doubts (<em><strong>God is much bigger than any of those</strong></em>), cry while you walk if you have to (<em><strong>or cry while you sit</strong></em>), be still (<strong><em>physically and mentally still</em></strong>), go for a run (<strong><em>but take your phone and you better answer it if I call you</em></strong>), talk with your friends (<em><strong>but focus on TRUTH</strong></em>), speak with our pastor (<em><strong>he's a wise one to guide</strong></em>), listen to Noah's favorite song and remember him (<em><strong>laugh at some of those ridiculous memories</strong></em>) and even wrestle with the Lord if you must...<br />
But <strong>DO NOT TURN YOUR BACK...</strong><br />
Do all of this at the foot of the cross because that is the only place you will find any peace.<br />
<br />
"<em>On hearing it, many of his disciples said, 'This is hard teaching. Who can accept it?'...From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed Him." </em>In John 6, Jesus teaches some hard things that caused many of the disciples to turn their backs and walk away. <em> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Hard teaching.<br />
Too hard for some of the disciples to understand and too difficult for some to accept, so they turned and walked away. <br />
It just was too much. <br />
<br />
Jesus asked the Twelve, <strong>"</strong><em><strong>You do not want to leave too, do you?"</strong> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Simon Peter answered him, <strong>"</strong><em><strong>Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God." </strong>(</em>John 6:68)<em> </em><br />
<br />
That's where I pray this grief takes these young students...takes all of us... <br />
Wrestle. Ask questions. Take your thoughts before the Lord.<br />
Ask Him for belief as doubts surface. <br />
But do not harden your heart to His voice right now. <br />
<em><strong>Where will you go if you don't go to the Lord? Who else holds the answer to eternal life?</strong></em><br />
It may be hard and incredibly painful, we might not understand, and the good might seem difficult to find, but <em><strong>where else can we go, Lord? You have the words to eternal life.</strong></em><br />
There's no other safe place to fall if not at the feet of the one who holds all the answers.<br />
There are no answers apart from Him. <em> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Do not turn your back and wrestle on your own. There's will be no peace in human reasoning. <br />
Do not cast aside God's word. There will be no hope without it. <br />
Do not harden your hearts. There will be beauty from ashes for those who soften their hearts to grow through this. <br />
<br />
<em><strong>Where will this brokenness lead us?</strong></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><strong>"So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, for what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." </strong> </em>(2 Corinthians 4:18)<br />
<br />
We grieve with hope. <br />
Noah's funeral---the witness of his life and his amazing family---gave testimony to a choice to follow Christ and secure his eternity in the presence of our Heavenly Father. Those who knew him best gave testimony to his faith. So, we say with confidence that Noah lives. <br />
<br />
That changes EVERYTHING about how you walk forward in grief.<br />
<br />
Praise be to the Lord who holds the words to eternal life!! <br />
<strong>NOAH LIVES</strong>!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-59843723824129751372017-03-21T00:03:00.001-05:002017-03-21T00:03:41.158-05:00Fighting Fear"<em>For God did NOT give us a spirit of FEAR, but a spirit of power and love and of self-control." </em><br />
(2 Timothy 1:7)<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Then why do I struggle so much with fear? </em> <br />
<br />
I can't remember if there was a time in my life I would have used the word "brave" to describe myself. Probably not. But I don't think I would have ever described myself as fearful. Then I grew up, got married, had kids, and something about loving my people so fiercely and being responsible for little ones revealed a capacity for fear that I didn't know existed. <br />
<br />
There's a line from the movie <em>Avengers</em> that comes when Captain America tells Bruce Banner, "<em>Now would be a really good time to get angry." </em>Bruce Banner turns around and says, "<em>That's my secret, Captain. I'm always angry." </em><br />
<br />
I used that line with my husband not too long after I saw that movie for the first time. <em>Fear</em>...I told him...<em>that's my secret</em>. <em>I'm always walking along the edge of fear.</em> It's my default emotion in times of great pressure, stressful situations, big decisions, disappointment, confrontation, basically anything uncomfortable, I tend towards fear. <em> </em><br />
<br />
My mom had a seemingly normal broken rib last week (painful and slightly inconvenient for her well-planned schedule) from a fall through a hole in their floor due to a remodel. Several days after the break, labored breathing led to a second ER visit where a scan showed her chest cavity filling with blood from an artery somewhere around that broken rib. Normally those small arteries clot on their own, but as they watched the chest tube continue to fill with blood the doctor made the call that surgery needed to be done quickly. She needed a blood transfusion and they needed to find and tie off the artery before she lost too much more blood. The cardiothoracic surgeon, one of the best in the state, had never had to go to surgery because one rib (ONE RIB) had caused such chaos. My brother and dad, both anesthesiologists, had never once been in a surgery like this for one rib. Normally such a surgery would be related to several broken ribs and other internal injuries. So much for having the comfort of the family doctors~~they were as baffled as anyone why this one little rib was wreaking such havoc in her body. <br />
<br />
Here comes the fear...<br />
I texted my husband with the update..."<em>I'm afraid"...</em><br />
It takes all my energy to go into battle against it while I wait...<br />
<br />
Through years of recognizing my tendency to be flooded with fear in the waiting, I've realized that I'm completely too weak to fight the battle of fear on my own. I have a pile of 3x5 cards with handwritten verses that help me remember TRUTH when everything in me is wanting to cave in to fear. I pull out my fear verse cards and I recite...and I don't really hear the verses at first, nor do I fix my mind on them at first, but I still recite. There's power in the Word of God. It's all I know to do that works. Only God's Word soothes...and even that is a fight because in those moments when I'm most afraid, I tend to actually fear Him (not the Godly fear that leads us to bow and worship), but the fear that causes us to tremble at what He might ask us to walk through. So, I have to pull out my verses to remind myself of who He is and what He promises. Over and over again I recite (sometimes out-loud, sometimes in my mind) because I'm an incredibly slow learner and it takes me a while to hear what He has to say to me. I have to remind Him (as if He's not perfectly aware) <em>I'm much too weak for this, Lord. </em>His word reminds me that YEP I AM WEAK, but that's okay because HE IS STRONG. (2 Corinthians 12:10) <br />
<br />
Psalm 16:8 <em>"I have set the Lord always before me. Because He is at my right hand, I will not be shaken." </em><br />
(Tell that to my quivering stomach.)<br />
<br />
Psalm 46:10 "<em>BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD." </em><br />
(<em>Shaking Soul, BE STILL, and KNOW that I AM GOD.)</em><br />
<br />
Isaiah 26:3-4 <em>"You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is kept on thee because he trusts in thee." </em><br />
(<em>I trust you, Lord. I trust you, Lord. I trust you, Lord</em>. <em>Ummm, Lord? Waiting on that peace here.</em>)<br />
<br />
John 14:27 <em>"Peace I leave you, my peace I give you; I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your heart be troubled; do not be afraid." </em><br />
<em>(Lord, but I'm so afraid.</em><em>)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Psalm 62:1-3 "<em>My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation--He is my fortress, I will never be shaken." </em>Repeat as a command to my soul. <em> "Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation--He is my fortress, I will never be shaken." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Isaiah 43:1-2 <em>"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; YOU ARE MINE. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze." </em><br />
<br />
Isaiah 41:10 "<em>Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." </em><br />
<br />
My boys' beloved choir teacher recently held a concert where all of her choirs sang beautiful hymns. She shared that as a young girl she used to memorize the hymns sung in her church so she wouldn't have to use the hymnal. In later years, she told us that the words to those hymns comforted her as she walked through difficult times in her life. She let us in on her motivation for picking these hymns, <em>"These kids don't know that in memorizing these hymns, I've given them an arsenal to use later in life when things get tough." </em><br />
<br />
<em>An Arsenal. </em><br />
Preparation for battle. <br />
Verse cards are that for me...an arsenal to combat the lies of the enemy...to combat my weakness to fall prey to fear.<br />
<em> </em><br />
I know the exact chain of events where I realized how powerless I am in moments when life is shaken. I've told the story before because it was eye-opening to see that I AM NOT STRONG and but by God's grace will I completely fall apart in tragedy. <br />
<br />
Years ago, we had just moved to Tucson and my boys were ages 1 and 3. I remember my husband leaving to fly one day and mentioning that the flight was going to be a challenge so could I pray for him. He'd been a military pilot several years by this point so I didn't fret every time he was in the air like I did early in his pilot training. He was a flight lead and a pretty okay pilot. He was leading a friend of ours that day on a flight; this friend had much more experience than my husband so I probably didn't think anything about it. I can't even remember if I prayed for him. <br />
But I do remember the call later that evening. <br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"It's me. I'm okay. It was terrible. My wingman bailed. I had to emergency land. They are bringing me back---I'll be to the area in a couple hours." </em><br />
That was it. He was just gone and I had no idea what in the world he was talking about. My little guys were naked ready for a bath and so I washed them quickly in the water as I thought about his phone call. Very unsettling. My phone started ringing again just as I got them out of the tub. <br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Our pilots are all accounted for.</em>" That was it. I think it was the squadron commander's wife who called. I was still so confused. I said something to her like "<em>Preston said his wingman bailed. Is something going on?" </em>She paused, "<em>All our pilots are accounted for." </em> The second time she said it I knew what this was. I'd heard of it from other wives...been told the protocol at every base we had been stationed...but I'd never been in a squadron that had to utilize its emergency phone procedure. It meant a plane had gone down and a call meant your pilot was safe. <em>The fear closed in quickly.</em> <br />
Someone else called. <br />
<em>"Turn on the tv."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I only heard bits and pieces.<br />
<em>Collision. </em><br />
<em>Two A-10's. </em><br />
<em>One pilot found. </em><br />
<em>Searching for the other pilot. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
My husband's call repeated in my mind. <br />
<em>"It was terrible." </em>(<em>Collision</em>)<br />
<em>"I'm okay." (One Pilot Found.)</em><br />
<em>"My wingman bailed." (Searching for the other pilot).</em><br />
<em>"I'll be back in a couple hours." </em>(<em>But what has happened and who will you be after this?</em>)<br />
<br />
It didn't occur to me that I had received a call that said all our pilots are accounted for. It didn't cross my mind that there were two other A-10 squadrons on our base. My husband said "<em>terrible</em>", "<em>wingman bailed</em>," and "<em>I'm okay</em>" in one quick burst. I knew the story on the news had to involve him which meant our good friend had to be the one missing. In that moment, I became absolutely paralyzed with fear. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, every cell in my body participated in the anxiety. Thinking of my husband and what he must have been through in the last hours...aching at the thought of the missing pilot and his family (our dear friends also with small children)...wondering what happens now (was it his fault?)...paralyzed I sat on the floor as my naked boys ran around and played and tried to get my attention (and maybe even peed all over the carpet)...I sat staring at the TV begging God for news that they had found the pilot alive. I loved the Lord, believed His good in my life, studied the Bible, and memorized scripture, but the fear that overtook me in that moment stunned me. <br />
<em>Where was my faith as I sat there waiting? I felt it abandoned me. </em> <br />
<br />
The phone rang a little later. <br />
"D<em>o you know Preston is okay?" </em><br />
Our friend...the friend I thought was the missing pilot...his voice echoed through the phone telling me my husband was okay. I was still so confused. <br />
<em>"What? What? What is going on? I know he's okay. What about you? He called me and told me the flight was terrible. His wingman (I thought YOU) bailed. They are bringing him back from somewhere a couple hours away because he had to emergency land."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Our friend's voice again, steady, <em>"I just realized you might think we were involved. He doesn't even know what's going on back here so that's why he wasn't more clear in what he said. I did bail out of the flight...BEFORE TAKEOFF...because my jet broke. I didn't even get airborne. Preston's jet had some issues when he was flying and he had to emergency land at this other airfield because it wasn't safe to fly back to Tucson. Someone from that airfield is driving him back. It WAS a terrible flight. But not a terrible flight in light of what's going on back here. There has been a crash and they are searching for one pilot, but all the pilots in our squadron are accounted for. " </em><br />
<em></em><br />
I got off the phone and sobbed (and sobbed and sobbed.) I cried in thankfulness that my husband was okay and that our friend was fine and that my husband's cryptic phone call had absolutely nothing to do with what I was watching on the news. I bawled for the wife and mama who hadn't gotten a call and was watching the news while her world blew into a thousand little pieces as they searched for her husband...I cried for the other pilot, the one found. For a moment in time I had thought I belonged to the surviving pilot and I had tasted one tiny drop of the hard road that guy was going to walk as the survivor. <br />
<br />
Much too late that night, when someone brought him back into town, I got a chance to hang on to my husband while he profusely apologized for his poor choice of words in describing his flight. I explained to him my response as I had waited for the news...how I was engulfed in paralyzing fear...how I couldn't even focus on our naked children ("<em>Are they still naked?" </em>he asked. "<em>I don't know," </em>I said. <em>"I think they had fruit snacks for dinner."</em><em>).</em> I hung my head as I explained that I always envisioned myself being so strong when crisis hit...that I thought I would be this pillar of great trust in the Lord whenever life around me started shaking...but instead, there I sat, so afraid.<br />
<br />
I think all of us tend toward some sort of sinful exaggeration of emotion when left to our own strength. We can be overwhelmed by our anger, depression, despair, self-pity, FEAR, dependency, bitterness, or any other spirit that sets itself against the truth of God 's Word. I'm learning how important it is to prepare. Arm your arsenal with truth. It's hard to build a faith and fight the battle when the raging winds are howling and the fire seems to be closing in. Spend the calm days in God's word building up faith so when the storm hits that faith can be the lifeline to which we cling. <br />
<br />
As I got the call that my mom's surgery was successful and they had found and cauterized the leaking artery, I was once again struck by the power that fear can have in my life. I was reminded of how enslaving my own fear can be. I actually fear my ability to fear like an unbeliever (see, I'm always afraid of something.) <br />
<br />
<em>"Will I ever conquer the tendency to jump straight into overwhelming fear</em>?" I don't know, but I do know every time I struggle through it, there is an opportunity to lean into God's word and practice believing it<em>. </em>My fear reminds me of how weak I am and also reminds me of His faithfulness in pushing me toward a more trusting faith that believes His good no matter what assignment He gives me. <em> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Lord, help me to have the discipline to build my faith before the storm hits and help me to arm myself for battle before the first arrow flies. Help my unbelief that leads me down that road of fear. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." (Psalm 73:25-26)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-56592350844103285972017-01-25T22:19:00.000-06:002017-01-25T22:19:47.661-06:00Happy 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Happy 2017!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s THAT year…the year on Zach’s letter
jacket---I just knew Jesus would come back before now (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there’s still time!</i>)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
see, we are almost professionals at adding babies to the family…but letting one
go?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not sure how to do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are only Day 20 of this year and 2017
already seems uncomfortable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not "bad"
uncomfortable just "cracking my illusion of control" uncomfortable. Two kids
enrolled in public school as of two weeks ago (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t
ask</i>), a three-year old who is NOT potty training herself (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I thought she was smarter than this</i>),
Preston serving the role as interim head football coach (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">plenty of time?</i>?), three college choices still on the table (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why won’t he just go where I tell him?</i>),
and a bulging schedule that works perfectly for two children (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">which four kids should we give away?</i>) Is
it too shallow to pray that God teaches us to be comfortable in our uncomfortable?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shall we accept the good from God and not
accept adversity?” (</i>Job 2:10). Layered…our conversations, our emotions, our
schedules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our giggles and tears
intertwine...our fears and courage waver…our triumphs and failures rise and
fall. It’s all there held tenderly within the boundaries of 2016.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our year held unique highs and lows…a new
permit driver (less cautious than the firstborn), a breathtaking homeschool
ballet performance, state quarterfinals in football, a totaled mustang, several
ER visits (we ER hop now to avoid investigation), and three hundred (million)
soccer games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a Royals foul ball “caught”
by one happy 6-year old, church camp, plenty of lake weekends, Camp ThompConnell,
an ambulance ride, sweet moments mentoring young girls, a week with family at Disney
World, a promotion (followed by the grief and contentment of turning it down),
and 365 days worth of more. In October, God graciously allowed us to make it to
Georgia in time to be with Preston’s mom, Mama V, before she surprisingly
passed away. No one was prepared and while her family sat planning an unexpected
funeral, the sweet noise of her grandchildren playing baseball outside filled
the grieving room. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life</i>. We
celebrated her life (and wept at our loss of her) in Georgia one day and the very next day celebrated a
conference championship win with our football team. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Odd</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life lived in the midst
of sorrow…just as she would have wanted. Celebrations and tears; mourning and
then the relief of morning; and then all those in-betweens where we are building
our faith to accept whatever the Lord brings…the good and the adversity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Zach,
the energetic senior, is a college t-shirt hoarder and has fully enjoyed a year
of college visits. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now decide already!</i>)
If Hogwarts really existed, that would be his first choice. Knowing his love
for children and the sciences, he envisions his future job will probably be
something combining the two (he says pediatric oncologist or fudge-maker.) He
enjoyed a senior mission trip this summer working with underprivileged kids, a
week at Boys State studying government (he absolutely does NOT want to be a
politician), and an amazing football season making All-State receiver with over
1500 yards. What a joy it has been to watch him mature in the Lord and even if
he’s 10 hours away next year (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BE STILL MY
HEART</i>), we will always (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be able to
find him with FIND MY IPHONE-what?) </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>be thankful that God picked him to be our
firstborn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Josh—the
studious sophomore, generally works through his homework before he does his fun.
He loves structure and thrives when he knows exactly what’s required of him (“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tell me the rules.</i>”) He does every sport
ALL OUT. This year brought him an assortment of different sports braces and wraps
(and his own bottle of Advil) collected through several frustrating injuries. A
high ankle sprain plagued the early part of his football season and Preston
encouraged him saying “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be patient.
Athletes get hurt.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I encouraged him,
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slow down. You won’t get hurt if you
don’t go full speed.</i>” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Josh loves
math, choir, and socializing. He still plays the piano for our youth worship band
(thankfully we have one that practices music) and he uses his humor to lighten
up our tense moments (“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the doc can’t
believe with these muscles I’m not on steroids</i>”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Madelin,
the artistic 7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grader, loves pointe shoes and soccer cleats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t decide if she’s a soccer player
masquerading as a lovely dancer or the reverse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she asks to do some new activity, we say
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NO!</i>” because she loves every new
thing she tries. She just got braces (her fingernails get a break!), and has
coped with this change by perfecting ridiculously silly faces. She thinks
Pinterest is straight from heaven and loves to create new things. She’s
mastered the art of quietly blending in with the purpose of overhearing EVERY
private conversation had in this home. She loves FINALLY being in youth group
and helping me (she’s a baby hog) in the church nursery. Her persistence in her
quest for an Instagram is impressive, but to her dismay, we still have enough
energy to say no.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Savannah,
the event-planning 4<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grader, uses every emotion and event as an opportunity
to celebrate (or “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at least give me a
cuddle night</i>.”). Soccer gives her a chance to display her competiveness and
ballet gives her a chance to practice some grace</span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">. She’s our hand-made gift giver and regularly hides notes for
her brothers in their lunches. They repaid the favor with a lunchbox note on
her first day of public school and you would have thought they bought her the
world. Her awareness of other people is a gift and she loves to love others in tangible
ways. Oh her sweet emotions…if we had a quarter for all the hurt feelings her
college would be funded. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Noah,
the conversational 1<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup> grader, might just be the quarterback in our
family (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if only he didn’t like baseball more!</i>).
His soccer coach nicknamed him the “Little General” because he loves directing
people (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the kid does have some good ideas)</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s only been in public school for a week,
but we assume he’ll be voted First Grade Class President by the end of the
month. Outgoing Noah loves to lead people, loves the outdoors, loves baseball,
and loves conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s masterful
at word usage (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with passionate expression</i>)
so we see him as a future lawyer, politician, or game show host.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loves going to school and told me he’s
sorry he doesn’t miss me but he just forgets about me during the day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Hope,
our delight, turned 3 on Christmas and she has no idea what it’s like to not be
completely smothered in love. There’s always someone to entertain her, to dry
her tears, to tickle her, to love on her. We might be either raising helpless
or royalty. Actually, she really is quite independent and probably our biggest
daredevil. Her trusting heart believes someone will always be there to catch
her. She can carry on full conversations with adults and explain why she likes
to potty in her pants and why she has coffee breath (“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my mom lets me drink her coffee.”</i>)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her favorites are “chokers” (Jolly Ranchers), lip syncing to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trolls</i> movie songs, anything pink, and dancing.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each sibling has a sweet relationship
with her--a special “fin, noggin, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dude”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>handshake with Zach, chasing games with
Josh, airplaning with Madelin, and playing, playing, playing with Savi and
Noah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">We
are learning that uncomfortable is a gift…a good gift from the Lord. As
Elisabeth Elliot writes, “Circumstances are an expression of God’s will…the
secret is Christ in me, not me in a different set of circumstances.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s sweet freedom in relinquishing the
need to see what’s next. We don’t know how to do 2017, but God knows how to do
it and He will give the grace and wisdom for the moment. Our prayer is to have a
heart that says “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is well</i>” to
whatever comes from the Lord's hands this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We pray that for all of us that 2017 is full of all the richness of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Lucida Handwriting"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">With Love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Lucida Handwriting"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The McConnells</span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-82558737946007995312016-05-24T00:46:00.000-05:002016-05-24T00:46:03.940-05:00Pray
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As my children get older, the more silent I grow in my advice
on parenting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sitting in an oral surgeon’s office, the doctor talked
kindly of my daughter undergoing anesthesia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I anxiously listened with only a bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse to
keep the toddler occupied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hands
repeatedly squeezed drop after drop into the little one’s palms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She furiously rubbed it in…drop after
drop…over and over again. That’s what you do when you forget the diaper bag. Anything
in your purse becomes a toy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
doctor’s eyes lit up when he asked about our other children and found out there
were six. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One would think birthing six
children might make someone an expert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The more you have the
more you realize how absolutely so very little you really know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I’m a new dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What advice can you give me?”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stared at him blankly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Advice?
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>My toddler was sanitizing herself to
death, what advice could I possibly offer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>If only he had known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in the middle of a text argument with
one (heaven forbid we actually have the conversation in person), another had
been left at home throwing a ridiculous “you are way too old for this” tantrum,
one was waiting for the discipline sentence to be issued after being caught in
a hefty lie (if lies could be weighed,) and my husband and I were in
disagreement about a situation and having to hash it out in the garage because
there are SO MANY EARS inside our home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seriously, Doc, I’m the one needing advice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The wisdom in him to even ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His humility caused me to pause before
speaking. With careful words, I submitted, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
used to have a lot of advice on parenting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But now, every child of mine has blown my last piece of advice out of
the water, so I’m sorta left with nothing wise to offer you right now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He replied, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All of
our friends with a baby and a toddler have all sorts of helpful hints to give
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife and I are trying to figure
all this out.” <o:p></o:p></i></span><br />
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, well, I have teenagers now…there’s
something about teenagers that is silencing me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A missed opportunity to witness to a young family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overwhelmed by my own feelings of inadequacy
and shortsighted failures, I offered no hope---WHEN I HAVE HOPE---to this new
dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve thought about that
conversation often in the last months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
didn’t I give him the only advice that has transcended every stage, every
issue, every attitude, every fad, every disappointment, every struggle, every
argument, and every sin? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why didn’t I
tell him what my only lasting hope has been?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recently, a lovely woman from our church had a baby shower
and we were asked to fill out a card with advice for this mom. Again, I stared
at the card blankly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had arrived at
the shower trying to over-control my teenager’s plans for the weekend (he had
gently nudged, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“You don’t have to control
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this, Mom.”</i>)I had thrown an adult
“you’re way too old for this” tantrum in response to another child’s minor
offense , and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the toddler had been
drinking cream soda all morning from a sippy cup and I had no recollection if I
was the one who put it in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">PRAY. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s all I could write on the advice card for the baby
shower. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">PRAY.<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wish I had told that to the young doctor with the new
baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Pray for your children. </span>Earthly advice on child-raising
changes with the times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pray for your
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pray for their hearts to be
changed. Pray that they will meet Jesus face to face and be broken. Absolutely
broken by their own sin. Pray their brokenness will lead them to grace and in that moment of amazing
grace that they will fall madly in love with the God who knows everything about
them…EVERYTHING…and loves them PERFECTLY. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We can lead them to scripture…take them to church…encourage
wise friends…discipline disobedience…push them to study…teach them to pray…sign
them up for youth activities…give them good books…make them to be kind…tell
them our stories in hopes they won’t repeat our mistakes…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, we cannot bring about the one thing we want most…we
cannot change their hearts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only God can
take a heart that is inclined toward selfishness and sin, and turn it toward
Him. So, we pray continually, giving thanks, that God has the power to do the
work that we cannot do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a few hours, my oldest son will drive to school for the last time as a junior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’ll sit through an assembly,
clean out his locker, pay his lunch bill, and turn in a final assignment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bell will ring and he will stroll out of
those school doors as a senior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’ll
spend the summer visiting colleges, working at a fast food restaurant, going to
church camp, and training for his last school year of sports. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s fairly kind, knows scripture, and has a “life
plan.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of that matters at this
point, if he doesn’t truly know Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, we pray. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We pray for God to bring about the thing we want most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ezekiel
11:19 “I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will
remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s great relief in leaning into the Lord to do this
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Great relief. </span>If it was up to us to save our
children, we would most definitely screw it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But in God’s grace, He has taken it upon Himself to do the saving…to
change the hardest of all hearts. I've always wondered why God would entrust sinful parents with the job of raising sinful children. It seems like a plan doomed to fail from the beginning. Sinners raising sinners. Yet, a</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">s my oldest son nears days when he is no longer under our roof, I'm resting in the great comfort that God did not entrust the act of saving to us. He has perfectly completed that act Himself. Praise God it's not up to us!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All of my tendencies to hide in my failures as a parent or even to boast in any momentary successes are quieted by the transcending hope that the God who saved me is the only one with the power to save my children. God kept the impossible job for Himself knowing that we were perfectly incapable of doing it ourselves. So, we step back, pray, and ask God to do His amazing work of changing a heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then we wait... </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></div>
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</div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span> </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-34783104508353107172015-11-19T12:10:00.000-06:002015-11-19T12:10:37.467-06:00"Ten Minutes Left To Play"There's an endearing and annoying aspect of having a mix of older and younger kids in the home. The teenagers give their opinions, a little too freely, about the best way to parent the little people. Because they've lived through our parenting, they are full of suggestions on how they wish we had been as parents to them. We regularly hear things like, <em>"I always loved when you..." "I really hated when you and dad..." "That never works, Mom, why do you do that?" "Why don't you try this..." "I think they would respond better if..." "Remember when you used to..." "Why didn't we ever do this..." "Remember that thing we started and never finished..." </em> <em> </em><br />
I can't wait to repay the favor of unsolicited advice when they have children. <br />
<br />
One particular pet peeve of my firstborn is my habit of always giving the little ones a "Ten Minutes Left to Play" warning.<br />
<br />
"<em>You know that ruins everything, Mom,</em>" he claims.<br />
<br />
I have never understood his complaint. "<em>How can it ruin everything when I'm warning you that you STILL HAVE ten minutes left to play. It's almost as though I'm reminding you to ENJOY YOUR TIME because it's almost over." </em><br />
<br />
"<em>See...that's what I hate about it, Mom,</em>" my oldest teenager says. "<em>I used to panic when you would give us the warning. </em> <em><strong>What should I do with my last ten minutes? How did my time go so fast? I don't want to be done playing. I don't think I'll be able to have a good attitude about leaving even though the time-keeper has given me the ten minute warning. Now nine minutes left. Maybe I'm down to eight. Seven. Panic. Panic. Panic.</strong> <strong>What should I do?" </strong></em><br />
<em></em><br />
I have always defended the warning, "<em>But you always knew the fun you were having wasn't going to last forever. There was always going to be an end. I was warning you so you would enjoy those last minutes even more." </em><br />
<br />
He has never relented in his complaints of this habit. "<em>But I don't think that way, Mom. I would spend those last ten minutes in absolute dread of the end. I always wished you would have just told me at the moment it was over. No warning. Then at least I wouldn't have known that my last ten minutes were my last ten minutes." </em><br />
<br />
Weird. <br />
I guess I kind of understand his point. But not enough to remove the phrase from my vocabulary.<br />
I still have been known to give the little ones a ten minute warning even though the firstborn protests. <br />
<br />
Since we are still in the first half of the school year, I didn't anticipate anything unusual in the mail a month or so after school started. The pile of mail always overflows from our delay in walking the 50 yards to the mailbox. How can that short walk result in such procrastination? Our small mail slot bulged with paper. Normal bills. Typical junk letters. A late birthday card for my daughter. Grocery ads. More junk mail. A postcard size flyer rested on the bottom of the mail pile almost hidden by the Price Chopper ad. I glanced quickly at the flyer on class rings and dropped it in the trash. <em>Class rings. Not yet. </em> <br />
<br />
Wait.<br />
<em>Wait</em>.<br />
<br />
I grabbed the flyer out of the trash.<br />
<br />
<em><strong>Summit Christian Academy</strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Class of 2017</strong></em><br />
<strong><em>Order Your Class Ring Today </em></strong><br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
In that second, I heard the dreaded countdown, <br />
"<em><strong>You have ten minutes left to play</strong>."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<strong>2017.</strong><br />
<strong><em>Can it really be time for this stuff already?</em></strong><br />
<br />
The year my firstborn came into the world, I don't think I ever figured out his graduation year. I really have no recollection of ever focusing on that year. 2017. So far away. Some days it seemed too far away. The days crept by. The years sped on. There was a false security that time would somehow be on my side in the raising of children. That somehow I would escape my children growing up. Faster and faster the years have gone...yet there was always next year. And the next. And then you blink and the child that you thought would never sleep through the night is ordering a class ring. In that instant, there's this horrific realization that <em>time</em> didn't choose you as the favorite and that you will share the same fate of most mothers...you will truly have to launch the child that has filled every corner of the home with his presence out into a life of his own. The infant that was completely dependent for life grows into a young man that was created to live independently from the control and protection of his parents. He develops a mind of his own, desires of his own, and ultimately he will have a life of his own outside of the boundaries of his immediate family, and that is a very, very, VERY good thing. (Can I say it again for my heart to hear...it is a GOOD thing...a very, very, very, VERY good thing.) His job is to grow...to change...to mature...to own his faith outside of our home. That's what they are supposed to do. While always present the reality that my children won't stay under one roof forever, there's been this blissful naivete that maybe, just maybe, the year that changes the dynamics of our family won't come. Maybe we can just stay like this forever.<br />
And then the mail arrives and in a second I get the warning, "<strong><em>You have ten minutes left to play."</em></strong><br />
<br />
I've spent years being the recipient of older moms stopping me (generally in the middle of a terribly embarrassing outburst by one of my children) and encouraging me that children grow up so fast...enjoy them. I've turned the corner of life and become the mom reiterating that message. I sent my cousin, who is juggling two very small children, a snapshot of the class ring postcard, <strong>"Order Your 2017 Class Ring Today." </strong>I texted her "<em>Enjoy the seemingly never-ending days of little ones because one day you will get a postcard like this in the mail and it will be for one of yours."</em> (I like to encourage others with discouraging thoughts.) She sent me back a picture of her two-year old holding out little hands that were completely covered in poop. Her text back read, "<em>Is it too much to say, 'Poop on the fingers today; class ring on the finger tomorrow." </em>Perfect. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>So, what am I going to do with these "ten minutes"? </em></strong>I'm understanding my firstborn son a little more these days and his dislike for my warning that time is running out. Can't I just stick my head in the sand and pretend this isn't coming? <br />
<br />
The panic doesn't help spend time wisely. <br />
The regret of years lost doesn't motivate me. <br />
The fear of what lies ahead doesn't bring lasting hope. <br />
And I'm far too bent on enjoying these last ten minutes to let myself grieve what hasn't happened yet. My nostalgic nature wants to throw on the sackcloth now and wallow in my sadness that my family will, my family is changing. My tendency is to hang on to the past a little longer than healthy...to turn "remembering" into a shrine of "how great life was when all my children were home" and miss the moments placed in front of me. <br />
<br />
Our amazing, 10-2 football season just ended in the District Championship game last weekend. Following this last game, my eyes found the seniors on the team. I watched their parents watch them. After many hugs, tears, and an emotional talk given by the coach, our four seniors slowly made their way to the goalposts. They took off their helmets and just sat there for a while under the lights. Sitting side by side, they shared the endzone with one another for the last time as high school football players, while the rest of the team let them have their moments alone. My husband snuck in behind me and gave me a hug. Together, we quietly observed them. Finally, I shared my thoughts, "<em>Do you realize this is the last time that it isn't the last time?" </em>I let that soak in for a while. <em>The last time it isn't the last time. </em><br />
<br />
When he didn't say anything, I figured it was because he was overcome with emotion.<br />
<br />
I was wrong. So very wrong. Instead, he looked at me completely puzzled, <em>"What are you talking about? It's not the last time." </em><br />
<br />
<em>"Yes, but it's the last time it's not the last time." </em>What doesn't make sense about that? <br />
<em></em><br />
And I completely lost him with that thought. Blank stare. Clueless head shake. He gave me a little squeeze of pity and walked away to find some reasonable man to talk to...one who would talk to him about what a great season it had been and not someone who would talk about the game being the last time that it wasn't the last time. I know him well and these words waited on the tip of his tongue, "<em>WHO THINKS THAT WAY?"</em> UMMM...THIS CRAZY MAMA THINKS THAT WAY! He left me alone to spend my last time before the last time envisioning how I will feel when it really is the last time. I'm pretty sure he shared a chuckle with a fellow coach at my nostalgia over next year's nostalgia.<br />
<br />
Enough. <br />
<em>Enough. </em><br />
<br />
It's one thing to have moments of sadness, nostalgia, grief, fear, or uncertainty at the changes that await, but to wallow in it? To be paralyzed by it? To MISS the present thinking about the future? This is not how I want to spend these days. A friend in the same stage of life recently shared that she wants to understand, to really grasp, Proverbs 31:25 that says, "<strong><em>She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at days to come." </em></strong>Her prayer is to learn and to trust that God can teach her to laugh at the days to come. To laugh even as she launches a son who has aspirations of joining the military and becoming an Army Ranger. <br />
<br />
<em>Yes! Yes!</em> I want to laugh...to look forward to...to delight in what is coming next. Whatever that looks like. <strong>The thought of spending the next year and a half grieving my changing family terrifies me more than the actual thought of letting go of my son. </strong> Tears...that's fine, sadness...it will come, but I want to laugh at the hope of what God will do next trusting that even if it doesn't look like I imagined, I can still laugh with joy at the unknown. <br />
<br />
So, how in the world does a mama who has crazy thoughts like "<em>the last time it's not the last time"</em> combat the numerous moments to come that will most certainly evoke great emotion? As one who loves her children at home, how do I laugh at the reality that my future days will include children growing up and not being at home? <br />
<br />
First...thankfulness. Give thanks. Give Thanks. GIVE THANKS!! I can't stop the wave of emotion that hits regularly regarding this changing season of life, but by God's grace, I don't have to drown. The practice of giving thanks. <strong>Thankfulness crowds out dread. Thankfulness stomps on the fear. Thankfulness opens the door for laughter.</strong> When I awake in the middle of the night, wondering how in the world the kindergarten little boy sleeping down the hall will be able to be happy without the presence of his older brothers in this home, I give thanks. <em>Thank you, Jesus, for brothers. Thank you, Jesus, for relationships that can be kept precious even from afar. Thank you, Jesus, for the gift of loving others. Thank you, Jesus, for the joy you will bring this little boy even as his brothers leave this home and the excitement he will experience when he gets to visit. Thank you, Jesus. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Second...believing God for His good. Jeremiah 29:11 was not written only for the high school graduate. The promise was given to the Israelites who were living in exile at the time. "'<em>For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future.'" </em>While that promise is lovely for the teenagers heading out into the world, the promise is also for me...for my husband...for our family. God has plans...and those plans extend far past this snapshot of time that I have children in the home. Those plans will unfold until I'm called to my heavenly home, and so I can believe that God's good plan for me reaches into the next seasons of life. <br />
<br />
Finally...don't practice borrowing from tomorrow. I'm having to preach to myself not to spend much time imagining what life will be like my son's senior year. Or what does "<em>what's next</em>" look like? There is grace for those moments that I can't borrow when I think about it today. I can't spend too much time envisioning the changes happening in my family. There's joy for those days...even if those days happen to be hard...there's joy waiting there to be experienced. God equips us for what He calls us to do, so I have to trust the grace to live in this moment believing that the strength will be there for tomorrow...no matter how tomorrow looks. Hebrews 13:21, "<em>May the God of peace...our Lord Jesus, that great Shepherd of the sheep, equip you with everything good for doing His will and may He work in us, what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
It's inevitable that we will continue to feel the pressing in of time as we sit through senior advising appointments, plan college visits, and discuss plans for the future. The snowball of launching a child is picking up speed. But as I hear the warning that we only have ten minutes left to play, I can practice instantly giving thanks<em>. Thank you, Jesus, for these precious days of preparation. Thank you, Lord, for the wisdom you will provide. Thank you, Father, for giving us grace to laugh at what's to come</em>. I believe God for His great plans (not just for my children, but for me too!) and I'm trusting that we will be surprised by the indescribable joy that will come during the moments that I envision as the most difficult. <br />
<br />
<em>"She laughs at days to come</em>..." Oh, how I want to believe God will surprise me with this treasured gift of laughter, which can be confidently based on God's omniscient/omnipresent/omnipotent character. He knows all. He sees tomorrow. He's all-powerful. Because of who God is...we can laugh. <br />
<br />
And that's most definitely how I want to spend my last ten minutes...laughing. <br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-50298538562024653592015-09-16T23:26:00.001-05:002015-09-16T23:30:49.047-05:00Go With Him<strong><em>"When your husband asks you to go somewhere with him, GO, or he'll quit asking."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
A friend gently encouraged me with that several years ago when my husband surprised me with a once-in-forever trip to Hawaii for our anniversary. I offered her a pocketful of heartfelt excuses on why this trip should not happen. <br />
<br />
1) "<em>I hate flying</em>." (I even turned that fact into a fight with my husband claiming that if he truly loved me, he would never have planned a trip requiring such a long airplane ride.)<br />
2) "<em>I'm terrified of the ocean.</em>" (Thanks to <em>Jaws</em>, I'm part of an entire generation of ocean-goers ruined by that incredibly realistic movie of a shark taking revenge.)<br />
3) <em>"I don't want to be that far away from the kids.</em>" (Never mind that my parents had joyfully offered to stay with the kids that week. That was not the point.)<br />
4) "<em>I especially hate flying OVER the ocean</em>." (Combine two of my biggest fears and the result is a borderline panic attack at the thought of crashing into the ocean...and surviving.)<br />
<br />
I overflowed...burst forth...with passionate reasons this trip should be postponed. "<em>Not canceled</em>," I claimed, "<em>just postponed</em>." Postponing the trip provided the hope...the potential...for something major to come up that would wipe this trip off the books FOREVER. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>Go. With. Your. Husband.</em></strong><br />
<br />
So, we ventured to Hawaii, braved the airplane ride, frolicked ankle deep in the ocean, and came home pregnant. (Not really. I was actually already 7 months pregnant when we went, but it sounded like a good souvenir from a trip to Hawaii.) We truly had a fantastic time and I was incredibly thankful that my friend didn't let me sit in my excuses and fears, and encouraged me to <em>GO</em> and love my husband by choosing to spend time with him. <br />
<br />
So, today...<br />
<br />
My husband texts..."<em>Want to go to lunch with me?" </em><br />
<br />
Obviously he's been fired...or he needs to introduce me to a son he didn't know he had.<br />
(Oh My Word...I have no idea why my loved ones chide me for being a worst-case scenario person. Doesn't everyone think this way? An optimistic pessimist; one who prepares how they are going to positively react to the worst possible situation.) <br />
<em>"What happened?" </em>I texted. <br />
He texted back, <em>"Nothing. I just thought it might be nice to go to lunch with my wife."</em><br />
<br />
Had he sent the text, "<em>Can I come home and help you with something?" </em><br />
Capital letters, "<em>YES!" </em>Because I have this crazy thought pattern in my brain that says "<em>If he loved me, he'd want to help me, not just want to be with me." </em>Help equals love in my book. <em> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Had the text read, "<em>Can I come home and keep Hope for you so you can take a nap since I know you didn't sleep well last night?" </em><br />
Enthusiastically, I would have sent back, "<em>YES! Hurry!"</em><br />
<br />
But to take time off to go to lunch? <em>Hmmm...let me get back to you on that.</em> All I could think of were the dozens of things I wanted to get done today. And the kids weren't going to school themselves. And the laundry wasn't going to fold itself. And...and... My friend's words from years ago tickled my ears. <em>"When your husband asks you to go somewhere with him, GO, or he will quit asking</em>."<br />
<br />
I texted back before I could think about it too much.<br />
<em>"Yes, let's go to lunch." </em><br />
<br />
Then I thought about it. My mind instantly blew up with better days for this lunch...better times...more convenient seasons of life. I started a new text, <em>"Friday would be better</em>..." For some reason, I didn't send it. Maybe because this is the first time my husband has asked me to lunch in seven years of living in Missouri. Maybe he knows me well enough to know that I would most likely say, "<em>How about another time?"</em> My husband wasn't asking me out to lunch on Friday. Or Thursday. Or when our kids are a little older. He was asking me to lunch TODAY. <br />
<br />
<em>What in world might happen if the laundry doesn't get folded or some third grade math flashcards are skipped? Could we possibly ever recover from such a setback? It might ruin the schedule for the year. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Way back when we were dating, if my beloved had called and said <em>"Hey, can I come see you for a couple hours</em>?" I wouldn't have thought twice about clearing my schedule,<em> "HECK YA, </em><em>you can come see me. How soon will you be here</em>?" I would have raced to brush my hair, exchanged tennis shoes for some seriously cute Birkenstocks (after all, I did go to college in Boulder), and I would have counted down the seconds until he arrived, energized by a silly giddiness that occupies early enchantment. <br />
<br />
<em>When did my daily chores become more important than spending time with my husband? </em><br />
Probably so long ago that I can't even recall the moment I first chose the chore over the person. <br />
It's happened more than I care to recall. <br />
<br />
It's no coincidence that today my husband asked me to lunch. Just this morning, I prayed that God would help me-teach me-to really love my husband. To really really love him. Not just partner with him, not just like him as a person, not just tolerate him, but to really love him. I wasn't sure what that might look like today. I guess it looked as simple as clearing the schedule when my husband asked me to lunch and GOING with him, joyfully, as though there was nothing else in the world that was more important. Loving my husband better will most likely always involve recognizing the opportunity to set aside the schedule and choose my husband over my "to do" list. In reality, my husband always has a hundred things "to do," but today, he wanted to have lunch with his wife...he chose the relationship over the work. So he asked the question. I swallowed my excuses and went. <em>GO...or he will quit asking. </em> <br />
<br />
We had a quiet lunch with the two little ones. (Where are the older kids in the family when we need them?) There were no earth shattering discussions, no romantic candlelight, no life-changing decisions, and thankfully no surprise introductions to a long lost son, just the choice to make the marriage relationship a priority. The choice to look away from the "stuff" and look at one another. One small choice at a time has the potential to add up to a legacy of making the marriage a priority. So the opposite is true also. How much sweeter would our marriage be if we purposefully practiced prioritizing each other a little more...or maybe a lot more. <br />
<br />
Jesus showed us how to love in a way that I'm realizing I don't really understand. <br />
<br />
<em>"This is how we know what love is: Jesus laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers." (</em>1 John 3:16)<em> </em><br />
<br />
This looks different for everyone, but for me, laying down my life might look a little like this...choosing people...prioritizing my marriage above all other earthly relationships...choosing to read a book to the littlest when I want to put her in front of Barney...choosing to make an extra sandwich for the teenager at 10:00 pm...choosing to turn off the phone and look at the changing seasons...choosing to lay down my "schedule" for a lunch date with my husband...choosing to extend grace when I really want to lash out...choosing to forgive quickly... <br />
<br />
The schedule survived today and the laundry will eventually get folded (and seriously, who cares if it doesn't? It will all be re-washed in two days anyway). There was greater satisfaction in choosing to love someone else than in choosing to love my plans for the day. There was deeper joy in choosing to GO with my husband. <br />
<br />
I love many people in my life...I could probably fill pages with family and friends that I "dearly love." Yet, I'm so selfish...so selfish. I know very little about how to love sacrificially. I always hang on to a piece of myself when I'm loving others, protecting myself just a bit. I'm asking God to grow in me a spirit of love that enables me to love with the same depth that caused Christ to lay down His life for such a sinner as me. <em>By this love, the world will know that we are His disciples</em>. (John 13:35)<br />
<br />
It might be years before my husband asks me to go to lunch again in the middle of the week, but goodness, I'll send the "<em>YES!" </em>text back quicker next time he asks. I trust that God wants to grow His love in us so much that tomorrow another choice will be presented allowing me to extend love to my husband. God is good like that to give us chance after chance to grow in ways that honor Him. In this world, there might be no greater opportunity to learn how to love like Christ loved us than within the walls of our home with our husband or wife. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-78241425341107861032015-05-14T11:20:00.003-05:002015-05-14T14:32:44.512-05:00Peace<em>Our dear friend stepped into eternity with her Lord and Savior this past weekend. As my own children awoke and gifted me with handwritten Mother's Day cards, her children awoke to learn their mama had gone to be with Jesus. She's no longer in pain and finally free from the cancer that poisoned her body. Amen. Oh, but her young ones...do they understand God is good? Do they believe He will never leave them or forsake them? Can they still see Him through their sadness? Do they know they don't have to be so brave right now? While she is whole, healed, and in the land of no more tears, her family walks through hard days and those of us on the edges lift her loved ones up in prayer...that peace will overwhelm their fears, that God's people will serve them well, that our Lord's perfect love will bring comfort. </em><br />
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Often I hide our old family Christmas letters in books that I've read, so that on the rare occasion I open a book to re-read, I might find a note about our family from years past. It delights my heart to read of who we once were and how we've changed. The letter I found this week was penned many years ago during dark days, a hard season for our family. It was a year I contemplated staying Christmas card silent because I was sure anything positive I wrote would be dishonest. When I opened the book and saw this letter folded within the pages, the year at the top of the letter gripped my heart. <em>"That year really sucked," </em>I thought. I skimmed to the end of the page wondering what the final message could have possibly been during this year when we were feeling hard-pressed and squeezed on all sides.<br />
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The letter ended with a story I had long since forgotten...I don't know who originally told the story, I don't even know the context of which the story was first told or where we had heard the story, but I do remember during that challenging time for our family, the word picture seemed to sum up so much for us. <em>Can there be peace in the midst of a storm?</em><br />
The letter from so many years ago ended with this story... <br />
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<em>"We heard a beautiful word picture the other day. Two artists were asked to paint a picture of 'peace.' The first artist painted a beautiful mountain lake that was completely serene. There wasn't a cloud in the bright blue sky; there wasn't a ripple of waves on the clear water; there wasn't a hint of a breeze in the towering trees. The scene portrayed stillness...it was breathtakingly perfect. The other artist's picture of 'peace' was quite different. He painted a raging river that roared with chaos. The sky was cloudy, the water churning, and the waves crashing. The scene screamed action...it was overwhelmingly unsettled. Yet, over this tumultuous water stretched a small tree branch. A little nest was cradled softly amidst the tree branch and in that nest snuggled a little bird. This delicate bird rested soundly...trusting...quiet...'peaceful' in the midst of the storm...completely undisturbed by the danger surrounding him."</em><br />
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Peace in the midst of a raging storm. Rest amongst the chaos. Stillness in the turbulent. All of this impossible without Christ. The holder of the storm, the rock on which we stand, the keeper of our lives...HE, only HE, brings peace which surpasses all understanding. And sometimes, we have to fight for that peace. Fight against our flesh to believe Him and wrestle with our fears to trust Him. My mind says it's not fair for a family to lose their beloved mama and wife at such a young age. Focusing on my idea of "good" leaves me anxious, fearful, and maybe even a little angry. So, we fight to believe and lean into God's word. We repeat verses over and over and over in our minds that remind us who God is even though sometimes it's hard to see His goodness from our earthly perspective. We take captive our thoughts and make them obedient to His word, not obedient to our own human analysis. One verse that brings peace to my fears for this family is from Jeremiah, <em>"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you a hope and a future.'" </em>God's plan is not to destroy this family...even though it feels "too early" for her to be in eternity and they're "too young" to have lost their mom. God holds them and His plan is to bring good...even if we can't see it yet. We can believe what we don't see because we know His character and His character never changes. We can believe in this family's hope and future because God says we can believe that. <br />
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Phil 4:6-7 "<em>Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." </em><br />
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<em>"The peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." </em><br />
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Peace in the midst of the storm flies in the face of human reasoning, but yet God promises peace to guard our hearts and minds as the wind howls and the waves crash. Peace guards...posted outside of our aching hearts and anxious minds, peace allows His truth to speak louder to us than the chaos of hard circumstances.<br />
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The artists had two different perspectives on peace. One 'peace' required no conflict; the other 'peace' magnified by the conflict. Is it possible that peace is that much more magnificent when the circumstances scream there should be none? How often I pray for the picture surrounding me to change believing falsely that's the only way to get back to a place of peace. Peace in the midst of the storm is one of the beautiful promises tucked in Christ. True peace doesn't have to wait for still waters; true peace takes its most amazing, divine stand while the storm rages.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-958911516027257722015-05-01T11:35:00.000-05:002015-05-01T11:35:22.660-05:00GroaningIf a blog could be whispered, I'd whisper this one. Some trials in life suck the breath out of our lungs, squeeze our heart to the point you think it might explode, quiet the words that normally flow easy. Some things silence our wordy prayers and leave us with simply heart-crying groans. Words seem insufficient...and the words you do say seem shallow, silly in the midst of such ache. Maybe I'm at such a loss because it's not my story. I'm inside the story enough to ache, but too outside to fully know how God is being faithful. It seems impossible, yet I know He's faithful. I believe He is faithful. HE IS FAITHFUL.<br />
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Today, a friend walks the valley of the shadow of death, the number of her days limited. We all thought maybe she would be the one...maybe she could be the one to fight this cancer for ten years and get her kids through high school. If anyone had the temperament to do that, it would be her. After a rough week at chemo, she'd sit with the two-year-old Puggles at Awanas and say, "<em>I can feel crummy at home or I can feel crummy here. I'd rather be here."</em> Even as the pain has overwhelmed in the last weeks, she said, "<em>I just need to get this managed, so I can get on with my day."</em> And against the medical odds, we all hoped that she would be the one who would beat it. <br />
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The Creator of her body, the Lover of her soul, the Heavenly Father who knows how this story ends, seems to be walking her home. I whispered to my little guy this morning, "<em>It seems she's going to get to go Home."</em> He smiled, "<em>Oh good. Now she will be back at church." </em>I corrected gently, "<em>Not this home on earth. Home to our Heavenly Father." </em>He whispered back, <em>"That's so good for her. She will be so happy to be with Jesus. But I'm so sad for her kids." </em>He grabs my neck and gives me a generous hug. And I feel so spoiled because I have the energy to hang on tightly to my kids, and make them breakfast, and give a test, and use the word <em>"tomorrow."</em> My journey on this day seems so easy...and not too far away, this friend's valley is so hard... <em> </em><br />
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We cry out to God for peace for the family and her two young children. We cry out for comfort for her. We pray against a spirit of fear for her and for her beloved family and friends. In a stolen moment with a couple girlfriends around her hospital bed, we promise her that we will pray for her children long term. That as we pray for our own children's purity and gentleness and salvation and spouses and...and..., that we will also pray for hers. That her children will be prayed for by other mamas who know the deepest longings of a mama's heart for her children. It seems unfair to promise a mama that you will do for her children the one thing that she longs to do for them herself. Yet, there's nothing else we can offer...and maybe, aside from a miraculous healing, there's nothing she wants more ...than to know her children will be prayed for. <br />
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But mostly, we groan. We groan and trust that God understands the language of hurting hearts.<br />
<em>"In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And He who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's Will." </em>Romans 8:26-27 <br />
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We trust He intercedes for us as we don't know what to say...as our prayers seems incomplete...as we seek to trust without seeking human understanding...we groan because there simply aren't words powerful enough to express... <br />
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As Kara Tippetts wrote in her blog <a href="http://www.mundanefaithfulness.com/">www.mundanefaithfulness.com</a> during her final days, "<em>There will be grace for this</em>..."<br />
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So, our hearts groan for our dear friend who is journeying through the valley, and we whisper,<br />
<em>There WILL be grace for this...</em> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-23668090403816595242015-02-09T11:50:00.000-06:002015-02-09T12:04:52.687-06:00The Root of BitternessA feverish baby woke me early. <br />
A list of grievances from weeks past made sleep restless anyway, so the excuse to get out of bed brought relief that finally the night was over. <br />
Rocking a fussy one seemed simple compared to the weight of all the chips that I had allowed permanent residence on my shoulders over the last weeks.<br />
The bitterness had crept back in slowly; hardly noticeable at first glance. It rested quietly in my spirit, ignored mostly, but still allowed to permeate my thoughts. Thoughts become speech; speech becomes action. Before long, the bitter began lacing my conversation about certain topics with a touch of sarcasm; a hint of hardness surrounding my talk; the edge of a critical spirit waiting to offer an arrogant opinion. Only unchecked bitterness can result in such anger and frustration. <br />
Unresolved conflict in relationships, unmet expectations of life, and the pride of thinking higher of oneself than we ought, tend to open the floodgates to all kinds of past issues. <br />
Moments forgotten from times past...offenses overlooked, but not really overlooked just put aside for another day...all of the yuck of yesterday resurrected.<br />
Generalizations allowed the freedom to make bold, over-arching judgments.<br />
Words like <em>never </em>and <em>always</em> enter carelessly.<br />
<em>You never...</em><br />
<em>We never...</em><br />
<em>It always..</em><br />
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Anger strangled as I laid my little one back down in her crib. <br />
Not anger toward the little one who had pulled me from bed; for she cuddled and loved fiercely in her need. <br />
<em>What is my problem?</em> No single incident could incite such emotional ugliness.<br />
No single incident except the brushing aside of the root of bitterness that never fails to eventually produce fruit that chokes out the good. <br />
When we want an excuse for our sin, we hunt desperately for the scapegoat that allows us to take the edge off of our own conviction of wrong and place the blame somewhere else. <br />
<em>It's not my fault I'm acting this way. I have reason.</em><br />
I began to justify. The excuses ready to bear the brunt of the blame for my internal battle. <br />
I started the mental list as I rocked alone, no longer softened by the gentle breathing of the baby. I was left to give full vent to my sin. <br />
<em>For this reason...I'm so angry.</em><br />
<em>For this reason...I'm allowed bitterness. </em><br />
<em>For this...I resent. Who wouldn't?</em><br />
All of the things I'm disliking about myself these days cast away from my ownership. <br />
And on and on my list grew in the wee hours of the morning. The frustration energized by my endless pursuit for justification.<br />
On and on I rocked alone. <br />
It's no coincidence that the one in bitterness is often left to themselves. <br />
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When I thought I would surely pop from the listing of excuses, the gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit pressed in--the Counselor that doesn't allow sin comfortable living space in a child of God's spirit--the awakening of the status of the heart that doesn't allow for Truth to be absent from the equation. There are no excuses in dealing with our own sin; God's word burrows into the dark places and reveals the ugliness of hidden sin, our own deceptive hearts that try to deceive us into believing that we are excused. The weight of our sin comes to light. Oh, it's so ugly, and so overwhelming, and so seemingly unchangeable. Just when we think we might be doomed forever, Grace gently enters; to cover, to restore, to heal, to breathe life; the undeserved gift that unveils the sin and offers us new mercies in exchange for our repentance. <em>Turn back and be renewed.</em><br />
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We all have our own reasons for hanging on to a bitter spirit.<br />
Some reasons seem more worthy than others. <br />
Some stories make bitterness understandable. <br />
Some circumstances make living joyfully hard to do.<br />
Some seasons of life are just plain more challenging than others.<br />
People hurt us. We hurt others. We are disappointed. We do the disappointing. <br />
And life doesn't seem to ever really look the way we thought. <br />
But we are never excused to bitterness. <br />
Never. No matter our story. No matter how hard the fight against it. Bitterness is never God's best.<br />
Jesus came so that bitterness, resentment, and anger don't have to steal life from our days.<br />
Their power to destroy us broken by the grace and forgiveness that Jesus offers. We forgive...we let go of what steals our joy...because we know the depth of our own need for forgiveness. <br />
I could never be sinned against more than I have sinned against my Heavenly Father. I could never be the keeper of right and wrong because I'm not always wise in the keeping of right. <br />
I hate the root of bitterness that creeps into my life. But I often water it, leave it to sprout, and then eat of the fruit that was permitted to grow. <br />
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The image of one clinging to years worth of justifiable reasons for anger and bitterness haunts me. <br />
Life had been hard for her. My heart still breaks for her years later. Yet, there's a nagging in the heart of a Christian that whispers the question when we see years worth of harboring such bitterness, "<em>Is this the one hurt that could never be forgiven?"</em> <em>"Is this the one thing that Jesus didn't die for?" </em>We don't ever get to own the right to bitterness; the poison fruit that grows from it should spur us on to fight the roots of bitterness we see in our life on our knees with all our might. To press on to take hold of that which Christ Jesus has called us to. There's such beauty when a testimony is given and years of hard and heartache and sadness are coupled with God's grace and forgiveness and joy. Perhaps that's why Kara Tippett's testimony (<a href="http://www.mundanefaithfulness.com/">www.mundanefaithfulness.com</a>) of living her life with such purpose, joy, and grace while dying of cancer has captivated so many of us. She could be bitter and angry at the broken journey she's been asked to walk, but instead I heard her say on a broadcast something like <em>"We choose brokenness over anger."</em> There's a sweet release of comfort to hear that difficult can be journeyed without succumbing to our natural tendency toward bitterness and anger and our right to justice. We crave seeing God's power in action. We long hearing of God's promises lived out in real life. Beth Moore (in her study of Daniel) reminds us of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego who came out of the fire that could have incinerated them, but instead "<em>the hair of their heads was not singed, their cloaks were not harmed, and no smell of fire had come upon them" </em>(Daniel 3:27). They didn't even smell of smoke. Impossible. Only God enables someone to walk through the fire in such a way. <br />
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Hebrews 12:15 "<em>See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many."</em><br />
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Letting go of bitterness always costs us something. It may cost us our treasured power over someone; it may cost us our excuses to not deal with our own sin; it may cost us our pride. But letting go of bitterness promises to bring about fruits of the spirit like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,gentleness, and self-control. I've seen my own bitterness isolate me in certain ways and lend an edge in certain relationships. <em>Turn back and be renewed</em> the Holy Spirit nudges.<br />
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I have a vision of the way I long to be as an older woman. I want to be like my mom. Not that she's an old woman, she's actually quite young and beautiful in all ways, but her children are grown and her grandchildren growing. I want to be one like her who speaks with gentleness, kindness, love, and joy at days past. I want to be over-flowing with grace-filled speech as I grow older and I want to always be looking for opportunity to extend forgiveness and ask for forgiveness in all my relationships. I long for there to be no sharpness to my comments; no harbored grudges that poison life of its promised hope. I long for my grown children and grandchildren to feel refreshed in my presence in years to come because the stench of some hard yesterdays were not permitted permanent residence in my spirit. I become this older woman by fighting bitterness today. By choosing Kara's attitude (Jesus' attitude), my mom's attitude, and letting myself be broken by life's hardships and not bitter and not angry and not hardened.<br />
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I've been rocking in that chair a lot today. My baby is still feverish and she needs lots of loving. As I move closer toward uprooting this bitterness that strangles, I can't help but notice the life it breathes into my family. I'm reminded that tending to the garden of my soul requires the continual weeding of the ugly, the rotten, smelly, in order for true beauty to have room to grow. It promises to be well worth the fight. <br />
<em> </em><br />
<em> </em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-3865600395285371972015-01-23T16:22:00.000-06:002015-01-23T16:25:09.414-06:00Happy New Year 2015<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Many years ago I gave up sending Christmas cards before Christmas. Too stressful for this unorganized mama. These days I wait until the Christmas ornaments have gently come off the tree and the twinkling outdoor lights are carelessly crammed in tubs before attempting to pen a New Year's letter. With today's technology, my husband wonders the point. <em>Does anyone really care to read about our family in a letter? No one writes Christmas letters anymore. They live on Facebook, so what is there to write about? </em></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But I don't live on Facebook. I'm way too undisciplined to have an account. And I'm old-fashioned, so I still, still, still write a Christmas letter. Each year I love thinking on my family...remembering moments in the year...envisioning each child and who they're becoming...who we're becoming as we get older. We are changing...all of us. The letters are sent snail mail to friends that live far and I'm sure only read to see if we are having another baby, but it's worth it for me to take the time to summarize our year. I recently found a folded copy of one of my letters written back when we had only our two small boys. I wrote in the innocence of being a young mama...hopeful of days to come...exhausted from sleepless nights. I read the letter and laughed out loud in annoyance at my talk of tired...if only I would have known that fourteen years later, I'd still be exhausted from sleepless nights. <em>And what in the world did I have to be so tired about back then? </em>Anyway, our 2015 letter finally was written and sent. It seems to get later every year. </span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Happy New Year 2015! </strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><strong>One
hundred shoes pile beside our back door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Two hundred hairbands fight for a home (“on the floor” Preston says).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eight voices layer the air each trying to
outtalk the others. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty-eight “one on
one” relationships must be maintained within our walls. The constant hum of
life never quiets. One begs for more freedom; another demands continuous
monitoring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two crave constant cuddles;
two tolerate our hugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three love organization;
five evade orderliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When things are
good, they are very, very good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when
things are bad, they are MAGNIFIED! We can go from gentle to nasty in 0.7
seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gracious to offended in 1.3
seconds. Loving to hateful in a single breath. It’s truly impossible to find
one moment when “all is well” with everyone, yet somehow in the midst of the
highs, the lows, the lovely, the yucky, the teenagers, the sleepless nights, we
can say confidently…ALL IS WELL…simply because we know Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Six years
in Missouri is starting to feel like some roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we miss the mountains of Colorado, the
warmth of our desert assignments, and the adventure of Germany, there’s beauty
found in the accountability that comes with stability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, and there’s always fabulous Lake of the
Ozarks that proves to be our family’s favorite weekend spot through the summer.
There are moments, though, when Preston and I look at each other and say, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s time to move. People are getting to
know us too well.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Our weeks blur to
months as we train kids, cheer at sporting events, spend precious time with
extended family, love on friends, serve at church, run away to the lake, and try
to gracefully and purposely manage this one life that has been given to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">We are
the McConnells…so often lumped together by our good and bad, it’s easy for us
to parent our kids in a herd-like manner, demand the same from all, and miss
the individuality of each person in our family. While we are all undoubtedly
part of the same family, our strengths and weaknesses differ dramatically and I
love to introduce our dear far-away friends to each one individually each year.
Once a year, the kids get six lines to themselves </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zach…the gift of example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether he wants the role or not, God chose
him to be first…and God knows best. He loves his siblings; cares for them;
demonstrates mostly wise choices (maybe a handful unwise) all while
acknowledging that he’s the object of his parents’ inexperience and needs extra
grace </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">. He continues to enjoy football, swimming, reffing,
school, guitar and tackled a new role this year in helping behind the scenes
with the set of the school play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
favorite milestone came with his driver’s license even though his car boasts two
carseats (keepin him humble!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AMEN to a
third driver! Given a choice, he would probably prefer solitude (impossible in
this house,) but he fights his preferences (with some prompting</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">) and stays engaged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Josh…the
gift of loyalty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s freedom found
in Josh’s relationships with all of us because he will always defend…always
stand by the object of parental or sibling wrath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While he does his own share of quick-spoken
words, he’s quick to ask for and bestow forgiveness. His hits on the football
field can be heard in the stands and he has quite a knack as defender in soccer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Josh tackles his school work and piano with
focus and looks forward to going to high school next year with his brother. (I
already miss him!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He energetically
balances the world of teenager and kid by enjoying his friends, but also playing
Legos (and light-saber battles) with his little bro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Madelin…the
gift of presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stays when
everyone else disappears…to help with chores, to give words of encouragement,
to lighten the mood with a funny comment, to eavesdrop</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">.Her presence calms our chaos and she works
behind the scenes to help make everything work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s crazy fast on a soccer field and
beautifully graceful in ballet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
can’t bear to make her choose one because she’s just so lovely at both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tease that her OCD tendencies have been
curved by both her big family and through sharing a room with a free-spirited
sister, although she regularly begs everyone to do a “five-minute” clean up
just so she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“can think.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Savannah…the
gift of compassion to our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
both exhibits great love for others and requires enormous love from us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She needs us…all of us. God nestled this
tenderhearted one in the midst of many to assure her, love on her, encourage
her, cheer for her, and of course, discipline her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soccer and dance are her loves and she dives
into every activity and every emotion she feels with all of her heart. Our
walls, fridge, baskets, overflow with her drawings, letters, and homemade cards
professing her gigantic love and saying we are the “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Best Family Ever</i>” (these often follow “discipline.”) She quite
possibly will have a dozen children as she’s begging for us to have twins
(ummm…no. NO.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Noah…the
gift of passion to our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Noah’s in
constant conversation, story-telling, asking questions, sharing family secrets,
and teaching us a better way to do things. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad,
I’ve been playing soccer all my life and this is how you kick the ball,</i>” so
we remind him that being five doesn’t equal “all-knowing.” (”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of course</i>, <em>those sixth graders want to play soccer with me, Mom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em>And strangely, they do all love him.<em>)</em> His
rebellious streak has led him to favor the Kansas City Chiefs over the Broncos
and to favor baseball over all other sports. The Royals had no greater fan than
Noah during the World Series and he loves to run bases at our closest park. It’s
a heart-tugging sight to see this little boy in a baseball cap lovingly
carrying around a glove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Hope…the
gift of unconditional love. Aside from magnificently kissable cheeks, she’s
done nothing to “earn” love except to want to be loved by us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s our reminder that God simply loves
us…just because we are…not because we can ever work for it. Hope Selah
celebrated her 1<sup>st</sup> birthday on Christmas and she serves as our go-to
girl when we need unity---we might not all like each other at any given moment,
but we always agree on our adoration for this yummy baby! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Preston
and I have quit chasing after quiet this year and we are learning (always
learning) to find stillness within the noise. Our greatest purchase was our
twelve passenger van (I love it!), which now drives for sporting events, youth
events, girls’ night out, and family road trips. Oh, what joy we find in seeking
Jesus in this overflowing, unpredictable life! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Colonel
rests on Preston’s record, waiting for him to decide if that’s the road for us.
Our prayer-“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord, can we have both
Colonel and Lee’s Summit?” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks
like we can’t (but we pray for it anyway), so we wait, knowing that our two
oldest kids want a vote in this. Perhaps, the career has moved over and no
longer gets the biggest say and maybe, just maybe, our abundant life in Lee’s
Summit is worth turning it all down and staying a while longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ALL IS
WELL</i>…even in the not knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">We pray
you find 2015 a year full of amazing love, abounding wisdom, and overwhelming
peace! Love to you always! </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The McConnell Family<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-77839991230729398242014-11-11T14:24:00.004-06:002014-11-11T14:26:38.640-06:00Veteran's Day and Numbered DaysI wish, wish, wish that every American, old and young, had the opportunity to watch a squadron deploy and then watch them return. To witness the anticipation, the tears, the tension, and the resolution on the faces of the families as the military beloved walks away. The families breathe in bravery at that moment and begin life apart knowing that the road will be anything but easy. I wish everyone could witness this event in real time, and not just the occasional five second clip on the evening news. <br />
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The tributes today, Veterans Day, will cause most of us to pause and thank those in uniform who have served us selflessly and silently. My husband will proudly wear his uniform and travel around numerous events in Warrensburg, MO, shaking hands with veterans and personally expressing his own thanks for the battles they fought before his time and for humbly passing on the baton of freedom for him to carry. His spirit will soften at their wrinkled eyes, their proud shoulders, and their own thanksgiving for the country that gave them the opportunity to serve. Somehow, they will make him feel as though this country gave them a great gift; the gift of fighting for freedom. My husband will have more in common with many of these eighty-year-old men today than he has with some of his own peers, and he will treasure the stories they share with him. He will pass on the conversations with our family tonight and we will, for this moment, feel so privileged to hear of their lives. I've seen these moments shared before and few images make me love my husband more...my tall beloved bending slightly to hear their words; allowing his own eyes to tear as they freely let theirs fall; his protective arm wrapped around their shoulders; and his strong hand that still has days left to fly a jet grasping a weakened hand that holds only a memory of such times. The forty-year-old pilot connected to the eighty- year-old army private...a bond unexplainable to those of us who have never walked their road. Side by side they will be, both soaking up one another's presence, encouraged by the other's strength. The younger in awe of the journey traveled before his time and in awareness that the military too has numbered his own days; the elder in remembrance of wars fought long ago and in slight longing that there are still battles to be fought but they will be accomplished without his own hands. My husband's thoughts often linger over the fact that what he's doing today, these "conflicts" in the forefront of his mind, will pass and become history; his actions will be one piece of a puzzle. Lord willing he will live long enough to be the recipient of a handshake by the next wave of military members coming up behind.<br />
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Seven months ago, twelve A-10's and several hundred people from Whiteman AFB deployed to Afghanistan to fly close air support for our troops on the ground for our generation's war.<br />
Can I just brag on the A-10 a bit? <br />
The A-10 flies low, boasts an ugly, beastlike appearance, and exists to provide low air support for our ground troops. When a soldier is on the ground being fired upon, there's no sweeter sound than the hum of the A-10 and the rumble of the Gatling gun as the A-10 does the magnificent job of protecting. This plane doesn't seem to have much time left in our Air Force fleet and for those of us intimately in love with this jet, we will be so sad to see it go. The jet has spent almost as much time with my husband as I have. The pilots who fly the A-10 have committed to fly with the sole mission of keeping our people on the ground safe and bringing them home. They could have flown fancier, faster planes, but they love this grassroots mission. It's all about protecting the troops. Last time my husband was in Afghanistan, t<span style="font-family: inherit;">his sign hung boldly at Bagram Air Base: “<b>The
mission is the 18-year-old on the ground with the gun. All else is support.”</b> The reminder to not forget why they were there<i>. </i>I don't know if that sign still hangs, but its words seem to have made it a little easier for my husband to be away from his family. The A-10 pilots would reach out and touch this sign every time they
left the building for a combat mission.
They understood this thing they were doing was not for their glory; not simply to add
ribbons and rankings to their own personal achievements. The training...this deployment...this airplane...all came down to these missions and doing everything within their power to make sure that the 18-year-old on the ground got to come home to his or her family. Who wouldn't love an airplane with that mission? </span>I truly hope that if any of my sons are ever the ones on foreign soil fighting a ground war in a conflict I don't understand that someone like my husband will be flying overhead protecting them.<br />
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So, we drove to Whiteman AFB a couple weeks ago to watch the A-10's come home from combat. Seven months away doesn't sound long to an Army family, but for an Air Force reserve unit, seven months is a LIFETIME. Ten A-10's flew over the Air Force base as a unit and then one by one they peeled off to make their final descent and land back on Missouri soil for the first time in over half a year. The families waited. Cheered. Signs blew in the soft breeze and flags waved proudly. T-shirts on the children read things like "Welcome Home!" and "I'm going to get my dad back!" New babies dressed in red, white, and blue. Life doesn't stop for the months someone is deployed. It keeps going...important events happen...joyful moments exist...sorrowful times are missed...issues surface...trials braved...and these military families do their best to somehow stay connected, live life together, while thousands of miles apart. <br />
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My husband didn't go on this deployment. Left behind this time around, we saw things differently; kind of from the outside. I thought back years ago to a colonel shaking my older boys' hands as my husband left on a deployment just days before Christmas. The colonel stated wistfully, "I wish I was going with them. It's hard to stay behind." I thought the comment mere words until my husband was the one left behind shaking the hands. I remember clearly the night last September when he came home with the news that this time his name wasn't on the list. "<i>But don't get your hopes up," </i>he told me,<i> "things change,"</i> as if I haven't lived this enough to know. And things did change, but my husband's name remained absent from the list. He would stay back this time around and we would simply observe. Watch them leave, hear the stories of a world far away, and welcome them home. I'm not sure my husband ever spoke the colonel's exact words, but I saw it in his eyes as he watched the A-10's deploy back in March, "<i>I wish I was going with them. It's so hard to stay behind." </i>It had nothing to do with him wanting to be away from his family, but everything to do with wanting to be with his squadron...to put into practice all the training and to protect the 18-year-old on the ground. My husband loves his job, LOVES his job, and he loves the A-10. <br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"The A-10's are flying back home Sunday at noon. You don't have to come watch. I'll be there escorting some families, but you and the kids don't need to come unless you want to." </i>My husband threw the return time of the jets carelessly into the discussion in the days preceding their return. He reminded me, <i>"You know they don't care if any of us are there. They just want to see their families." </i> True. They just want to hold their wives, touch their kids, and breathe in the relief of being back in America. So, I didn't enter the return date on my calendar. A date like that doesn't need to be entered; it's known deep in the heart. My husband wasn't even deployed and my soul was counting down every second until their return. <br />
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"<i>Why has daddy been working so hard?" </i>one of mine complained the weekend the jets returned. "<i>Why has he been so grumpy lately?" </i>another chirped. Complain. Bicker. Whine. Complain. Bicker. Whine. Oh, how my little ones needed to be reminded. A little wake-up call. We've obviously been a little too free lately. They haven't had to count the cost of all of their "blessings" in recent days. They needed to remember what exactly it is that their daddy does and feel a little humbled at their own "needs."<br />
<i>"Get in the car, Kids. We're going to welcome some soldiers back home." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>On the day of the return, I ran into a friend,who has five kids, in the squadron hall. We exchanged a few quick tears of relief before she gathered her beautiful children to be escorted to the flight line. I captured the moment in my mind of this family minus one walking toward the planes. That one who was missing was preparing to land and I couldn't help but think, "<i>Well done, Little Mama. You made it!" </i>My kids and I stood in the shadows of the hangars, cheered loudly, and I silently thanked God for the privilege of knowing these amazing, brave families. For a moment, my kids were solemn, speechless, full of awe. Families reuniting...beautiful to behold. Even my teenagers recognized the heaviness and lightness of the moment. The lightness of joy, relief, and contentment in the reunion; the heaviness of the cost of this moment. <br />
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Years ago, at a friend's military farewell, the man retiring said to those young in their career, "The Air Force has numbered your days; you only get a short window to do this thing, so enjoy it." The veterans can attest to those numbered days. Even my husband feels the clock winding down on his days of flying; his turn at this job of protection changing as he gets older. Maybe that's why he volunteered to visit with veterans this morning; to assure them that they are remembered, valuable, and appreciated; their service a piece in the puzzle of this nation's freedom that can never be replaced. <br />
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We will look forward to hearing the stories tonight told to him by those who have gone before. There will come a day when our squadron's well-loved A-10's will merely be shells of the planes they once were resting on the desert sand in Tucson, Arizona. My husband's strong hands that have throttled the jet through thousands of hours of flight time will be shaking the hand of a younger pilot who will lean in close to my aging husband and hear of his stories while he was in the service. We will listen tonight to my husband talk of old tales with that future moment in mind knowing that in years to come there will be another young family who might hear of our tales around the dinner table. <br />
And I so hope they take the time to listen.<br />
Happy Veteran's Day. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-10624261281495051672014-10-08T10:53:00.002-05:002014-10-08T17:20:16.784-05:00Not like the Tax CollectorThere's sweetness in preschool drop off. <br />
Little people, little hands holding tightly to mom or dad's hand, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Lunchboxes, sparkling eyes, chubby cheeks, short legs doing their best to keep up with the adult dragging them into the room, joyful teachers, ahhhhh, such tenderness. <br />
My little preschooler knows one of my most favorite things in the whole world right now is holding his mushy little hand in mine. His oversized backpack keeps him from racing too far ahead of me into the building and my joy of him keeps me from pulling him along faster than his legs can go.<br />
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As August brought the first day of preschool, I found myself deeply thankful that I wasn't a first time preschool mom. Don't get me wrong, I'd like to look like some of those young sassafras first time preschool mamas in matching workout gear and nicely ponytailed hair, however, if it would mean going back to all that stuff I worried about the first time around...no thanks. I'll take the mismatched sweats and the unintentional messy bun any day. This is my fifth preschool rodeo and I'm totally digging being an older mama. So freeing. All those crazy things you worry about when you are young and discovering motherhood have absolutely no hold on you when you are older and have teenagers. Preschool issues are just that...preschool issues. Bring them on. <br />
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The freedom turned to pride about two preschool mornings into the school year. I found myself secretly daring a mom to talk to me about the importance of packing a nutritious snack (<em>Go ahead, judge my son's Lunchable plus extra bag of chips and fruit snacks.)</em> I hoped to overhear a conversation about the latest parenting book fad so I could regurgitate the titles of the numerous parenting books that have reached idol status just since I've been a parent. I took great joy in my preschooler telling stories that would have once required major damage control from my people-pleasing personality. The preschooler shared that his older brother's girlfriend is called the "Chunky Muffin Girlfriend," and the younger me instantly would have wanted to explain that there was no "chunky muffin girlfriend," but that the baby sister, scrumptiously pudgy and roly poly, is referred to as "the girlfriend," more specifically the "Chunky Muffin Girlfriend," by the two oldest brothers. An older mama enjoys letting the comment go. Loooves this moment of uncomfortable wondering. Because it's HILARIOUS to watch people's faces! <em> Chunky Muffin Girlfriend?</em> <em>Do they let their son call his girlfriend Chunky Muffin? </em>No. No. No. Yes, we know it's not appropriate talk, yes, we recognize that their future girlfriends might not appreciate all of the affectionate albeit sketchy names they come up with for their sisters, BUT any home with teenagers lives in the reality that sometimes/lots of times you just have to let things go. The baby sister adores her brothers and we're convinced all she hears when they tenderly coo, "<i>You precious Chunky Muffin Girlfriend,"</i> is "<i>You are the greatest person ever created and we love you to the moon and back."</i> We have bigger battles in this home than our baby being called "Chunky Muffin Girlfriend." This old mama just relishes the fact that the brothers call the baby any name that suggests fondness.<br />
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Pride overflowed fiercely in preschool drop off. You know you are seriously insecure in other areas if you are abundantly gloating at preschool. <i>"At least I'm not like those other preschool moms. Worrying about snacks, schedules, playdates. I'm free of all that nonsense. So, incredibly free. Free. Free. Free."</i><br />
Sounds a bit like the Pharisee in Luke, "<i>God, I thank you that I'm not other men---robbers, evil doers, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast and give a tenth of all I get." </i> <br />
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Standing in the rain last week, crying hot tears of anger at myself over great impatience, the realization hit me...<i>I'm not living free at all. Sure, I'm free of all those preschool burdens, but I exchanged them for a new set of chains that still leaves me doubting, insecure, and oh so afraid.</i><br />
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A slave is still a slave regardless of the name of the master. Perhaps the most dangerous form of bondage comes with pride that blinds us to what/who is holding our chains. Preschool no longer jerks my chains. However, my ideal standard of homeschooling frustrates, my time management strangles, my margin-less life steals. I'm no longer bound by feeding ideals, nap times, and my son playing with pink legos, but now I'm tethered to multi-layered sports schedules, fear of teenager freedom, and anger at my inconsistency in living joyfully. <i>"At least I'm not like those preschool moms enslaved by those silly things." </i>True. But, pride kept me from seeing that I'd just been sold to a different master. <br />
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I'm sure moms further along than me are thinking, "<i>Girlfriend, this is easy. Wait till you have adult children completely out from under your control. Now, that's hard." </i>I can't imagine. But, I pray we never look at another's bondage in pride and miss the ties that hold us firmly. Chains are chains. It doesn't matter if they are preschool problems, homeschooling struggles, perfection issues, work idols, or family tension, slavery to anything other than obedience to Christ keeps us from the freedom our souls long for.<br />
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I pray we are always mindful, always uncovering, the secret chains that bind us. Just because we might be free from that which enslaves a friend, a family member, or our child, this should never be a source of pride for us, but should encourage us to humbly ask our Heavenly Father what it is that keeps our soul from resting securely on Him. 2 Peter 2:19 "...a man is a slave to whatever has mastered him." <i>Who is the loudest voice in my life?</i> That might be a good indicator of who is my master. <i>Failure</i>...constantly feeling like I'm failing speaks to me often. The chains grip tight. <br />
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God's word gives freedom. Freedom because it's perfection is only found in Jesus. James 2:25 "The man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it, he will be blessed in what he does." <i> How can a perfect law give freedom? How can a people incapable of keeping a perfect law find freedom in looking intently on that law? </i>Seems to me that would bring nothing but condemnation...to look at a law impossible to keep. It's not keeping the law that brings freedom. It's clinging to Jesus, who kept the perfect law for us, knowing we couldn't, knowing we wouldn't, so freedom in Christ could be ours for the taking. <br />
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<i>Romans 8:1 "Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death." </i><br />
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If I feel condemned...like a big failure...it's because I'm struggling to truly believe the promise God has already set before me in His Word. Truthfully, I actually can't believe it in my own power because I know too intimately the depth of my sins, so I have to cry out for help believing that I don't have to be a slave to anything this world has to offer. <br />
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When I fail to be patient...there's no condemnation. <br />
When I spend my time unwisely...there's no condemnation.<br />
When I haven't introduced myself to new neighbors...there's no condemnation. <br />
When my teenage sons call their baby sister "Chunky Muffin Girlfriend"...well, that condemnation is theirs to work through. Let them wrestle with that...I've got other issues.<br />
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<i>"At least I'm not like those other preschool moms. Worrying about snacks, schedules, playdates."</i><br />
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Luke 18:11-13, "<i>God, I thank you that I'm not other men---robbers, evil doers, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast and give a tenth of all I get. </i><br />
<i><b>But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner." </b></i><br />
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<i>Have mercy on us, Lord. </i><br />
<i>We are such sinners.</i><br />
<i>Yet, somehow, there is no condemnation. </i><br />
<i>Help us to believe that. </i><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-55669898239728115652014-08-18T10:42:00.006-05:002014-08-18T17:23:04.472-05:00Daydreaming with the FirstbornSomething unexpected is happening with my firstborn sitting behind the wheel of our car.<br />
A shift in our relationship has slowly been occurring through these last months of driving and I'm only just now realizing the source of this new ground is rooted in his independence. The independence birthed from trying new things and having the parental confidence behind him that says outloud, regardless of how we are feeling, "<em>You can do this. We trust you with this." </em><br />
A KC Chiefs lanyard dangles his keys around his neck. Only a new driver feels the need to show off their collection of keys and to jingle them constantly as evidence of maturity...maybe not even maturity, maybe just age. Keys separate a teenager from their younger peers. "<em>I'm big stuff. I can drive. You cannot. I can drive. You cannot</em>." The keys dance loudly proclaiming this milestone in life. <br />
Our discussions find new paths; new trails to wander. Honestly, it's kind of freaking out my mama soul. <br />
Behind the wheel of the car with eyes securely on the road, my firstborn's heart opens a little more, his words explore with a little more freedom, and his internal world is made a little more public to me.<br />
While I'm dreaming of him successfully merging into traffic without being prompted, "<em>Merge. Merge. Merge MergeMergeMerge. MEEERGE," </em>he lets me catch a glimpse into his private world, too. <br />
I'm learning what it means to daydream with my firstborn. <br />
<br />
<em>I can't wait until my friends and I can hop in the car and drive to St. Louis to see a friend. </em><br />
The first time he let me in on that daydream, I jumped into his dream and squashed it. <br />
<em>Uhhh, not happening. No way are you and your three amigos driving to St. Louis alone to see a friend. You realize there are rules about teenagers being in a car with their peers and I don't know what they are, but we are not letting you drive to St Louis on I-70 alone. You can go,but a parent will go with you. </em><br />
Conversation over. Dream done. I successfully showed him who was really in charge of all of his future hopes and plans. Realism needs to stop a dream before it even has a chance to blossom, right? Everyone needs a voice of reason in the home. I'm doing my family a favor by pointing out silly trains of thought. <br />
My family has other names for me. <br />
<em>Dream killer. </em><br />
<em>Kill joy. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
He tries again. I'm given another chance to hop into his world for a moment and just be with him, but I don't recognize the second chance. <br />
<em>I think it would be so fun to go to college with a friend. </em><br />
<em>What?</em> I don't hear him saying that it would be more comfortable to leave the people he loves if he got to be with a friend, I hear him saying that he's going to plan to go to college based on where his friends go, not based on his future goals. Parental intervention alert! <br />
<em>You can't plan your entire future on where your friends want to go to college. If you end up going to the same college, FANTASTIC, but you can't make plans based on where everyone else feels called to go to school. You need to determine the path God wants for you, not the path of your friends. </em><br />
He quiets. Walls go up a little. He didn't want my opinion; he simply wanted to share. <br />
The dream killing feels a little less necessary when you feel the door to their hearts close. <br />
<br />
<em>Lord, please give me another chance to dream with him; and give me the wisdom to recognize it. </em><br />
I'm a glutton for second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth chances.<br />
<br />
God graciously gives. <br />
Eyes on the road having successfully merged without being verbally prompted, he tosses me a conversation, <br />
<em>"I can't wait to have season tickets to the Royals game someday. I love those games."</em><br />
I pause. My mind instantly has three comments<em>, "1) Cha-ching. You have to have money to have season tickets to the Royals. 2) What job are you planning to have that you will actually have the time to go to all 752 games a year? 3) Since when do you even like baseball?" </em><br />
My dream-killing comments catch in my throat.<br />
I swallow and boldly step into his daydream. <br />
<em>"That would be such a blast."</em><br />
He simply nods.<br />
The car makes its way to our destination with both of us contemplating season tickets to the Royals. It wasn't so hard to let his thoughts of baseball tickets live. Reality will come soon enough and perhaps he will find that season tickets for the Royals cost hard-earned money and it might be more fun to go to an occasional game than to go every week. Or maybe he will buy season tickets. There's no harm in letting him dream. My thoughts capture something I had previously missed; this particular daydream involved living in Kansas City. He didn't invite me to think on the times he ponders dreams that might take him far away; this time, God graciously let me step into a world where my son lives close. Baby steps on the daydreaming, I guess.<br />
<br />
Later that night with a baby on my hip, the firstborn shoveling cereal (which is a snack 24 hours a day for a teenager) into his mouth, he says, "<em>If I had season tickets to the Royals, I think it'd be really cool to take a different one of my brothers or sisters to each game with me." </em><br />
Be. Still. My. Heart.<br />
I want to dance and shout, "<em>Yes. Yes. Yes. Let's daydream about these Royals tickets a little more."</em><br />
But the conversation is over to him, not open for discussion, and his cereal bowl and spoon head for the sink. He passes me on the way out and leans in to kiss the baby that has stolen his heart. For a moment, I'm allowed to reach out and touch his slightly prickly baby face as he connects his heart to his little sister's. Maybe daydreaming hurts a little more these days because the dreams don't generally include him being near enough for me to reach out and touch him. <br />
<br />
Three years left to daydream. Three years to conversationally explore all of the wonderful places that God could possibly lead him. Three years to browse the depths of his future hopes and dreams before the reality of where they might lead takes shape. The dreams are safe in the confines of our Tahoe. While they involve this mama walking down paths that don't include me, the mere fact they are voiced should bring joy. My firstborn's invitation to dream with him says, <em>"Come with me down this path and dream with me of all I might do</em>." Daydreaming beside him is enough. <br />
<br />
The four-year old runs down the stairs wearing a baseball glove and a football helmet. <br />
<em>"I'm going to be a professional baseball player AND a professional football player."</em><br />
The firstborn smiles knowingly. Those used to be his future dreams and hopes.<br />
Time has a way of changing dreams. <br />
The teenager grabs his football and the too small baseball glove and says,<br />
<em>Well then, let's go practice, NoJo.</em><br />
I'm so glad the firstborn isn't a dream killer.<br />
<br />
As they roll on the ground and wrestle in the grass and catch fly balls and receive passes from "Peyton Manning" and dream of all the plays that involve the four-year old being the star, I beg for another opportunity very soon to dream with the eldest. <br />
Sweaty and smelly, the "practice" session outside doesn't last long and they re-enter the house with laughter. <br />
The oldest looks bright-eyed and free from the walls that sometimes guard his heart.<br />
The baby is fussing, breakfast is splattered on the counter, and there is math to be taught, but I sense there's a daydream somewhere waiting to be explored. <br />
<br />
<em>Grab your keys, Zach. </em><br />
<em>Let's go for a drive. </em> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-37403157126646543512014-07-21T22:08:00.002-05:002014-07-21T22:08:33.395-05:00Nineteen Years<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Large French fries, Big Macs, Rafferty’s, Red Robin.</em></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>The Jubilee in Rome. The lost child.</em></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Call sign "Moses"…thank you, Jaks. <o:p></o:p></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em></em></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Lake Las Vegas.</em></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Alpenglow Stube. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Third floor. Bitburg, Germany. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Broccoli pizza. Anchovy pizza and cow pastures.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Tucson and rattlesnakes. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Monte Carlo. The argument. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Those statements mean nothing to anyone except to me and my husband. Yet, both of us, without thinking, will rattle off the exact same memory when we hear those statements. They are our memories~evidence of our life lived together~markers set that remind us of where we've been and the fact that we've walked this road together. A shared life. These seemingly unimportant events and millions more provide a framework for the nineteen years of journeying that we've traveled as a couple.<br />
<br />
<em>Greek gyro and food poisoning. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Worst concert ever. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Best movie series. No debate. (Bourne btw)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>JLCK. (What I thought was Preston's middle name for a month.)</em><br />
<br />
<em>The Peppermill.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Zachary James Smith?? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Our memories. Our shared life. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday, my husband
and I stole an hour with just the baby for a date to Lowes and Home Depot for
yet another home organization project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I took control of the music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Before we knew it, we were touring through memories of our past as I
randomly played snippets of songs from our old heathen playlist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> First song, </span>“I'll Be” by Edwin McCain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span><em>Quick, what do you
think of when you hear this song?" </em>I asked him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t skip a
beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<em>Mississippi.</em>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Next song, "</span>3:00 a.m."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
"<em>First thought?" </em>He entered my memory and answered, <em>"Chad and Susie.</em></span><em>"</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Bingo. Next. </span>“Here Without You.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span><em>Weapons School,"</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> he smirked. (We both kinda feel sick when we here that song.) Moving on. </span>“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "<em>Watching your pregnant stomach move on a h</em></span><em>ouseboat at Lake of the Ozarks right before we had Zach."</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The next song on the list, </span>“You and
Me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He smiled, "</span><em>Your brother’s wedding."</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> How about this one, </span>“Home.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
He didn't even have to think. "</span><em>Qatar 2007."</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Another song, </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"</span>Chocolate’" He did a little dance in his seat, "<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em>Dancing the f</em></span><em>ather/daughter dance with the girls."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On and on we journeyed back in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Songs that don't mean anything, but yet took us back to moments spent
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As "I'll Be" played, we
both could envision ourselves as a young couple driving around Columbus, Mississippi
enjoying each other and friends after an exhausting week of pilot training.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Other Matchbox Twenty songs took us back to Germany where their music played almost everywhere we went. "Jessie's Girl" always makes us laugh as we remember our second son remarking that he wished all Christian music was as good as his favorite Christian song, "Jessie's Girl." </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Our memories. A life uniquely designed by the Lord to be shared together. We are one another's witness to this life we've walked.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today is our anniversary. On July 21, 1995, our life as a couple began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A new family that would start with Preston and
I standing at the front of the breathtaking Air Force Academy chapel in Colorado
Springs full of love, hope, and excitement at the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We confidently stood in front of our favorite
people and made a covenant before the Lord that we would live life together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We promised love. Support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Faithfulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Commitment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
promised God would be glorified by us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We promised to raise Godly children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We vowed to be one another’s
biggest cheerleader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To fight for one
another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vows tumbled out with
readiness---the statements so eager to be said on that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our love for one another flowed easy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing, no one, would ever separate us. Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> No one. </span>The Lord presided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sealed our promises with His grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He rejoiced in our commitment to bring Him glory. He knew the children He would knit. The length of our days. He saw it all and He entered into our marriage covenant with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would be on our side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would fight for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When we said our vows, there was no mistaking that His Will would include one another until death do us part. </span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We messed with that. We tampered with God's will. We turned away. From God. From each other. We chose a hard road. We took that which was precious and treated it carelessly. We threw our pearls to swine. We don't know about drug addictions. We haven't walked through infertility or miscarriages. We don't have abusive parents. We don't know what it's like to lose a job. There's much we don't know. Many hard things that we've only read about. But this is what we do know...we know how it feels to have a marriage in shambles, a family broken, piles of rubble surrounding us brought on by our own stupid choices. We do know heartache in marriage. That one, unfortunately, is part of our testimony. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe that's why my anniversary is one of my most favorite days to celebrate. I love my anniversary. I love to celebrate this day side by side my husband. Because it's evidence that God can resurrect the dead. He took our lifeless marriage, scarred by lots, and breathed new life. Just because He's that amazing. Not because we deserved it, not even because we wanted it, but because He had a plan that included us together. His plan, His Will, was for our family to work and He made it happen. All Him. Nothing in us thought this was possible and He did the impossible. That's worthy of a pretty big celebration! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In recent years, we've used our anniversary to remember. To remember our good. To remember all of the joy-filled gigantic and minuscule moments that were reserved just for us to experience together. (Believe me, we spent so many years talking and living the bad, that we try to protect this one day a year just to remember the gift of living precious life together). Little experiences that have created this life that is uniquely ours. We make the kids listen to our memories as we walk them through the years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Captiva Island. The run</em>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of our favorite early marriage stories. We tell the kids how we went for a run at dusk on our honeymoon on Captiva Island. As the sun set, the sounds of the swamp around us overwhelmed the darkening sky. Behind us, we thought we heard the rustle of an alligator. I did not know my new husband had lightning speed. You don't have to outrun an alligator~you just have to outrun your new bride. I could barely make out the outline of his body ahead of me as he boarded a bus to take him back to the hotel. Hours later...(okay, just minutes)...as I ran my fastest up to the bus hoping to be saved from the alligator I knew was nipping at my heels, Preston sat sheepishly hoping I made it. Or at least that's how I remember it. He tells it a little differently...like maybe he didn't make it all the way to the bus before turning back and realizing that I was very very very far behind him. I have no doubt that if we were in that same situation today, he'd sacrifice himself to an alligator for me...maybe because he'd rather not raise six children alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Atlanta Airport. Moving back from Germany. Rain storm. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have the gift of packing. Or hoarding. There was a time that you could fly with two bags, each weighing 70 lbs. I had this down to a science. When we moved back from Germany, our family had grown to include Josh, so we were allotted eight bags and eight carry-ons. The bonus was that the stroller and carseats didn't count, so not only did we have hundreds of pounds of bags, but we also had two carseats and a stroller. A pack rat's dream. As I carried and pushed our two little boys toting only a handful of carry-ons, Preston managed the suitcases. Torrential rain flooded the parking lot. Dozens of people watched as our young family fumbled through the rain hunting for our rental car. Our boys were crying. Preston was fuming (at me.) I was putting on a good act and smiling for all the people inside the dry rental car agency. The first luggage cart Preston was pushing hit a huge hole and bags flew off in all directions landing in various levels of water. Preston completely flipped out...in front of everyone. He was throwing bags everywhere. The stroller got chucked with Herculean strength across the parking lot. The boys instantly stopped crying in fear. I kept my Stepford wife smile and I gritted my teeth and whispered for him to "stop making a scene," which only made him throw more bags. And he's the calm one of the two of us. It's probably the only flip-out in the history of his life...and I'm recording it here for all to read. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On and on. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We have a bazillion memories. Nineteen years worth. On this day, every year, it's good to take the time to remember. Our most beautiful moments include each other. Our most heart-wrenching moments include each other. What a gift to share life with someone. To know the best and worst of someone and to be able to say, "I know all about you...and I'd do this whole thing again even with that knowledge." </span><br />
<br />
So, today my family celebrated and thanked God for second chances and new life!<br />
Tonight, we made the kids persevere through watching our wedding video and listened as they laughed over my poofy sleeves and even poofier hair. <br />
Deep down, I know they are also thankful for this day. Thankful that we get to celebrate together the beginning of our family. <br />
<br />
All glory to God...<br />
For giving us a life designed specifically with His power in mind. <br />
For being an expert in bringing that which was dead back to life. <br />
For bestowing to us His grace and then teaching us how to extend that grace to one another.<br />
Happy Anniversary to my favorite person! <br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-24557506304930959272014-07-19T17:07:00.004-05:002014-07-19T17:07:31.127-05:00Dishes and FeetA dear friend stopped by our house recently witnessing the culmination of a very chaotic evening. <br />
Dishes overflowed the sink and decorated almost every available inch of counter space in my kitchen. <br />
Nine children roamed about almost entirely unsupervised. One fussy baby demanded her need for sustenance. <br />
Two preteen girls masterfully attempted their first independent try at homemade banana bread.<em> </em><br />
Chaos at its most beautiful. <br />
These are the moments I normally try to hide from people~the completely uncontrolled moments where rules are discarded, messes are exalted, and emotions are high. <br />
A closed front door gives us permission to live these times PRIVATELY and only those closest are allowed to take a peek. <br />
Thankfully, this was a good friend. I let her enter.<br />
Well, I didn't really have a choice. I did have one of her children that I needed to find. <br />
<br />
She masterfully maneuvered through the toys scattering the floor and plopped down in our kitchen surrounded by the mess of the dinner of a dozen people, banana bread batter, and sticky baby food.<br />
Yuck. <br />
The pots and pans and dishes and cups needed tackled. The baby protested louder. <br />
Dishes. Baby. Dishes. Baby.<br />
Easy decision.<br />
The dishes. <br />
No way I could sit there and look at this disgusting leftover food dripping all over my counter, my sink, and my floor, while nursing my baby. Baby Hope's delicious chubby rolls of flub told me that she wouldn't starve in the next thirty minutes and her stomach pains could wait a little longer.<br />
I thrust my wiggling, precious baby into the hands of my friend and made a request, <em>"Will you hold this baby while I do my dishes?" </em><br />
She stood up, put the baby back into my hands, and said, <em>"No."</em><br />
<em>No? </em>Not the answer I expected. She obviously wasn't as good of a friend as I thought. <em> </em><br />
<em>"You feed your baby. I'm going to do your dishes." </em><br />
And she rolled up her sleeves, filled up my sink with water, and began to scrub the hardened food off dish after dish. <br />
<br />
I thought about protesting. <br />
What kind of a hostess allows a friend, who didn't benefit from the joy before the mess, to clean the yuck of the night from the scene? <br />
My baby settled into my arms as she sensed food was near. <br />
And I sat there feeding my baby while my friend scrubbed dish after dish, pot after pot, until my kitchen was absent of any sign of disaster.<br />
<br />
A servant. Someone who sees a need and doesn't take into account the lack of glory in the chore. <br />
One who serves behind the scenes fully aware that there will be no earthly reward in the task. <br />
As I went to bed that night and thought about this unselfish serving of my friend, all I could think was that she figuratively washed my feet. She wiped the evidence of my daily journey from the kitchen, scrubbed the junk from the traveling of the day from my people, and left us cleaner than she found us. <br />
<br />
<em>The washing of feet</em>. Perhaps this was the lesson on service that I'd been after for my children. Service takes humility. Humility flies in the face of my house full of big and little sinners. To do something for another without the promise of reciprocation can sometimes be very painful. Every day, little voices in my home say, <em>"I didn't make that mess." "Why do I have to clean that up?"</em> "<em>That's not my game on the floor." "I didn't drop that cereal." "They aren't my shoes." "That toothpaste all over the mirror doesn't look like my toothpaste." "Those puzzles aren't mine." "That's not my toilet paper clogging the toilet." </em>And in stellar acts of parenting, I often squeak back in that high-pitched, insane mom voice, "<em>If I only cleaned up my messes, you all would be living in a complete pig sty." " "If I only cleaned up my own dinner, you all would be living in a mess of mold." "If I only did my own laundry, you all would have no clothes." </em>And I raise my voice a little louder, "<em>WE ARE A FAMILY. WE SERVE EACH OTHER JOYFULLY." </em>The "<em>joyfully</em>" comes out a bit like an animal growl. <em> </em><br />
<br />
<em>The washing of feet. </em>This was the pearl I was waiting for in my instruction to my children. Often I take little nuggets that the Lord whispers to my heart and I attempt to pass them on as a lesson. Sometimes they are well-received. Sometimes I get an eye roll. It depends on how well I make the connection and how receptive the heart is that is receiving the nugget. I waited with excitement for the opportunity to share with a child that serving one of their siblings is comparable to the washing of feet that servants had to do during biblical times. My children know the scriptures of Jesus washing the disciples feet as an act of absolute humility and service to those he loved. <em>The Savior of the World washed His disciples feet. No servant is greater than His master. We are servants of our Lord Jesus. Let's wash each other's feet. </em>That would be the lesson to my kids the next time they protested serving one another in a less than glorious way. <em> </em><br />
<br />
The seven-year old would provide the first opportunity. The cousins were visiting and muddy sand toys littered the lawn. As children raced into the house, she loitered outside. "<em>Savi~will you pick up all those toys and put them in the bin?" </em>Such a simple request. Easy service. Thirty second job. Would humility show up? Not this day. The chin thrusts forward, the hip pops to the side, and a "<em>humph" </em>is exhaled, "<em>But I didn't get these toys out." </em>She stood her ground. <em> </em>"<em>I know. Please put them up anyway." </em>She complied. Kind of. Toys are thrown loudly, violently, into the bin to demonstrate the unfairness of the task. The unwilling servant enters the home irritated. <em>"I didn't get those toys out." </em><br />
<br />
The moment I'd been waiting for. The epiphany waiting to be shared. The teenagers lazily lounged on the couch and I just knew this lesson for the little sister was going to cause them to turn their haughty eyes to me with pure adoration as they realized the great wisdom of their mother in training their sibling. I extended the nugget of wisdom to her gently, softly. <em>"Remember when Jesus washed the disciples feet? He was literally scrubbing the grime of travel from between their dirty toes as he demonstrated his great love for them. The Savior of the World served those he would save in a yucky way. You just served Owen by cleaning up his mess. In a way, you just washed his feet." </em><br />
<em></em><br />
A blank face stared back at me. Her eyes squinted and her arms raised in protest<em>. "I didn't get those toys out. And I definitely don't want to wash Owen's feet</em>." Her blond ponytail swished as she stormed out. (So, we obviously have other issues than teaching her to joyfully serve, but one issue at a time, Sweet Jesus. One at a time.) <br />
<br />
I yelled into the next room. <em>"YOU WASHED HIS FEET FIGURATIVELY, SAV. FIGURATIVELY."</em> <br />
<br />
She peeked around the corner and shrugged her shoulders, "<em>I don't even know what that word means." </em>Off she pranced, no longer irritated at Owen, but annoyed that her mother would dare try to teach her lesson and use big words like <em>figuratively</em>. Crash and burn. <br />
<br />
While Savi didn't quite receive the lesson, the memory of my friend leaning over my kitchen sink, arms deep in suds, cleaning my mess, still ministers to my heart. No glory for her. No reward or payback. The "thanks" from me might even have been a little half-hearted. Yet, she scrubbed and cleaned my grime just because she's a servant of Christ at heart. <br />
<br />
<em>The washing of feet. How am I washing my little people's feet these days? </em><em>Have I washed my husband's feet this week? Have I served a friend lately? Or my church? Do my neighbors sense that I would humbly serve them or do they see that I'm too busy to take the time? Lord, give me the grace to follow my Savior's lead and serve others joyfully and diligently. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>John 13:12-17 </em><br />
<em>"When He finished washing their feet, He put on his clothes and returned to his place. "Do you understand what I have done for you?" he asked them. "You call me 'Teacher' and 'Lord,' and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. I tell you the truth, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them." </em> <br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-4422667576081269212014-05-09T09:21:00.001-05:002014-05-09T09:21:33.420-05:00I Will Always Love You<em>I Will Always Love You. </em><br />
<em>I Will Always Love You. </em><br />
<em>I Will Always Love You. </em><br />
<em>I Will Always Love You. </em><br />
<br />
The sign caught my eye as I raced through the aisles at Hobby Lobby. These days, I don't do many things in slow motion. Always on a schedule; always slightly behind the schedule; somewhat a slave to the schedule. Yet this day, for some reason, I slowed down the half second it took for my eyes to focus on this sign: <em>I Will Always Love You. </em>The words repeated at least five times...over and over. If I wasn't also on a budget, I would have bought it on the spot. I imagined the perfect place in my house for these simple words to hang: the main level bathroom. The continuously clogged, "MOOOOOM, the toilet's overflowing again," bathroom. It gets the most traffic. All of my favorite people spend time hanging out in there. I'd position the picture eye-level. Eye-level from a sitting position, that is.<br />
<br />
I have great teenagers. But they are teenagers. And they are figuring out life and contemplating their faith and wondering what's wrong with their parents and testing out their independence while still kind of wishing they were little kids. The storms rage of turning into a man...I can't imagine. Having never walked that road, I truly don't always understand and I don't pretend to. Sometimes, the teenagers in the home give me <em>that</em> look...the look that dares me to love them regardless of how they are acting. They know enough to know when they are being disrespectful. The eyebrows raise~<em>Do you still love me? </em>They know enough to know when a funny comment is being taken too far. The joke fades~<em>Love me now?</em> They know how they should behave and often they choose poorly. The jaw clenches~<em>How about now? Still love me? I dare you. </em>Yes, sometimes discipline is required. Yes, sometimes a big picture lesson needs to be taught. But sometimes...sometimes they just need to be loved. Even when they don't deserve it. In fact, maybe especially when they don't deserve it. <br />
<em></em><br />
A friend advised, <em>"Be their rock. As the storms of growing up toss them to and fro, be their rock. And love them no matter what." </em><br />
<br />
<em>I Will Always Love You.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
It would really help if my bathroom could do some of the preaching for me. <br />
Forget the budget this week, I'm buying that sign. <em> </em><br />
<br />
And often their struggle with love has nothing to do with their sinful nature and rebellion. A bad grade on a test. <em>Am I still loved? </em>A costly mistake during household chores. <em>Do you still love me? </em>The shadow cast from the excellence of a sibling. <em>Am I worth loving even though I'm not like him? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
In those moments, their fragile hearts question, whether they recognize its asking or not, <em>Do you love me? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I Will Always Love You. </em><em> </em><em> </em><br />
<em>No matter what you do. </em><br />
<em>No matter where you wander.</em><br />
<em>Whether you want my love or not. </em><br />
<em>I Will Always Love You.</em><em> </em><br />
<br />
My seven-year-old is still vulnerably verbal enough to ask the question after she's been naughty. <br />
<em>You still love me, right, Mama? </em><br />
It is my joy to answer that humble asking: <em>I Will Always Love You. No matter what. </em><br />
The mere questioning assures me that she wants to be loved by me. <br />
That my love means the world to her and she doesn't want anything to separate her from it. <br />
<br />
I've been a little numb lately. Emotionally dry. Depleted. <br />
So, I've been asking the same of my Heavenly Father.<br />
Asking Him to remind me how much He loves me.<br />
Not that I doubt His love. I've read all about it. <br />
I just want Him to come near and remind me.<br />
To sit with me and sing over me.<br />
To refresh me with His unconditional, overflowing love for me...one of His beloved. <br />
<em>Because loved people find it easier to love people. </em><br />
And considering I've been loving a little numb lately (no one's fault other than my own weariness), I could use the pouring on of my Heavenly Father's love. <br />
Does that make me selfish? To desire the Father's love? <br />
What father doesn't find joy when his children come near and say, "<em>I need you to love on me right now."</em><br />
My heart struggles to thirst after Him. How dare I ask for love from Him? <br />
My lack of self-discipline keeps my mind from rehearsing His words to me. How dare I ask Him to love on me? <br />
The trials I see around me distract me from His truth. How dare I come before Him with such faithlessness? <br />
Yet, I ask Him anyway.<br />
<em>"Can I climb up in your lap? </em><br />
<em>I don't want to leave. </em><br />
<em>Jesus, sing over me."</em> (Mercy Me, "Keep Singing")<br />
<br />
Asking seems the greatest expression of my love for Him that I can offer right now.<br />
To ask my Lord to tell me how much He loves me.<br />
Childishly making the request...<em>I know you love me...remind me how much. </em><br />
Somehow, it seems in the asking, He leans in a little closer. <br />
And His love overflows...filling the darkest corners of my heart...flooding the parched segments of my soul. <br />
<em>Loved people, love people. </em><br />
His love refreshes and restores. <br />
<em> </em><br />
He draws near. <br />
Just as I would do if my teenagers turned their eyes to me, climbed up in my lap, and said, <br />
<em>Mom, remind me how much you love me. </em><br />
<em>Sing over me your love. </em><br />
<em>Tell me you will love me no matter what.</em><br />
<em>Even when my heart strays. My mind wanders. My actions falter. </em><br />
<em>Will you remind me how much you love me? </em><em> </em><br />
<br />
Always. I will never tire of telling my children how much I love them.<em> </em><br />
Even when they don't ask. Even when the storm rages. Even when they give me the look that dares me to love them. <em> </em><br />
Our Father's love equips us to love on others without protecting ourselves.<br />
To dare loving on others even when it is undeserved. <br />
We should be the best at loving because we know what it is to be the recipients of undeserved love. <br />
His love never runs dry. <br />
And He will never tire of telling us how much He loves us.<br />
Climb up in His lap and ask Him to remind you how much He loves you.<br />
And be refreshed. <br />
<br />
Zephaniah 3:17<br />
<em>"The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. </em><br />
<em>He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, </em><br />
<em>He will rejoice over you with singing."</em> <br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-1844545817714819762014-04-01T14:00:00.000-05:002014-04-02T15:36:35.061-05:00Diaperless and Content? It's exhausting to think about other people when you are trying so hard to think about yourself.<br />
The selfish servant. <br />
Perhaps that would be my name these past weeks if I had a role in the book <em>Pilgrim's Progress. </em><br />
Outwardly serving my precious family and painting joy on my face.<br />
Inwardly knowing that I'm such a faker because my heart and mind are not in line with my actions. <br />
Often, my service to my family is genuine and straight from the heart.<br />
Not always, though. <br />
Recently, I've found myself going through the motions like a robot and inwardly sulking. <br />
I can blame post-partum. <br />
Or having teenagers. <br />
Or six kids. <br />
Or a busy husband. <br />
Everyone has their own "justifiable" reasons for sulking while serving. <br />
We can rationalize any sin. Surely we know that about ourselves. <br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Who serves me? </em>And I kind of storm around banging pots a little loud and offering deep sighs of martyrdom when someone in my family asks me to do something that interferes with whatever "service" I'm currently doing.<br />
"<em>No, I can't get you a fork---I'm nursing the baby." </em><br />
<em>"No, I won't help you with that craft---I'm making your lunch." </em><br />
And somehow I'm annoyed by even the sweetest of requests. <br />
Annoyed that I'm needed. <br />
And I hate that I'm thinking about myself so much, but I persist in this vicious thinking that keeps ME in the center and all of my family members as potential enemies for asking anything of me and not meeting MY needs.<br />
MY NEEDS.<br />
<br />
<em>Who serves me? </em><br />
<em>Who thinks about what I need?"</em><br />
I might have actually spoken that to my husband when I realized-as we were on the way to a friend's house and going to be gone for several hours-that I had completely forgotten to refill the diaper bag with diapers. <br />
<em>A diaper-less diaper bag. </em>The smallest of things. <br />
That's all it took to reveal my heart.<br />
<em>Who takes care of me? </em>I asked. <br />
<em>Why didn't anyone else check the diaper bag? </em><br />
<em>Why do I have to do EVERYTHING? (</em>I speak in absolutes when I'm irritated...or always.)<em> </em><br />
<em>Who serves me?</em><br />
I've thought those statements enough recently that from the overflow of my heart, my mouth spoke. <br />
Oh, I wish I would have held my tongue. <br />
But the thoughts were there, and the slight, very slight squeeze of a diaper-less 3-month-old, revealed the ugly nature of what I was holding inside.<br />
<br />
My husband, sensing the coming flip-out, gently asked, <em>"What do you need?"</em><br />
<em>WHAT DO I NEED?</em><br />
<em>I. NEED. DIAPERS.</em><br />
That's all I could say.<br />
<em>Diapers. </em><br />
<em>I need diapers. </em><br />
And I cried over diapers.<br />
Ugly tears. <br />
And that's not the question he was asking. <br />
And that's not the answer I wanted to give. <br />
But it was safe. <br />
<em>Right now, I Just Need Diapers. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
There was so much unspoken behind his question.<br />
So much unspoken behind my answer. <br />
And the truth was...I had no idea what I needed. <br />
It certainly wasn't diapers because I have hundreds of diapers given to me from special friends. <br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>"What do I need?"</strong> </em>I thought about that question all week. <em> </em><br />
<strong>Time?</strong> But how much time would I need to truly be refreshed? <br />
<strong>Help?</strong> My husband has done some grocery shopping for me this week and my daughter loves to bless us with fun snacks through the day. <br />
<strong>Service?</strong> A dear friend has taken my son to school almost every day for 3 months and I'm surrounded by wonderful people who regularly take my kids places with them. Not to mention, my mom is here for a week to SERVE ME.<br />
<strong>Appreciation?</strong> My husband is not short on words that express value of me. I even get the occasional "thanks" from my kids. <br />
<strong>Silence?</strong> Maybe. But could it ever be quiet enough for me to solve all my issues and think all my thoughts? <br />
<strong>Aloneness? </strong>With six children? There's not enough time to demand too much of that. <br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>But truly, what do I need? </strong></em><br />
As I stumbled through last week, I constantly thought how I would answer my husband if he dared ever ask again, <em>"What do you need?"</em> <br />
As I was doing a load of laundry...<em>what do I need? </em><br />
Stirring a bowl of brownies...<em>what do I need?</em><br />
Attempting to teach first grade math...<em>what do I need? </em><br />
Driving children to soccer...<em>what do I need? </em><br />
<em><strong>How exhausting it is to constantly be thinking about yourself and what you need.</strong></em><br />
As I'm fixing dinner...<em>I think I "need" to </em>go <em>to coffee with a friend. </em><br />
Waiting for dance class to finish...<em>I think</em> <em>I "need" to be sleeping. </em><br />
Talking to my husband...<em>I think I "need" to be reading.</em><br />
<strong><em>EXHAUSTING. </em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Every "need" I had made me ANGRY at the task I was doing...and FURIOUS at the people who"needed" me.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>What I needed was to not be thinking so much about what I needed! </em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
Trying to have all my "needs" met for time, help, service, appreciation, silence, and aloneness leads me straight down a bottomless pit of discontent.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>This discontent leads me to hunt down what I think I "need" in order to bring myself to a place of contentment.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Lord, what do I need?</em></strong><br />
Desperately I want an answer to this question because its very asking has made me slightly crazed. <strong><em> </em></strong><br />
And the season of life where I'm hovering brought me to Philippians 4:11-13.<br />
Paul says, <em>"I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well-fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I CAN DO EVERYTHING THROUGH HIM WHO GIVES ME STRENGTH." </em><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I need...I WANT...to learn the secret of contentment.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I CAN DO EVERYTHING THROUGH CHRIST WHO STRENGTHENS ME.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I CAN BE CONTENT LIVING IN MY "NEED." </em></strong><br />
I can find quietness in my soul in a noisy home~by His grace. <br />
I can find joy changing a diaper when I really want to read a book~through His power. <br />
I can serve my family when energy seems lacking~in His strength. <br />
I can value being the one that is needed instead of continually focusing on what I think I need. <br />
<strong>I CAN LEARN THE SECRET OF BEING CONTENT THROUGH CHRIST WHO STRENGTHENS ME.</strong><br />
<strong><em> </em></strong> <br />
Contentment doing the beautiful task of serving the family that God has given me. <br />
Contentment with the little moments of quietness God does carve out for me in a given day even with six kids. <br />
Contentment being a mom. <br />
Contentment being a wife.<br />
Contentment without a professional title. <br />
Contentment in doing seemingly insignificant tasks that often seem so unimportant, yet so necessary in running a home. <br />
Contentment in Christ who strengthens me for whatever the "need" is in front of me.<br />
And contentment with a husband who will stop at a gas station so I can buy a ridiculously small, expensive pack of diapers for a wife who forgot to check the diaper bag.<br />
<br />
<em>Lord, teach us the secret of finding contentment with whatever it is you have called us to do. </em><br />
<em>And may the pursuit of our "needs" never interfere with the glorious privilege of serving YOU. </em><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>"I CAN DO ALL THINGS THROUGH HIM WHO STRENGTHENS ME." </em></strong> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-45132672358454398722014-03-09T18:17:00.004-05:002014-03-09T19:10:08.526-05:00Mundane Faithfulness BlogMy sister-in-law recently sent me to a friend's blog.<br />
The blog is <a href="http://www.mundanefaithfulness.com/">www.mundanefaithfulness.com</a> by Kara Tippetts. <br />
Go there. <br />
Read her words. <br />
Go there if you want to see God's grace and mercy. <br />
Go there if you want to be challenged to fully live each day. <br />
Go there if you want to see that God can be glorified even when life isn't fair. <br />
Go there if you want to read beautiful words documenting really hard stuff. <br />
Go there if you are brave enough to cry. <br />
It's a blog by a mama. <br />
A mama of four precious children. <br />
A mama who is battling cancer.<br />
And her last appointment didn't bring her good news. <br />
<br />
Her recent blog entitled <strong><em>Peace</em></strong> said something that I can't get out of my head.<br />
In fact I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about this woman I don't know, her family, and her story woven through her gift of writing. <br />
This is what she said after posting a picture of herself looking at her beloved husband who was taking her picture: <br />
<em>"If you look close, you can see my heart here. I'm looking at the object of my affection on the other side of the lens, and I'm saying I'm sorry. I'm sorry the beautiful in our story is so hard. I'm sorry I can't fix this. I'm sorry it hurts so much, but the hurt is evidence of the best of us. I'm sorry we have to go on another desperate hunt for grace. We don't get to be the family we saw happily eating dinner after baseball practice. But I have never been sorry for this life spent looking for Jesus right next to you." </em><br />
<br />
Exhale.<br />
<br />
<em>"I'm sorry the beautiful in our story is so hard."</em><br />
What kind of grace allows a woman to see beauty in the really, really hard?<br />
I want to know the God that allows for that sentence to even be written.<br />
The God who brings the beautiful through brokenness. <br />
<br />
<em>"We don't get to be the family we saw happily eating dinner after baseball practice."</em><em> </em><br />
I'm instantly overwhelmed by my own family's ability to eat a simple dinner without hearing the ticking of a clock. The clock that is counting down time left together. Is it a gift to believe there will always be another meal together? Is it a gift or a curse? The assumption that time is ours for the taking. What would it be like to really view every day as if it were our last? For some reason, the thought sounds depressing and daunting to me. Would I want to know if I didn't have much time left? Or that someone I love doesn't have much time left? The thoughts quicken the beating of my heart. Yet, I find myself slightly envious of this woman's ability to squeeze every ounce of life out of the moments given to her. <br />
<br />
This beautiful young mom fighting for her life finishes her blog with this: <br />
<em>"You might be that family we saw the other night. You might be going through each moment and not noticing the gift. Each breath, each hug, each moment is such a gift. An unbelievable gift. Don't withhold your love, it's been given to you to give. Don't let my story grow fear in your own living, but let it give you the motivation to embrace each small moment as the giant moment in grace that it really is."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I'm hoping this woman has many more dinners with her family. Maybe even some moments of just plain normal. Moments to just enjoy her people and to not dread the ticking of time. And I'm praying for the ability to do as she writes and <em>"embrace each small moment as the giant moment in grace that it really is." </em><em> </em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-44166536756712731752014-02-02T10:13:00.000-06:002014-02-02T10:13:02.339-06:00Perfect Parenting<div style="text-align: left;">
I could rest peacefully at night if I knew that I was in perfect obedience in raising my kids. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I knew that my discipline was not exasperating them.<br />
If my expectations were for their own good. </div>
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If I knew that my words were all-wise in content. </div>
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If I knew that I was focused on heart issues and not outward appearances. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I knew I always parented with scripture. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I knew all my decisions were God-led. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If my "yes" was always "yes" and my "no" was always "no." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I was consistent.<br />
If I was fair.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I loved their father the way I should. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I honored my own parents the way I should. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I honored my in-laws the way I honor my own parents. </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I always answered patiently. </div>
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If I knew they saw Jesus in me every day. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I was always kind.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I was never quick-tempered. <br />
If I was never rude. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I held my tongue.<br />
If I loved them more than I love myself. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If I was in perfect obedience as a parent, I could rest peacefully in raising my kids. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Even if they walked away from Him. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Because I would know that I had done everything right. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If only I could parent this way. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But if I could parent this way, I wouldn't need a Savior.<br />
And if I didn't need a Savior, I couldn't point my kids to their own need for a Savior.<br />
If I could parent this way, I wouldn't need grace. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And if I didn't need grace, my kids would never see grace in action. <br />
If I could parent this way, my kids would see an all-sufficient mom.<br />
And if they saw an all-sufficient mom, my kids would never see an all-sufficient Heavenly Father. <br />
<br />
Perfect parenting would be all about me. <br />
Imperfect parenting drives me and them to Him. <br />
I despise the sin that creeps into so many areas of my life, especially into my parenting. <br />
I despise the fact that my kids--more than any other people in my life--see my sin and my flesh-responses that keep me from living a holy, righteous life.<br />
If I'm honest, I'll admit I despise the fact that my kids know without a doubt that I'm not perfect. <br />
But imperfection displays our absolute dependence on our perfect Savior.<br />
Imperfection shows them that no one on earth is worthy of all their affections. <br />
But I do know someone who is. <br />
And then I can confidently say, <br />
"<em>Let me introduce you to your Perfect Heavenly Father."</em><br />
<br />
I can rest peacefully at night knowing that my kids have a perfect parent. <br />
And it's okay that it's not me. <br />
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-25611899246267617712014-01-29T20:03:00.002-06:002014-01-29T20:03:23.723-06:00Happy New Year 2014
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Happy New Year 2014, Family and Friends! </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Is the end of January too late to post a Happy New Year card? Probably. Here's the excuse...we've been a little busy. You know, the usual...shopping for gifts, trying to keep Jesus the focus, the Nutcracker, Christmas, and oh yeah, a new baby. The normal December stuff. We pray you all had a blessed
2013 and that you are tackling 2014 with a renewed joy and hope for whatever
the year may bring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Don't give up on that one year Bible plan yet...you can still catch up!</span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> 2013...</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">As
I sat waiting for Zach to take his driver’s permit test just a couple months ago,
the baby growing inside me stretched, flipped, and kicked proclaiming her
ambitions to be free from the constrains of my belly and set loose to move
about as she pleased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rubbing her
active, kicking feet, I couldn’t help but whisper, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’ll be free soon enough, Little One.” </i>The doors to the testing
site opened and Zach’s big grin declared that he was now officially a
driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The baby inside me protested her
bondage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young man in front of me
stood tall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yesterday…just yesterday…this child holding his driver’s permit was the
baby that was kicking inside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did
we get here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who has dared to permit
time to pass so quickly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Torn with
emotion, I looked at my oldest, imagined the baby being knit inside me, and
battled two conflicting feelings:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1) We
don’t have too much time left with him at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>2) HOWEVER, WE REALLY NEED AN EXTRA DRIVER!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, we fight for contentment in every stage of
life knowing that the birth of one more precious baby gives us another opportunity
to parent from the beginning, but also means that realistically we will never,
ever, truly, be alone </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two teenagers…a preteen…an elementary kiddo…a
busy preschooler…and a newborn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>9<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
grade, 7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade, 4<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade, 1<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup> grade,
preschool, and a three-week old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are
all over the place emotionally, mentally, physically, and spiritually at this
stage of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talking of dating (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Umm, no…because we said so!</i>), learning
through friendships (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just be nice!</i>), dealing
with temper tantrums (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have some
self-control, little girl!</i>), fighting some fears (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have we ever been late to get you at soccer practice? Wait, don’t
answer that!</i>), and analyzing whether the preschooler’s active imagination
is crossing into a complete detachment from reality (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How long do we let him tell this story before we remind him that it’s
not real?).</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s some serious fun
and some serious confusion within the walls of this house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joyfully, we are certain that with the size
of our family, we will qualify for a group therapy rate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eighteen years of marriage and a baby on
the way, seemed the perfect excuse for Preston and I to escape to Hawaii alone for
a couple days this fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We vowed to
not talk about the children…so we spent several days in silence</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, we thoroughly enjoyed our trip and
we continually praise God that He somehow has preserved our family through many
ups and downs and still allows us to find joy in just being together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The A-10 once again faces funding cuts, yet Preston
continues to promise that he will fly this airplane until its last days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plan B?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Graciously, he’s volunteered to pay my way through medical school so I
can support the family in our later years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So thoughtful. One reminder that this would mean that he would have to
stay home with the kids motivates him to test for his commercial pilot license
in the very likely event that the A-10 has its last flying days during his
watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent his free time working
with Awanas and coaching Zach’s high school football team’s offense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his next life, he’d love to be a full-time
football coach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Six kids stretch my managerial skills and
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Juggling schedules, rides, food,
laundry, homework, attitudes, discipline, hugs, more food, and more laundry, requires
mainly the skill of battling my very real struggle to serve others JOYFULLY </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do love running (to burn off the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“who appreciates me?”</i> attitude), I love
blogging (to process the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“who will serve
me?</i>” attitude), and I love reading classics with friends (to escape the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“where’s my glory?”</i> attitude.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my next life, on a good day, I think I’d
do it all again</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">ZACH,</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">
the Peacemaker, gracefully adjusted to a “real” high school this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He played varsity football as safety and
still continues to swim and play/ref soccer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His attention to his studies (he
loves writing and history) leads us to believe that his threat to live with us
FOREVER is merely a ploy to mess with our minds (which it does.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God knew Zach was the right McConnell to be
the leader of this crew as his love for the Lord and his siblings constantly
brings peace to our chaotic home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
mock trial class last spring gave him the “skill” to stick up for his siblings in a more
“official” manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your Honor, this
woman who calls herself their mother is badgering the witnesses!” Teenagers...so fun. Sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">JOSH</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">,
the Focused, is quick about everything he does:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>quick to start his studies in the morning, quick on the soccer and
football fields, quick to smile, quick to speak, followed by quick to
apologize, quick to encourage, quick to recognize faults in others, quick to
recognize his own faults, quick to have a great day, and quick to have the
worst day EVER (I totally get that.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s
our only kid that has stuck with piano (he actually practices) and we enjoy the
nights that his music fills our home. He can turn a tense moment to hysterical
laughter with one comment and enjoys teaching Noah songs to share with his preschool
friends during church (and they aren’t hymns!). </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><o:p></o:p></span></b> </div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> <u>MADELIN</u></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">,
the Helper, developed some masterful skills to bless our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She taught herself to make smoothies (won
Daddy’s heart), milkshakes (won the big brothers), apple turnovers (won the sister),
cookies (won Noah), casseroles (won me), and asked for a new blender for
Christmas (won Grammy and Papa.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
loves her new baby sister and continually offers to get up in the middle of the
night because she loves rocking babies. (I'm going to take her up on it one of these days.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She still balances soccer and ballet, and seamlessly transitions from
fiercely competitive to beautifully graceful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Recently, we overheard her leading her little siblings and cousins in
the “hush puppy” game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we asked
about the game, she winked and said, “You know that game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they don’t talk, I promised to make them a
bracelet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brilliant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">SAVANNAH,</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> the
Tender, bravely fought through many fears and tackled some new things this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She played soccer, danced in the Nutcracker,
and learned to give presentations during her homeschool meetings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This coming year, we are praying strength for
her to participate in new things without the prepared pep talk and ceremonial
tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, she brings her own
“you can do it” section wherever she goes</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s gentle and compassionate and loves
making other people happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her favorite
playmate is Noah and she constantly makes sure that his love for sports is
counteracted by a good game of Barbie Dolls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s still a cuddler and has heart for serving others and our
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">NOAH,</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">
the Entertainer, has the voice of the most excitable broadcaster and the
imagination of Walt Disney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talks
from the moment his eyes open to the moment they close at night and has yet to
finish the run-on sentence he started 2 years ago when he began talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His personality is much bigger than his size
and we continually joke that he’s an old soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He idolizes his big brothers and while they used to pretend to be “Tim
Tebow,” Noah puts on his football gear and pretends to be “Zach McConnell, for
the SCA Eagles” or “Josh McConnell, for the Lee’s Summit Pirates.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Watching him imitate the older brothers touches all of us and hopefully puts a little pressure on those brothers to be GOOD EXAMPLES for the little eyes that are constantly watching them! </span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">HOPE
SELAH</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">, the Gift, was born to us on Christmas
morning at 2:00 am. Could there be a sweeter Christmas present? We rejoiced the early hours of Christmas morning over the
birth of our Savior while marveling at the gift of this precious baby girl to
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we are still getting to know
her, her name speaks our prayer for this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Have HOPE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And SELAH “pause and
worship.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">That’s
our prayer for our family and for all of you this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That you might HAVE HOPE and SELAH...PAUSE
and WORSHIP, our Heavenly Father who loves us so unconditionally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">We thank God for each of you. </span></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-22720692710424675812014-01-06T21:38:00.003-06:002014-01-06T21:41:17.792-06:00HOPE<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em><strong>Hope.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em><strong>Hope Selah.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em><strong>7 lbs 7 oz. 19.5 inches long. </strong></em></span><br />
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Born Christmas morning at 2:00 am. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></strong></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She's here, she's beautiful, and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I'm once again blown away by how quickly I can fall madly in love with someone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You could call it love at first sight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I'm smitten with her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Walking into the hospital only minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, I knew that unless she fell out on the floor that very second...we were having a Christmas baby. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And the name that I had been holding in my heart for months spoke new purpose to me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Of course that would be her name. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">People asked through my pregnancy, "<em>Do you have a name picked out yet?" </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My mind always shouted, "<em>HOPE. Her name is HOPE."</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But my heart always silenced my mouth and I kept her just to myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Like somehow if I breathed her name, I would interrupt the intimacy that only she and I shared while she grew inside me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">For a time...Hope was only mine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">From the beginning, maybe even before I found out I was pregnant, she was Hope to me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Each of the kids' bedrooms have a word above their doorway. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The older boys room says, "Faith."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The little ones' room says, "Love." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My oldest daughter's room says, "Hope." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The only bedroom that can be seen from our living room is our oldest daughter's. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Shortly before I found out I was pregnant, I sat reading my Bible in the living room and happened to look up at the bedroom at the top of the stairs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">HOPE. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I'd seen it everyday for several years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But for some reason, on that day, this thought followed: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>"That's her name." </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I remember thinking, "<em>Maybe we're going to adopt a little girl named Hope." </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The thought of her was born to me that day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Before she even came to be.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When we found out that I was carrying a girl, I thought, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>"Of course we are having a girl. And her name is Hope." </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But I couldn't speak of her by name to anyone. She really was just mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Even my husband was mostly left out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I was afraid that if I mentioned what I called her that he would dismiss the name. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I knew that regardless of what her final birth name came to be, to me, during this pregnancy, she would always be Baby Hope. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">So, I kept it always to myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Her name held tightly and somewhat desperately in my heart and mind. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In the last couple months, my mom and I shared a phone call of sadness that we really hadn't had the time to talk about this little one much, or to focus on my pregnancy, or to just sit and watch her move across my belly. It was just too busy. There were so many other things going on that there just wasn't time with this pregnancy to fully sit and ponder her the way I could with my first or even second baby. Some days I would walk by a mirror and be almost shocked at the size of my stomach. When did I grow so much? The calendar always surprised me with the turn of a week and the steps closer to her actual due date. <em>How did another week already pass? </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Within minutes of hanging up that particular phone call with my mom, somewhat tearful that this pregnancy was almost over, and full of some guilt that I hadn't fully focused on the baby inside, a woman walked by me with one word boldly written in capital letters on her shirt. <strong>HOPE.</strong> It was as though the Lord comforted me in that moment and said, "<em>More than any other child you've carried, this one has been on your mind since before she was even conceived. You didn't have time to bring her to your thoughts always, Michelle, but I constantly kept her in your mind. She was always there." </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's true. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As I reflected, almost every day through my pregnancy, something with the word Hope would cross my path and I always had a second where I would silently think, <em>"That's my baby. Hey there, Little Hope." </em>And she generally got a belly rub from me because I love rubbing my belly when I'm pregnant. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The moment would pass quickly, but almost every day God did that for me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Shortly before I gave birth, my sister-in-law forwarded me an email from the company where we had ordered my parents anniversary gift last year. We got them a large decorative stone for their garden with their names and their anniversary date engraved and then little stones individually personalized with all of their children and grandchildren...their legacy. Her email reminded me that I needed to get another stone to add to the garden. I scrolled down the email and laughed out loud at the only picture displayed on the company page. One picture...at least a hundred stones filled this one picture. And every single stone said the exact same word. HOPE. One hundred stones all declaring to me this baby's name. HOPE<em>. Of course. That's her name</em>. One hundred thoughts for my Baby Hope. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Selah. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There's debate on what the word means, but it's found all through the Psalms. One possible definition is that it means, "Pause." Another translation, "Pause and Worship." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Selah. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Pause and Worship. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Pause and Worship. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">If speaking a child's name ever spoke a sermon to me, this is what I've needed to hear in recent years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Have HOPE. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">PAUSE AND WORSHIP. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">HOPE SELAH. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Of course, that would be her name. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">During the early hours of Christmas, as we met our newest little one and set our eyes for the first time on this beautiful, red-faced, helpless infant, we didn't speak of her name until the room was empty of all the nurses. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>"So, who is she?" </em>my husband asked. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The moment of truth. <em>Would she be to him who she was to me? </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>"Hope."</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>"Hope Selah." </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He asked, "<em>What does Selah mean?" </em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia;">"It's kind of uncertain, but one thought is that it means pause and worship." </span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His face lit up, "<em>That's who she is. Absolutely."</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And he made the phone call to my parents that their newest granddaughter had been born. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>"She's here. Hope Selah born on Christmas morning is here.</em>"</span><br />
<br />
The nurse gave her a bath and my oldest daughter snuck in with my mom at 4:00 in the morning just in time for big sister to rub lotion on her new baby sister. They bundled her up and as she quickly fell asleep, the nurse put her in the little baby bed beside me. "<em>Get some sleep," </em>the nurse said as she left us once again alone in the room. I lay there for a while on my side watching her sleep peacefully. She felt so far away. As the sun rose on Christmas morning, I couldn't bear to be away from her more than a couple minutes. We'd been together every second for 9 months. As Baby Hope faced her first Christmas, her first couple hours of life, I knew that I wasn't quite ready to let her be away from me yet. So as my other children awoke to news of the birth of their baby sister, I spent Christmas morning cradling my newborn and watching her every breath. I'm an old mama with the knowledge that this moment lasts a second and I'm going to enjoy as much of it as I can. <br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She's beautiful. <br />She's loved. <br />She's helpless. <br />She's vulnerable. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She's finally, for now, in our arms. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Hope. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Selah. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>For unto us a child is born. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">What a blessed ending to 2013. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-78798351960189431662013-12-07T08:25:00.000-06:002013-12-07T08:31:59.297-06:00The TroughSometimes people tell stories that stick with you. Stories that you hide away somewhere deep in your mind and heart to pull out at a time when you really need the encouragement or even the reprimand. Recently, something I heard months ago, crept to the forefront of my thoughts. <br />
<br />
At the beginning of the school year, an administrator at our high school recited the history of the school complete with a description of the many buildings the school has occupied through the years. One of the final sets of classrooms rented before the school had a building of their own was brand new at the time. Our administrator confessed that she somewhat humbly told the pastor, whose church the school would be renting, that the students would surely "<strong>put stains on the new carpet and dings on the freshly painted walls.</strong>" She was wise enough to know the reality that kids in a building lead to such marks. These rooms would never again look brand new. The walls would forevermore hold scars of activity. The carpet would wear with the busyness of little feet. The children would undoubtedly leave evidence of life nearly everywhere they were allowed to go. <br />
The pastor, without hesitation and with a glint of excitement in his eyes, quoted to her Proverbs 14:4~ <br />
<strong><em>"Where there are no oxen, the trough is clean, but from the strength of an ox comes an </em></strong><strong><em>abundant harvest."</em></strong><br />
<br />
A clean, unscathed trough can only mean one thing: there are no oxen.<br />
No life. <br />
But with oxen, there's the potential for an abundant harvest.<em> </em><br />
<em>The potential for an abundant harvest. </em><br />
Deep down, I knew there would come a day this verse in Proverbs would be needed to refocus me.<br />
<br />
So many shoes. <br />
So many coats. <br />
So many "especially made for mom" crafts. <br />
So many toys.<br />
So many puzzle pieces. <br />
So many cereal boxes.<br />
So many crumbs.<br />
So many toothbrushes. <br />
So many toothpaste specks splattered on the mirrors.<br />
So many people using the bathrooms.<br />
So many orange sport cones littering the yard. <br />
So many dings on the walls. <br />
So many nicks on the furniture.<br />
<strong>And those are the physical signs. </strong><br />
So many emotions. <br />
So many unkind words.<br />
So many tempers. <br />
So many tears. <br />
So many heartaches. <br />
So many fears. <br />
So many doubts.<br />
It's impossible to remove the evidence that a lot of people live in this house.<br />
And the people seem to be getting bigger everyday.<br />
Or maybe they are just getting messier on all accounts. <br />
<br />
Without the constant maintenance of running our busy home and tending to all degrees of emotions, we would very quickly be buried alive. <br />
As the people in the home continue grow, everything else about living life seems to grow too. <br />
The toilet is clean...until someone has to go. <br />
The shoes are picked up...until someone comes home. <br />
The laundry is done...until someone wears something.<br />
The back door window clean...until someone goes outside. <br />
The dishes done...until someone gets hungry.<br />
The hearts happy...until a tongue lashes out. <br />
The atmosphere calm...until discipline is required. <br />
The questions answered...until someone has another thought. <br />
There's never a moment when I look around my home with satisfaction and breathe, "<em>It is finished." </em><br />
Because it never is. <br />
As one of my kids unloaded the dishwasher Sunday night, I heard muttered, <em>"I think I've already done this today." </em><br />
The oldest son (who was attempting to help the pouty 7-year-old sweep up the floor) piped in "<em>I think you've already unloaded the dishes like 3 times today." </em>("Not a helpful comment, Teenager.")<em> </em><br />
I reminded them that we <em>"used paper plates for lunch, so technically we used less dishes today than normal." </em><br />
They decided together, "<em>We need two dishwashers." </em><br />
I looked around at the very capable 7 pairs of hands in the room.<br />
<em>No, I'm pretty sure we have enough dishwashers. </em><em> </em><br />
<br />
Here's what I know about having a large family:<br />
<em>Many hands and feet in a home make much of a mess. <br />But, many hands and feet in a home make for an abundant harvest when they all work together.</em><br />
Couldn't that be said about living life too? <em> </em><br />
<em>The more people that you let in to your world, the greater the potential they will bring all of their emotional and physical messiness with them. </em><br />
<em>But, the more people that you let in, the more potential for a bountiful harvest of personal growth and for more souls saved for eternity. </em><br />
<br />
Every day, we do several five minute clean-ups.<br />
The timer is set; <em>ready, go!</em> <br />
Five pairs of hands (sometimes six pairs) work together to remove excess debris from the stairs, floor, tables, couches, to carry laundry upstairs, carry laundry downstairs, empty the car, etc., etc. That many hands can accomplish a lot working in a very short amount of time.<br />
It just never lasts. <br />
How dare a mess try to live in this house with all these hands working to keep it uncondemnable? <br />
It dares. <br />
It often wins.<br />
<em> </em><br />
More exhausting, though, are the emotional marks and baggage that can't be fixed with a timer. <br />
<em>Quick, Little One, Mommy has five minutes for you to cry. Ready, cry. Clock is ticking. </em><br />
I actually think this mama has said that before. <br />
<em>You have two more minutes to be afraid of playing soccer and then you gotta get out there because I don't have time for this nonsense. Ready, Go. Be afraid. Okay, time's up. Get out there and play. </em><br />
No timer in the world can quantify how much emotional energy might be required in dealing with people. <br />
Even healthy people require energy; how about the people that truly need our investment in their lives? <em> </em><br />
I'd do much better at reaching out to people if I could set my phone on countdown mode and say, <em>Ready, Talk. You have five minutes left. I've got things to do.</em><br />
There's no five ingredient recipe for fixing people. <br />
Time and Energy. Energy and Time. <em> </em><br />
I miss so many opportunities to touch the hurting world around me because people and life are messy, and sometimes I'd rather save my energy, and control my time, and have the clean trough than deal with the marks that life leaves. <em> </em><br />
<br />
Sometimes, I walk into a room in my house and will myself to not look too closely at the accumulating dust, the gash in the wall, or the neatly stacked pile of "something important" waiting to be put up. <br />
<em>Walk in...get what you need...and walk out. </em><br />
Because I really can only think clearly when the house is organized and clean. <br />
(That might explain why I haven't been able to put together a string of coherent thoughts for the last couple years.)<br />
Sadly, I often do the same with people. <br />
<em>Walk in...avoid eye contact with the ones that really need loved...get what I need...and walk out. </em><br />
I'm so glad that's not what Jesus does with us. <br />
He'd have avoided me at every angle if He viewed me the same way I often view others. <br />
<em>This person's going to take time and energy. </em><br />
And Jesus says to that, "<em>Then, this</em><em> is the person I've come for---the sick---the needy---the hurting."</em><br />
But the healthy are easier. Less messy. Less marks on the trough. <br />
<br />
I'm not done confessing the physical marks bothering me about my house, so I have to leave my spiritual analogy for a digression... <em> </em><br />
I've tried to explain my struggle with managing our home to my husband.<br />
The fact that I just can't clearly think in our house because it's kinda cluttered and kinda loud and a bit messy and there's just so many people. <br />
Of course he offers advice because he's naturally more organized than I am.<br />
AND HE DOESN'T LIVE HERE ALL DAY SO IT SEEMS VERY SIMPLE TO HIM. <br />
"<em>So, let's organize it and clean it up." </em><br />
Like that thought doesn't cross my mind one hundred times a day. <em> </em><br />
<em>"It was clean and picked up for a minute yesterday...or last week...or maybe that was actually last month," </em>I protest, "<em>You just didn't happen to be home for that minute. The PROBLEM is that it doesn't ever stay that way. The chores are just so constant."</em><br />
He seems unmoved, "<em><strong>Well, we do actually have to live here." </strong></em><br />
Like somehow that's supposed to make me feel better. <br />
<em><strong>That anything touched by living creatures is bound to leave a sign and that the life marks are somehow okay. </strong></em><br />
Naturally organized and neat people offer this advice that seems so easy to follow...for them: <br />
<em>Everything has its place. </em><br />
That. Is. So. Not. True.<br />
So not true. <br />
<em>Not everything has a place. What about the 7 pool towels that need to stay by the back door for daily swim practice? What about the pile of neatly colored pictures waiting to be sent in a card to family members? What about the over-sized, doesn't fit in the pantry, big box of individual pretzel bags that I bought from Costco that no one is eating? What about the school papers I still need to grade? What about the photos that I'm in the process of putting in frames for Christmas? What about the 17 hoodies that are piled on the bench in the hall? </em><br />
<em><strong>And what about the people needs?</strong> There's not always a perfect, controlled spot for those needs. What about the tears that come in the middle of the day over a hurt from the past---who has time for that? What about the late night fear that plagues a child's thoughts and keeps more than just the child awake? What about the constant struggle with a sinful thinking pattern that leads to poisonous words? </em>You can't put those things always in their place---to be dealt with at a more convenient time---and make them stay. Life is fluid. It really can make a mess of a schedule. <br />
Not everything can be put in a box and solved with a five minute clean-up. <em> </em><br />
My husband encourages me with this thought: "<em>I guess you'll just have to learn to think in the midst of living life." </em><em> </em><br />
BUT I CAN'T SEEM TO DO THAT.<br />
The marks are getting in the way. <em> </em><br />
This is usually when he steps out of my pity-party all-together. <br />
"<em>Well, that must be rough to live in your mind."</em><em> </em><br />
He really has NO IDEA how hard it is to be trapped in my brain. <br />
And I think he secretly wonders (as do I) how someone like me could be the bearer of six children.<br />
Because I want to limit the marks of life evident in our home and the nicks that touch my heart. <br />
I want to control the amount of emotional dings I might sustain reaching out to those hurting around me. <br />
And this is in direct contrast with the way I truly want to view the messiness of life and people. <br />
So, the struggle continues.<br />
<br />
Years ago, burdened by the most overwhelming mess that had ever touched my grown-up world, a handful of dear friends stepped out of their orderly lives and dove into my mess with me. Not to take the trough analogy too far, but if sin and ugliness smelled like a home for animals, our odor would have stretched to the next state. Truly, no one had the extra time and energy to pour into our family. Who wakes up each day with blocks of hours set aside to love on the hurting? But they made time. They sacrificed of themselves. They allowed our mess to touch their world too. Their investment into me and my family surely left marks on them. But they valued life. They listened to the Lord when He urged them to forsake the schedule for the sake of the people. And we are forevermore humbled and thankful. Although we've moved to a different part of the country, and we often go months without talking to some of these people from our past, I sometimes wish they could sneak a peek at the joy often found in our family these days. We are a living testimony to their own harvest. Time and energy. Marks on the trough. But the end result brought forth an abundant harvest. <br />
How can I forget the value of loving on people so easily? <br />
<br />
As the birth of our new baby girl approaches (I can't wait to meet her by the way!), I find myself in a manic state to find some order in our home. To gain control over the chaos. To remove the messy signs of living life from our home. I want all "attitudes" dissolved. All sin removed. All tears tucked away. All shoes on the shelves. The idea to paint a magnetic chalkboard wall is my solution to the pile of lovingly drawn pictures waiting on the counter to be displayed. Somehow that makes sense to me. Tackle the pile of crafts by displaying them on the wall with magnets. My husband nips that idea before I've even completed speaking the thought. <br />
<br />
<em>"No. No. Absolutely no. If we have a magnetic wall, then our wall will look like our fridge. It's bad enough that there's all those papers that fall off the fridge every time someone walks into the kitchen. No way do we want a whole wall that looks that way."</em> <br />
<br />
As I contemplate the fridge and the 400 pictures that are magnetically struggling to maintain their place in our kitchen, I mentally clear the fridge of the clutter. <br />
The thought of removing the work of my little people's little hands from their central place in our home snaps me somewhat out of this "control" fog that is smothering me.<br />
<em>Remove evidence of our life together from our home? We, the people, ARE this home. Do I really want to remove the signs that love happens here, and many hands and feet move among these walls everyday? </em><br />
Nope. The fridge stays as is. No way are we removing the signs of life from this house. I guess the tears can stay too. Even the attitudes that are being trained. All of that is part of the life that happens and makes a bit of mess. <br />
<br />
There's more to my thinking shift, though. <br />
Do I really want to remove everything that causes a little bit of a mess in my life?<br />
What a worthless, selfish existence to only be concerned that my hypothetical trough is clean...in order...both physically and emotionally. <br />
<br />
Life happens within the walls of a home, within the walls of a church, and even simply walking down the street to get the mail. There's no way to completely eliminate the fact that getting involved with real people will leave real marks. I love walking into model homes because they are so clean, and so unmarked, and so absolutely un-lived in. So unlived in appeals to me. Clean and neat, but lifeless. <br />
<br />
<strong><em> "Where there are no oxen, the trough is clean, but from the strength of an ox comes an </em></strong><strong><em>abundant harvest."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
I'm praying for the ability to value the marks that life leaves. To not hold so tightly to the energy I think I need to conserve, but to pour it out on people. To not value control and order so highly that I miss the blessing of diving into a mess with someone and helping them to see the Truth. My pursuit of the clean trough might lead to a sense of control, but I will miss out on the abundant harvest that awaits. <br />
<br />
The harvest has the potential to be plentiful if we take the time to really touch people. <br />
But it will surely be messy too. <br />
I pray for the courage to choose what is best.<br />
And I pray that at the moments when I'm the messiest, that someone will also find the courage to allow their own trough to get a little dirty. <strong><em> </em></strong><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8080574341722990767.post-22468548036958936302013-10-17T12:39:00.001-05:002013-10-17T12:39:21.979-05:00Advice for Jen<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>My precious cousin, Jen, just had her first baby. When my aunt asked me to give her some advice this summer on becoming a new mom, there was only one criteria: let it be light-hearted. Light-hearted? At the time she asked, I was stuck in a tunnel of parental weariness where I wasn't seeing many light-hearted things about being a mom. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Here's my first draft: </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>1) You will be tired, FOOOREEEEVER. </strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Does that count as light-hearted advice? </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>2) There will ALWAYS be something you will be training out of your child. Always. </strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Is that encouraging enough?</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>3) I have been doing the same load, SAME LOAD, of laundry for 15 years. </strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Fun stuff. </strong></span><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>4) You will forevermore fight feelings of failure.</strong></em></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>What a downer.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>I might as well have given Jen a prescription for anti-depressants along with her baby gift with all the "light-hearted" advice that was rolling from my pen. All my aunt was looking for was fun advice about childbirth and new baby issues. There was no need for the Eeyore warnings. </strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Perhaps, it's because I have a mild case of parental confusion. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>The reading pile beside my bed consists of three books: </strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>1) What to Expect When You Are Expecting.</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>2) Shepherding Your Child's Heart.</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>3) I Kissed Dating Goodbye. </strong></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>I told my OB doctor this and she raised her eyebrows when I mentioned the dating book. In case she was confused about my interest in dating, I clarified that I indeed had kissed serial dating goodbye many years ago when I got married, but I was currently reading it with my teenage son. She added a positive spin---"at least you haven't bought a pre-menopause book yet." Awesome. Like I'm not already feeling a little bit old sitting beside all these spunky twenty-something mamas in the waiting room. </strong></span><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Light-hearted. Upbeat. Fun. </strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;">Light-hearted. Upbeat. Fun. </span> </strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Draft #2: </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Advice for a new mama: </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><em><strong>ENJOY YOUR BABY. </strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><em><strong>THIS IS THE EASIEST IT'S EVER GOING TO BE. </strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Sounds like a Doomsday prediction.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Surely I'm not so jaded that I can't remember all the excitement and fears and questions about being a new mom. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><em><strong>Dear Lord, remind me...</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>And then...</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>I lay waiting anxiously on an ultrasound table to hear my own baby's heartbeat. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>An external scan at an earlier doctor's appointment had picked up nothing but silence.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>The ultrasound would reveal whether there was still life. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>In those few hours of waiting, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I totally wanted to be a new mama again. I was no longer too tired. I was eager to do more laundry. The forever training didn't seem so daunting. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Because there's nothing that revives a tired mama's soul than to hear the beating of her own baby's heartbeat echoing through the room. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>The hours stretched on. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Finally, the tech began the scan. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>A tiny fluttering filled the screen and the ultrasound broadcasted my new little baby's heartbeat loud and clear.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>The sound of a new life. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>Instantly, I became a new, yet old mama once again. </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong>All of the sudden, I was filled with all sorts of memories of love stories for Jen and moments of pure joy that come with falling in love with your new baby for the first time. Childbirth---a necessary means to a blessed gift. Lack of sleep---inevitable. All of the worries of being a new mom...part of the journey. The light-hearted (and somewhat useless) advice to Jen came easier as I thought about all the things I'll remind myself having a baby again fifteen years after becoming a first time mom. </strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>To Jen, </strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><strong> </strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>There’s
no perfect, fool-proof way to raise kiddos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
The more kids I have, the more I realize how little I actually know. There's a book called, <em>I Was A Really Great Mom Before I Had Kids. </em>It's kinda true. </span>Every child is different, every family is different, and you really have to pray for wisdom continually, beg God on behalf of your children, and make lots of adjustments as you go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Never forget that t</span>here’s only one perfect
parent: Our Heavenly Father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s perfect and look how we’ve wandered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <em>"No</em></span><em> matter how great of a job you
do parenting, your children will not make it through your home unscathed."</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> (Kandy Jackson quote) Don’t wallow in guilt. Cling to God's mercy and grace. There’s no way you are
going to do it perfectly, so show yourself and show your husband the same mercy and grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And surround yourself with Godly moms that
can encourage you and pass on all their wisdom to you!</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><strong></strong></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>1) Child birth advice:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
moms did it all natural.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t have a
choice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You get to pick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Not by choice, I've had to do </span>it both ways (you know I have no tolerance for pain, so I was certainly not a likely candidate for natural child-birth.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There was no </span>award for going the natural
route--even though you do feel like Super Woman for a couple minutes
afterward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And then you feel like </span>Super Woman who has just
been hit by a truck. Don't feel bad if you want an epidural. Let's face it, Chris will thank you FOREVER if you get one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> Either way, the baby is the award...not the method by which you deliver. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>2)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grace abounds during delivery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything you do or say will not be held
against you while you are birthing a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even if you turn into Satan for a period of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But also know, your husband will remember and it
will become part of his “labor story” to share with your mom and friends
later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>3)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nursing…try it…it can be really precious
time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But please, please, please don’t
be one of those women that wears around shirts that say things like,
“Breast:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The New White Milk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some things should just be done and enjoyed without
making a public statement about it. I'm not saying you shouldn't nurse in public---nurse anywhere you want---BUT for goodness sake, don't wear a t-shirt advertising it. </strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>4)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be ready for the first time Chris wakes
up in the morning with total joy and exclaims with bright, rested eyes, “The
baby slept through the night!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,
Chris, no, she didn’t. Daddy just slept through the night, but baby and mommy
were still up four times.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Good for the dads that they can sleep through anything. Must be nice...(there's a bit of the martyr mom syndrome coming out) </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>5)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold loosely your baby’s schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will not be eternally messed up if she
doesn’t eat every day at the exact same time or if her nap is an hour later
than it was yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A</span> schedule is
to help you…not to enslave you…<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>6)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you want to make all of your own baby
food, do it! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s for the
over-achievers and I’m pretty sure you do get an award for that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll have to talk to someone else about that
because I couldn't even find my food processor until last year. It has never once been used to grind up baby
food. (Judge away.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I</span>f you don’t want to make her food, think
of all the time you’ll save by just buying the baby food in jars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It </span>even comes organic if you are so
inclined, but I’m almost positive your baby will not grow a third eye if you
just buy the normal baby food in jars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>7)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t feel guilty if you don’t want to rock
your baby to sleep!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your baby will turn
out just fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>8)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BUT…don’t feel guilty if you DO want to rock
your baby to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There might be some
days that the only part of the day you enjoy is the moment the baby is quiet
and you are rocking her to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you
want to rock her--enjoy it--don’t let your friends or a book tell you how to
put your child to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do what works for
you and Chris!<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> 9</span>)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
hope you are a mama who loves to play with their kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not really THAT mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just don’t really like playing much of anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, play away if you love to, but if you
don’t like to play either have six kids so they all have a built-in playmate, or take
them to grandma's house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
grandmas can play all day long without getting tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>10)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beware…your children will do all those things
you always said your kids would never do…and then some…<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>11)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will never again judge the mom in the
grocery store with the little one throwing the fit…instead you will walk by in
relief knowing that today is her day to be “that” mom…yesterday was your day.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>12)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids have sketchy memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned this one from my mom. She used to
always talk about “pulling taffy” on snow days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, my brother and I looked at each other
and said “Do you have a memory of this?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Neither one of us had the memory aside from our mom's stories. </span>“Mom, did we really ever
pull taffy?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once or twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She admitted once or twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, play games one Friday night and a month
later begin talking to your kids about the tradition of how you always played
games when they were growing up on Friday nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Is there really harm in p</span>lanting the memory to your advantage?</strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>13)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Forget about going to the bathroom by yourself. </span>Even shutting the bathroom door will not keep your little ones
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will sit down outside the
door and just keep talking to you through the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You really need a safe room if you want to
ever have silence again.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>14)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be careful what you say at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be repeated loudly in public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>15) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make sure your kids feel free to question you
or ask you to clarify something they don’t understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a daughter who misunderstood something
that she overheard and for days thought that before Preston and I got married,
that her father actually preferred men to women. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What she
misunderstood was a discussion I was having with someone where I had said, “Before Preston
was <em>engaged</em>...” She thought I said, "Before Preston was <em>gay..</em>."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(That's probably an important rumor to squelch. Here's where you need to get started on the counseling
fund.)<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>16)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> D</span>on’t
give your kids a choice about what they want to eat when they are toddlers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are 3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do they know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fix their plate…put it in front of them and
say, “Here’s lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s eat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they don’t like it, “Better luck next
meal, Kiddo.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave my oldest the
choice on which part of the plate I even put the food ("Where should the ketchup go?" "Where should the nuggets go?"). Is there any doubt, I created a food monster
for a couple years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all came to a head when my mom put some delicious smelling soup in front of him and he looked at her and
arrogantly stated, “I’m not eating this crap soup, Grammy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t need a choice on what to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing good will come of it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>17)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bless you if you want to cut the crusts off
the sandwiches and apple peels off the apples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Don’t feel bad if you don’t have time for that nonsense though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just tell them that in your home for ten years they get
to eat the crusts and apple peels, but when they turn ten you will gladly give them use of a knife to do
whatever they want with the edges of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By that point, you aren’t going to care what they eat.</strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>18) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t spend too much time fretting if your
preschooler teaches her friends, “We’re Sexy and We Know It.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clap, clap, clap, clap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your child will come home with plenty of
things that other kids have taught her that make you cringe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if they slip and say an inappropriate word or phrase, NEVER,
NEVER, NEVER ask them where they heard it in front of other people…because the
answer may be YOU…and that’s always embarrassing. <o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>19)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t feel bad if you love being a mom…but
have moments when just hate doing all the things that a mom has to do every
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call your mom or sister on those
days and have them come help you or take you out for coffee or bring you a
Diet Coke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t call me, Jen, because I don’t
like doing all that stuff and I’ll just jump right into your pity party and drag you down. Call
one of the encouragers in your life and make some of those repetitive<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>mom tasks more fun!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>20)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, a dear friend reminded me, "In a healthy family, everyone gets a
turn having their needs met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our kids
need to learn that sometimes it’s just NOT THEIR TURN."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>So Jen, you are
going to be a fantastic mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of us
are going to love this baby and pray for this baby. I’m super excited to see how your sense of
humor explodes into even more hilarity as you deal with kids and mommying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like when Chris comes home and asks you in
that tone of voice, “<em>So, what did YOU DO all day?</em>” (“Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ate some chocolate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watched some Lifetime movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I don’t even know where your kid
is.”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or when you yell at the kids to
get ready to go to the pool for a swim and they yell back, “<em>Do we need to get on our
bathing suits?</em>” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(“Did they lose their brains?”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or when your three-year old insists
on going into a public bathroom with only his older brother—and he’s like the 5<sup>th</sup>
child so you don’t pay much attention until he tells you he would have been
faster, but he had to clean the “mud” off the toilet first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The slightly pale older brother confirms that the "mud" wasn't really "mud." (Gag.) </span>Or when you are walking into the CU/CSU
football game wearing CU black and gold clothing and your daughter exclaims loudly
for all to hear, “We are the big black family!” (All you can say is, "<em>Go Buffs!"</em>)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Or in twelve years, when your overly honest/working on holding his tongue pre-teen looks at you and
says, </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>“<em>You know, Mom, you really just aren’t that good with kids.”</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em> </em></span></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong>At that moment, you realize in relief, that your secret is out...after so many years of parenting, there is still so much you have left to learn. </strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong> </strong></span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Jen, I can’t wait to hear your stories and get YOUR advice in future years!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<strong></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Love you always!</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong>Michelle<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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