Easy Button

I need an easy button.   

Running errands yesterday on less than a quarter tank of gas, calculating how much cash I have to spend, how much I’ve spent, how many more gifts I need to buy, how can I make due with what I’ve got, and can I make it to the cheap gas station before the “low fuel” light starts blinking, I secretly wished I could press a button and everything would end up working out perfectly…easily.

Then, last night when my six-year-old decided she couldn’t sleep and woke up her siblings right around the time I was getting ready to crawl into bed myself, I thought how nice it would be to have an easy button right about now.  Instead of a bedtime battle, screaming and tears there would be sugarplum fairies prancing and dancing my daughter to sleep. 

Just this morning as I was trying to get out the door for a Christmas brunch, Jackson insisted on wearing his new mittens.  I couldn’t find them (I only bought them yesterday!), and ended up rummaging through the winter accessories basket in the coat closet.  Scarves, hats and mismatched glove sets were strewn all over the floor.  Irritated, I started looking for an easy button hiding in the knitted mess. 

It didn’t stop there.  Pulling Jackson’s mittens on to his little hands proved more difficult than expected.  He couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of separating his thumb from the rest of his fingers thus culminating all his frustration into one gigantic outburst as I worked feverishly to find his lost thumbs: “Jackson, give me your thumb.  Put your thumb here.  Stop fighting me.  Do you really want to wear these mittens?  Then you need to cooperate with me.”  Ugh.  Easy button?

Errands before the brunch, errands after the brunch (I seem to be running errands a lot these days), I figured I deserved a little “me” time when we got home.  Jackson screamed when I put him down for a nap (press “easy” now), Brooklyn followed me downstairs playing twenty questions (or something of that nature), and I realized that having time for myself was probably not going to happen. 

Then, BAM, I hit my own easy button; something internal, I really can’t explain it.  Suddenly I was inspired to start our Christmas baking.  Donning our aprons and Christmas music blaring, Brooklyn became my sous chef as we measured, mixed, stirred and rolled out the most scrumptious of holiday treats.  I can still smell the peppermint from our candy cane cookies – a family favorite. 

In that brief span of time - baking with Brooklyn, then taste testing our yummy confections – being a mom became as easy and sweet as our holiday candy fudge bars.  The stress I was feeling rolled right off my back, and when Jackson woke up I felt like a brand new mommy. 

With one click of the easy button I was armed and ready to search for Jackson’s “Lightning McQueen” car (that he loses multiple times a day), help Brooklyn “type” an e-mail on the computer, clean out my fridge and freezer, tidy up the kitchen and sweep the floors.  All before 4:30pm.  Easily completed so that I could have a few minutes to write this post for my blog. 

I may not have discovered a tangible easy button, but I learned a lesson far more valuable.  It is actually one I tried to teach to Sydney this morning before she left for school.  It’s all about the attitude.  We don’t always have control over our circumstances and the junk that comes at us day in and day out, but we do have control over how we look at life.  If we think we’re going to have a bad day, then we probably will (the world out there is merciless and will no doubt gladly contribute to the badness).  However, if we change our perspective, even just a little bit, it can be the catalyst for an absolutely amazing afternoon – as I learned so well today.

Time In The Bustle Of Christmas

Dashing through the store

With my cart leading the way

'Or the aisles I go

Laughing all the way!

Here and there I dart

Searching for a steal

Oh what fun it is to shop

And find the perfect deal.

Oh...Jingle bells

Jingle bells

Jingle all the way!

'Tis the season for crazy drivers, holiday deals, gift wrapping, cookie baking, carols, parties, gifts, cards, hustling and bustling through the all of the holiday festivities.  As much as I have wanted to sit at the computer and focus on deep thoughts and life lessons, the busyness of the season pulls me away...continuously.  Instead of pouring out my heart in a post, I am pouring over online discounts and free shipping specials in order to tick a few more items off of my Christmas list.

I've been working on a series for the past several months, but have become slightly distracted.  One of the posts in this series is about simplifying my time...my priorities.  I realize that the holidays are one of those seasons in the year when the pace of life picks up, but only lasts for a short period of time.  The next few weeks for us are jam-packed with concerts, shows and church activities.  I must confess, I do love it.  Sadly, a few things tend to get neglected:  my house, for one, and basic routine tasks and chores.  It's not the end of the world that my house is not completely put together and orderly.  I can handle that.  However, one thing that cannot fall by the wayside for me is my quiet time with the Lord.  As I was re-reading the post that I hope to soon publish I realized that when life gets busy, and my time no longer belongs to me, there remains one thing that I can't let go of: quiet time.  Time with God.  Time to pray.  Time to reflect.  Time to thank.  Time to sit in the presence of God and allow Him to strengthen me, lead me and guide me through the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season.

When all is said and done, Christmas is about Jesus anyway.  There's really no point in all of the festivities if my mind and heart aren't centered in Him to begin with.

So if I seem a little distant, and the posts aren't as regular, just know that I am fully engaging in the spirit of Christmas.  

And I truly hope and pray that you are too. 

Count Your Blessings (instead of sheep)

One of my favorite songs from the beloved classic "White Christmas" is a duet sung by Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney.  The song is titled "Count Your Blessings" and begins with these simple lyrics:  

If you're worried and you can't sleep

Just count your blessings instead of sheep

And you'll fall asleep counting your blessings.

I'm counting my blessings.  Even the ones that seem a bit shallow - they still count.  Here is a short list I've compiled of a few things I am thankful for today:

• My Heavenly Father - without Him I don't know where I would be.

• Joel - read here for a more detailed explanation.

• My children - my reasons are simply indescribable.

• My family - and the fact that my sister is already planning my 40th birthday party which is a little over four years from now.  (To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure how I feel about this.)

• I'm thankful that what I thought was a bright, white hair in my head was actually a piece of lint. 

• I'm thankful for staying up until the wee hours of the morning talking and laughing with friends (even though it takes me a week to recover).  I'll sacrifice sleep for friends any day!

• That a couple who thought their adoption fell through are now the proud parents of a beautiful baby boy! 

• My home.  We have a roof over our head, beds to sleep in, food to eat, clean clothes and (if I really stay on top of things) a well vacuumed floor.  Home doesn't have to be big.  Home doesn't have to have all the latest and greatest appliances and gadgets.  Home is a shelter and safe haven for my family.  I'm so grateful for our home.

• Les Schwab.  (I threw this one in for my husband - he's made quite a few visits there recently.)

• Hope.  I am overwhelmed by the hope we have day in and day out.  Life happens (quite frequently at my house), but in the midst of it all I have hope.  God is faithful.  God works all things for good- even four flat tires and a blow-out.  God sees everything and holds us firmly in His hands.  He is my hope, and truly the reason I can get up and get moving every single day. 

I could easily keep the list of blessings going, filled with detailed testimonies of God's faithfulness throughout the year.  I know I am not alone.  I am certain we could sit around with a cup of coffee and share all of the wonderful ways God has been good to us.  I hope your Thanksgiving allows you time to stop and reflect (perhaps between turkey basting's) on your own blessings.  And if you are worried, if you are coming to the end of the year and still waiting on your miracle, and if you can't sleep tonight, may you count your blessings (even the blessings of the past).  May you be reminded of how faithful God was, how faithful He is, and how faithful He is going to be!

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Cornucopia Of Thanks

Everyone seems to be in a perpetual state of thanksgiving these days.  At least, the people I have encountered on facebook.  A few days ago, as I scrolled through my facebook homepage, I picked up on a recurring theme in many of my friends’ status updates: thanksgiving.  They weren’t reminding the world that November is a month for giving thanks, but they were reminding themselves, by declaring to their friends, just how much they have to be thankful for.  At first I thought it was just another facebook fad, and I wasn’t going to jump on the bandwagon.  God knows that I’m thankful, and I don’t need to list my blessings for all the world-wide-web to see.  

Then later, after further thought, I came to realize the power of stating publicly the things, people, blessings and provisions that so often I take for granted.  In a sermon a few weeks ago we were challenged to thank God for our daily bread; recounting the ways God has provided and continues to sustain us.  So profound has this exercise in breathing simple prayers of thanksgiving been to my personal faith walk that I was inspired to openly share my own words of thanks (even on facebook).

Sometimes getting started is the toughest part, especially when going through a “valley” experience.  Giving thanks comes more naturally to me when I am on the mountaintop of provision, miracles and easy living.  Counting blessings becomes more challenging when I am on a mountaintop of needs, and my natural reaction is a far cry from gratitude.  When I find myself weighed down with the burdens and cares of this world, struggling to see the silver lining, I look to Psalms.  If I can’t seem to muster up the words for myself, I turn to the words of the Psalmist and let them speak for me.  Eventually my heart is seized with the goodness of God - past, present and future - and what pours forth from my lips is nothing short of giant cornucopia of thanksgiving and praise.

Psalm 100 (NIV)

A Thanksgiving Psalm

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.

Worship the Lord with gladness; come before Him with joyful songs.

Know that the Lord is God.  It is He who made us and we are His; we are His people, the sheep of His pasture.

Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and praise His name.

For the Lord is good and His love endures forever; His faithfulness continues through all generations.

I love the translation of the Message version, which says this: “Bring a gift of laughter, sing yourselves into His presence.”  Praise and thanksgiving to God doesn’t always precede my feelings.  Many times I have to literally sing myself into His presence - recalling His promises and declaring them, even though I don’t feel it in the depths of my soul.  Once my proclamation of praise has been made, then my heart is ushered into the very presence of God that I have been longing for.  There comes the powerful conviction that there are not enough words to express my gratitude for how much I have to be thankful for.  God has been, is currently, and will be in the future, good to me, faithful to me - sustaining me, leading and guiding me.  He is my rock.  He is my strong tower.  He is my provider, my deliverer, the God who sees, the God who promises to never leave me or forsake me.  The God who supplies my daily bread, a warm home to live in, three vivacious and energetic children - reminders of a healthy family - the piles of laundry that remind me of how much excess we have, the washing machine that allows me to clean the latter, beds for sleeping and afternoon naps, and even the creamer in my coffee.  He is also the one who supplies the finances when we need a miracle, the wisdom when I don’t know what to do, the grace when confronted with a difficult person, and joy in the morning after a night of weeping. 

Just like the adorable paper cornucopia that Brooklyn brought home from school the other day - a wet gluey mess plastered with all her favorite things – I, too, have a sticky, messy cornucopia of thanksgiving that I offer to God.  I am grateful for the little things, I am grateful for the big things and I am grateful for the things yet to come. 

How has God been gracious to you?  What do you have to be thankful for?  If you are finding it difficult to pour out a heart of thanksgiving just now, remember Psalms.  Remember to “bring a gift of laughter and sing yourselves into His presence”.  Even if it is a broken song from a broken heart, God’s presence will envelop you and soon the praise will follow.  As in the words of David from Psalm 51: “O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise.”

Smashing Pumpkins

When pumpkins start popping up at local farms and grocery stores I get giddy anticipating our annual visit to the pumpkin patch.  I visualize what our front porch will look like with a big fat splash of fiery pumpkin orange.  Ultimately, this image triggers a memory of a pumpkin I had in college.  My one moment of Bible school rebellion all started with a pumpkin. 

Friday nights were not big “going out” nights for me in college.  My phone wasn’t ringing off the hook with eager suitors.  Guys weren’t lining up outside my dorm room anxiously waiting to spend a couple of hours in my presence.  I was not a man magnet.  I was a man repellent.  Friday nights for me consisted of hanging out with other girls, late night Perkin’s coffee, and long heart-to-heart talks of life and love. 

That is until a pumpkin rolled in to our lives.  I really don’t remember how we acquired the giant squash, but eventually it ended up on the floor of the dorm room surrounded by a bunch of girls desperate for a little excitement.   It has been a few years and honestly don’t remember whose bright idea it was, but some genius decided we should toss the giant orange fruit right out the window.  We all agreed this would be fun (I feel so sorry for my college self – we must have been really bored and really hard up for good entertainment).

We managed to get the pumpkin up to the windowsill, and after confirming that there were no pedestrians in the vicinity of our target (because they were all out on dates), we launched our pumpkin missile to the ground…splat.  Eyes bulging from their sockets in sheer disbelief that we had actually thrown the pumpkin out of our three-story window, nervous laughter slowly filled the open space in the room.  We were really living on the edge now.  Being the hardened Bible school rebels that we were, we were so incredibly riddled with guilt for having committed such a crime that we quickly threw our shoes on and headed down the stairs and out the door to clean up our sticky, gooey pumpkin-y mess. 

No one witnessed our one moment of rebellion.  Our dreams of becoming notorious were smashed the moment our pumpkin hit cold, damp ground.  Friday nights resumed as usual: boring, uneventful and filled with the unspoken longings of love and adventure with a teeny tiny dash of defiance to show the tougher side of us. 

Ultimately, some did find love and left our little tribe of lovelorn co-eds.  Some stumbled into adventures and travels that swept them completely off their feet.  And some spent the following years discovering and uncovering who they were meant to be…and eventually found something greater than they expected. 

I’ve since hung up my Bible school rebellion days, and now the only smashing pumpkins I’m aware of are the ones I listen to on my iPod.  

Yes. Pumpkins.  They truly make me smile.

Taking My Cue From Dickens

Dickens’ classic story “A Tale of Two Cities” opens with one of the most famous lines in literature: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”.  How can we manage to have both at the same time?  When things are bad, aren’t they bad because there is no good?  And aren’t good things void of bad?  Through the course of the summer and continuing on into fall, I have found my perspective regarding life’s unpleasantries changing, evolving, and maturing.  

Sitting in the parking lot, rain falling in drizzles and splats on my windshield, I waited for Joel to pick Brooklyn up from school and bring her to me.  The parking lot was packed.  I sat there, sans make-up, wearing sweats, my old maternity fleece jacket (Yep.  I still wear maternity clothes and I’m not pregnant – I’m that woman), three pairs of socks, my crocs, and Jackson snoring behind me.  People walking by my car inevitably turned to peer inside my window, and I tried my best to remain incognito (I almost put my sunglasses on, but because of the dark, overcast sky I figured that might have attracted more unwarranted attention).  I prayed several times that I wouldn’t have to get out of the car.  I know I’m trying to be authentic and real, but I’m still a little vain and would rather not be seen looking so au natural.

On the drive home I was thinking what a dreary day it is: the weather, my appearance, the piles of clutter and dust accumulating at home.  As this thought was twisting around in my mind, I swerved my car to the left in order to avoid hitting a man – who was either inebriated or mentally deranged – walking down the middle of the street.  I momentarily glanced his way and he gave me “the finger.”  “Hey Mister Crazy Man! I just saved your life, for crying out loud!  Is that any way to thank me?”  I wanted to roll down my window and shout this at him, but it was rainy, and I didn’t want to get wet, so I kept my rant to myself.  Again, what a dreary day. 

Not two minutes after being accosted with an insulting hand gesture by the mental case in the middle of the road, my thoughts recalled a conversation I just had this morning with a dear friend going through an extremely difficult and heartbreaking season.  On the phone - crying together and praying together - from two separate countries, I could feel my own heart breaking and grieving for my friend.  Being so far away, I can’t help but feel a sense of helplessness.  My only contribution to her comfort is that I can pray, and keep praying, for her as she faces challenges well beyond what her own strength can handle.  My friend truly is walking through “the worst of times”. 

I have several friends, near and far, struggling through the darkest times in their lives.  A baby died this year.  A home was lost.  A business downsized, and a job was lost.  One family is grieving the loss of a dream.  Another family is falling apart – their tragedy has taken its toll on their marriage.  Budgets are shrinking, belts are tightening, and everyone is feeling the squeeze of a shaky economy.  “The worst of times.”

This year my brother-in-law and his wife found out they are expecting their first baby.  Their initial reaction was, “this is not a good time,” as he is also in his first year of dental school.  However, it truly is the “best of times” for them.  This life growing inside of my sister-in-law is no mistake, even though from a human perspective this isn’t a “good” time to start a family.  From my own experience – Jackson was our big surprise – I can say that this hardly qualifies as “the worst of times”, but rather a precious gift from God.  A baby makes this year “the best of times”.

This year a couple, desperate to hold a baby of their own in their arms, underwent treatment in hope of conceiving.  They were disappointed.  There were tears.  And I am certain there were questions aimed towards heaven.  Through the disappointment, however, they have reached out to God as they have never done before.  They are finding that even while there is much hurt and sorrow in their hearts, God has been faithful to comfort and surround them with His strong and powerful arms of love.  Their journey to know God through their journey of pain makes this year “the best of times”.

Heartbreak happens the moment, the instant, our hopes have been shattered, or we’ve stood on the sidelines watching our loved one hurting.  Heartache is the pain that lingers after the heart has been broken.  I feel so much heartache for my friend so far away today.  I know that this season she is walking through will be painful and arduous.  I know right now it looks as though this truly is “the worst of times”.  I also know that when she comes through this night of sorrow, in the morning she will emerge with songs of joy (Psalm 30:5).

So the next time some meanie swoops in and snatches up a parking spot I’ve been waiting patiently to secure, or the line at the grocery check out stand detains me longer than I was expecting, or even if my car won’t start in the middle of a parking lot as the winter rain begins to set in, I will not allow my mind to translate these experiences into “the worst of times”.  Instead, I will reflect on how absolutely blessed I am.  How it is by the grace of God that I can breathe in and out every day.  And that God is in every detail, every thread in this tapestry called life I am weaving.  And, as Charles Dickens penned, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”.

Quotable

I love quotes.   

When I was in high school I would often daydream of perhaps being quoted someday.  Surrounded by notebooks and journals stuffed with poems, thoughts and long, hand-written emotional expressions, I would imagine one day someone discovering this treasure trove of language genius, and then quoting me.  In fact, armed with my pen and stacks of paper, I would brainstorm – working tirelessly to come up with a quote that would turn the world on its ear.  Here’s what my seventeen-year-old brain concocted (are you ready for this?):

“No one can judge that which comes from within.”

Hmmm…now that’s deep. 

Along with this excogitated thought I found a letter I had written to whomever was lucky enough to find my precious quote.  The first line of the letter is priceless:

“I just want you to know I am not an emotionally disturbed person.”

Interesting.  I find this highly disturbing!  If that line were any indication on the quality and depth of my high school writing career, it would appear my writings were of a somewhat dark nature.  To this day, my “quotes” remain unquoted.  Shocking, I know.

The question then, do I still dream of being quoted?  Well, these days I get quoted all the time, although I can’t say they are my most noteworthy words.  Still, when I hear Sydney exclaim, “Are you kidding me?” to her younger siblings, or when Jackson declares, “Hey, I’m working here!” when I pull him off of the computer keyboard.  Or even when Brooklyn, exasperated, lets out a huge sigh and says, “I’m getting so tired of this!” I think to myself, “Didn’t I just say that?”  Yeah, I’m getting quoted all the time.  When I hear words of impatience and irritation spilling from the mouths of my three innocent sponges, I feel like someone is twisting a knife in my stomach and reminding me of how often I fall short in the parenting department.  I would much rather catch someone repeating one of my more sweet and spiritually profound phrases, or in this day and age, be “re-tweeted” on Twitter for something pithy I posted.  Instead, my shortcomings and misquotes get played and re-played on a daily basis for my listening “pleasure”. 

I guess the moral of this story would be “Oh be careful little mouth what you say!”  It’s not so much about the words we throw around in the company of adults that get us into trouble, but the remarks we make in the presence of little people who are always eager to steal a quote or two from their unsuspecting parents.  To my three offspring, I am the most quotable person they know!

Psalm 19:14

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.

I’ve got such a long way to go!

Trading Stress For A Yoke

Stress is like an unwelcome guest that weeds its way into the mind and heart, inflicting fear and worry to an overwhelmed host.  It wakes us up in the middle of the night, causes muscles to tense, tempers to flair and jaws to clench.  Headaches, backaches, stomach ulcers and even skin irritations can all be linked to stress.  As ugly and uncomfortable as stress is, it’s a fact of life.  I don’t know too many people who have sailed through this world stress free, and if they’re out there I want to know their secret!  Seriously though, when it comes down to it there is no way to avoid stress, or stressful events, in life.  They happen because we live in an imperfect and fallen world.  The key, however, is not how to avoid stress, but rather how we deal with the stress.  

I’m not writing this because I’ve figured it out.  And I’m certainly no poster girl for stress-free living!  The reason I’m writing about this is because I am currently under an immense amount of stress and I’m clinging to God as tightly as my heart and hands can grasp His.  I haven’t been able to fall asleep the past several nights because even though my body is willing, my mind won’t cooperate.  As soon as my head hits the pillow my brain kicks into gear leaving me weary and in much need of rest. 

In moments like these I have no other choice but to meditate on God’s word, and His promises.  This is what I’ve been setting my heart and mind on today, and I want to share it with you:

Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

When we feel the weight of the world bearing down hard on our shoulders, God encourages us to come to Him and take His yoke.  Then, when we walk the path of uncertainty and stress, we walk not directionless but in the steps of the Lord.  He will guide us through the stress, granting us the wisdom we need as we make decisions and choices.  While life won’t stop happening, we can rest because God is leading us through it and giving us rest for our weary souls.  

Matthew Henry’s Concise Commentary on the Bible says this:

Whoever will, let him come.  All who thus come will receive rest as Christ's gift, and obtain peace and comfort in their hearts.  But in coming to him they must take his yoke, and submit to his authority.  So powerful are the assistances he gives us, so suitable the encouragements, and so strong the consolations to be found in the way of duty, that we may truly say, it is a yoke of pleasantness.

Trusting the hand of God and His yoke is the only way to survive our stressful lives.  Trusting in His wisdom and His authority rather than panicking and searching for a way out is what I believe Jesus is communicating in this passage.  His ways are higher and better.  Though the hand life has dealt me in my present situation is full of challenges, I know that God will guide me through and grant peace and comfort for my heart and all the rest my weary body needs.

If you, too, are finding yourself buckling up under the weight of stress, I want to encourage you to join me in trading the stress for a yoke.  His yoke is easy, and His burden is light.  He won’t let us fall, but will walk every step of that stressful path right along with us, whispering to our hearts the way to go.  And then before we realize what has happened, our souls will have found a place to rest.

Off The Wagon

When Mama's sick life comes to a screeching halt.   

Three weeks ago I decided it was time for Jackson to say "bye, bye" to diapers and "hello" to the big boy potty.  We bought him super cool pull-ups and made any venture to the bathroom a reason for a full-blown party, treats included.  He was catching on pretty well to this new routine, and would even give a good, hearty "Yay Mommy" when I put my tinkle in the potty too.  There were plenty of accidents, but consistency is key, and I was consistently sticking his little bottom on his little potty seat every ten minutes (while consistently cleaning up all of his accidents too).

Then I had surgery.  My mother-in-law watched all three kids for us the whole week I was out of commission.  We sent the beloved potty chair to Mimi and Papa's house, along with a heap of well wishes.  Mimi did her best, and I'm just grateful that she was willing and gracious enough to take our three monkeys for a whole week.  But, I'm not sure how much progress in the potty training was made.  It was pretty much hit or miss.  However, Mimi bought Jackson a package of Lightning McQueen pull-ups which have become his most prized possession.  It would be even better if he prized them so much that he wouldn't keep doing his business in them.  One could only hope.

With the kids home, and Jackson full-speed-ahead into potty training boot-camp, I thought for sure we were going to get this thing taken care of once and for all.  Five days into it I got the flu.  It knocked me flat on my back for four days straight.  Production came to a halt and life stood still. 

While Joel was at work I laid on the couch and ran back-to-back episodes of Dora The Explorer for Jackson.  Fortunately the girls are old enough to entertain themselves, and spent hours playing with their dolls upstairs.  The kids' lunches consisted of a few pieces of cheese in between slices of bread, and snacks - though promised - never materialized.  When Jackson napped, I went back to bed.  Then yesterday afternoon, when my strength was finally coming back to me, I heard my son in his husky, two-year-old, baritone voice announce, "Hey Mama!  I got water in my pants!"  It was at that point that I realized our potty training effort had been flushed down the commode.  We really fell off the wagon.

And that is not the only thing that suffered while I was sick: memory verses for school/church weren't memorized, the house hasn't been cleaned, there is no food in the fridge, laundry is piling up (although to my husband's credit, he did a little laundry on Saturday and has made quite a few trips to the Safeway down the street for soup and crackers...for me), and my blog has sat seemingly abandoned for over a week.  I can't begin to tell you how much all of these combined really bum me out.  I feel like I've been negligent!

It would be so easy to beat myself up (even though I couldn't help being sick).  But the thing about falling of the wagon is that you don't have to stay on the ground in a helpless heap.  You can stand up, dust yourself off and get right back on again.  I realize that with Jackson and his potty training we are going to have to start back at square one.  That's how it is sometimes, when you fall off the wagon.  Whatever your goal may be, and whatever roadblock you may be facing, just remember to take it a step at a time.  And if you do fall off the wagon, don't forget to climb back on, and keep moving forward.

I know it's not much, but that's all I've got for now!

My Day At The Health Spa

Most hospital memories tend to conjure up a host of negative emotions: individuals feel like a slab of meat on a metal tray, poked, prodded, and covered indiscreetly with a two-sizes-too-small paper gown.  However, whether it was the strong narcotics, a pain pill-induced euphoria, or simply the unbelievable amount of relief post-surgery, my hospital experience can only be described as feeling like I spent a day at the spa.  Here’s how it went down:  

First, we began with the check-in.  The sweet elderly woman who pulled up my file and clicked a few keys on the computer keyboard was warm, soft-spoken, and reassuring to me as my teeth began to chatter from the nerves.  She must have sensed my anxiety levels increasing and was able to complete the admission process in record time so that my husband and I could find a couch to sit on in the waiting room.  And the wait was less than five minutes.  We hadn’t even warmed our seats up before another delightful elderly woman was guiding us to the hospital room where I would be hanging out until my surgery.

Immediately, and I mean immediately, a nurse’s assistant welcomed me, gave me a hospital gown and footies for my feet, and closed the curtain so that I could get dressed appropriately.  When she returned, my teeth were once again chattering – from both nerves and being cold – and promptly, before taking my temp and blood pressure – she hooked me up to a gown warmer, and then covered me with a blanket.  Seriously, a tube was inserted into my hospital gown that inflated it with hot air.  I was in hospital heaven instantly – oh so cozy…and puffy.

A few minutes later a nurse entered our little slice of heaven and wrapped my calves in what I can only describe as leg warmers.  Of course, there is a medical term for them as their job was to put pressure on my legs throughout the surgery, keeping the blood pumping and reducing the likelihood of clotting.  Regardless of the official term, those leg warmers kept me nice and comfortable.

There was, of course, a brief moment of discomfort when the nurse, apologetically, had to administer the I.V.  I knew it pained her as much as it pained me to interrupt what had, thus far, been the most relaxing experience I’ve had in a long time.  However, it was necessary as the whole point in my being there was for medical purposes and not pampering. 

Joel and I chatted for a while, laughing mostly at my ballooning hospital gown.  Before we knew it, the anesthesiologist was knocking on the door to wheel me into the O.R.  He reiterated most of what he had explained to me on the phone call the night before, and then he injected something amazing in my I.V.  What I mean by amazing is that, instantaneously, I felt tingly all over - he told me that I would feel good.  “Good” is putting in mildly.  For all of five seconds I felt super happy and numb.  I remember looking up at Joel who was smiling from ear to ear, thinking to myself, “Joel is nervous right now.”  And then…blackout.  I don’t remember one thing from that moment on.  Joel told me later that he kissed me on the forehead and walked out of the room with me, but I have no recollection.  I was on a flight to La-La Land by that point.

Post-surgery, I can’t say that I felt like a million bucks, but the nurses and my husband waited on me hand and foot.  If I looked the slightest bit uncomfortable someone was right there to ease my pain or fluff my pillow.  (I should also make it clear that I was still slightly woozy from the drugs, and my memory comes in bits and pieces.)  I think the doctor came by for a visit, but what he said sounded all gargled up to me.  Later, Joel filled me in on the details. 

I have to confess I was a little greatly nervous about what I was going to behold when I finally got up to look in the mirror.  Vain, I know, but I was genuinely concerned that my present appearance might scare a few children, not to mention myself.  I was pleasantly surprised.  There was no bruising, only minor swelling, my hair still had some bounce in it, and aside from the sling I had to wear - attached to both ears that held the gauze under my nose - I didn’t look too shabby (again…I was on drugs).  Once dressed, another sweet, elderly woman came by with a wheel chair and wheeled me out to my car.  Joel was waiting for me and helped lift me up into the front passenger side.  The kind wheel chair woman said a bunch of really nice things, all of which I don’t remember, we said farewell, and my Knight in Shining Armor drove me home.

I have been sleeping off the drugs ever since.

Before I conclude this post, I wanted to share, from a brief moment of clarity, a quick thought triggered by a comment that a friend of mine posted after “My Nose Job”.  Ever since reading her words, I have been thinking a little more deeply about the work that God is doing in me.  Here is what she said:

“This post did make me think though that often God does such intricate delicate work on us… on the inside… but is it noticeable on the outside? To think that if God does a work on the inside that would help us to breathe more deeply… rest more completely… and observe with more sensitivity. It would have to be noticeable on the outside!”

Don’t we just love to pick apart our outward appearance!  I am so guilty of doing that!  I don’t like this and I don’t like that.  I wish I looked like “so-and-so”.  On and on it goes.  During my adolescent years, and briefly in my twenties, I struggled to embrace the nose God gave me.  I hated my profile and wished with all my heart I looked like my best friend, who was gorgeous.  I was never content.  Then slowly, in time, as God began to do an incredible work in the deepest most intimate part of my life, I came to accept the person (both inward and outward) that God had made, as a whole.  I began to breathe more deeply, rest more completely, and observe others and their struggles and pain, with more sensitivity.  It’s not about the outside.  It’s not about the nose, the hair, or the complexion.  Looking fabulous isn’t going to bring the assurance and peace that we crave so desperately.  Knowing who we were meant to be, however, will give us the confidence and grace to walk proud and tall, no matter how big or small our noses may be.

I am very grateful for my day at the health spa.  I truly feel like a brand new woman now that those darn polyps are gone.  Just as the surgeon removed the unsightly and debilitating growths from inside my nose and sinuses, God wants to remove the things inside of me/us that keep us from breathing deeply the truths of His word.  And the work God does on the inside doesn’t just stay on the inside.  It manifests itself on the outside of us as well.  We radiate.  We shine.  We stand out.  We reflect the goodness of God, His character, and His love.  As I write this I’m breathing through my nose, and I feel great.  But I am also breathing the sweet air of contentment which only comes from God.

I know I’ve shared a lot.  Some of it probably doesn’t even flow well.  You’ll have to forgive me.  I’m still recovering from surgery.  I truly hope that just as God is doing a work in me, you too are seeing God’s handiwork in your own life.  May we all, no matter what we look like or think we look like, do as my friend articulated so well, “breathe more deeply, rest more completely, and observe with more sensitivity.”  Whatever God does, may it truly be noticeable on the outside!

I’m going to head downstairs now and enjoy a hot bowl of homemade soup that our neighbor brought by a little while ago.  Then, I’m going to rest a little more.  And maybe the next time I write something it will actually make sense!

My Nose Job

I had nary a care in the world until it was pointed out to me in the sixth grade that my profile was the same as that of a large Greek man.  Then it was again reiterated to me in high school when I was called “Parrot Nose Hayburn” (this didn’t go over so well for the other person, by the way – don’t mess with my nose).  My ninth grade art teacher told me that I had a very distinguished profile.  Seriously though, “distinguished” is not a compliment to a fourteen-year-old girl!  She would much rather hear words like “cute”, “feminine” or “adorable”.  Needless to say, I do believe my body issues began in sixth grade when, for the first time, the harsh reality that my physical flaws could be pointed out and made fun of hit me square between the eyes…or should I say in the appendage sticking out from between my eyes!  

I have had a love/hate relationship with this schnoz ever since.  By the time I reached adulthood, I had nit-picked nearly every square inch of my body and dreamed of a day when I could afford a nose job.  However, once in my twenties, I came to grips with the fact that this was the honker God gave me, it was time to make reconciliation with it, and that rhinoplasty wasn’t going to be in my future anytime soon.  Eventually, I forgot about the big beak protruding out from the middle of my face and turned my focus on accentuating the positives.

That is, until I was diagnosed with nasal polyps.  This darn snout just had to find a new way to give me grief!  In fact, I also discovered that I have a deviated septum.  Lovely.  Thus, the reason I snore, too.  (Attractive…I know.) 

Tomorrow I am headed to the hospital for nasal polyp surgery.  I’m finally getting the nose job I always dreamed of!  Although, I can’t say that I’m going to emerge from under the gauze with a brand new, adorable ski-slope nose (like the cute girl in my ninth grade class who’s profile I would have died for).  I guess I could always hint to the doctor that a little nip-tuck would be completely a-okay with me (wink, wink).   We wouldn’t have to tell anyone…our little secret, if you know what I mean…

Of course, that’s not going to happen.  What will happen is that I am going to be able to breathe again, smell again, sleep again (sans snoring, or so we hope), have more energy and overall feel like myself again for the first time in a long time.  My nose will still have the same shape, the same size, and my profile will still haunt me in pictures.  But hey, why change now?  I’ve lived thirty-some years with this trunk of a nose, and I’ve been able to function quite exceptionally at that (aside from this polyp issue).

And so, I’m off.  I’ll be away for a week, and I look forward to reporting all the wonderful results when once my distinguished nose and I are back in working order.

Relevant...Am I?

What changes people’s lives?  Who are the catalysts for that change?  Do they know who they are?  Do they realize change is happening because of them?  What is their message - their platform?  Did they set out to intentionally change the lives of others?  Are those changes for the best?  What makes their message significant to those following them?  

Relevance.  I’ve been contemplating this quite a bit lately.  Am I relevant?  Am I one who inspires others to change?  And if so, is it a change for the better?  Is my message, my voice, relevant to what others are going through?  Do I even have a message to begin with?

To quote Beth Moore:

“Coincidences are miracles in which God wishes that you remain anonymous.  BUT, God never wants to be anonymous in your life.”

Nothing happens in life without a greater purpose.  For some of us, we may never realize the relevance of our lives while we are living, or how many people we have touched with our words, our actions, our prayers.  Those coincidental moments when I’ve shared something that has been pressing on my heart, and in doing so the life of another has been transformed, are not by chance.  They were miracles ordained by God, and in many cases, I may never even know about it.  While the role I play in the process of change may go unnoticed and anonymous, I pray that God is never anonymous in my life.  It is the deep longing of my heart that God’s reflection would consistently be evident in me. 

I know I mess up…A LOT.  And I’m pretty good at documenting all my shortcomings too.  Still, I also know it doesn’t take a perfect person to inspire, encourage or bring glory to God.  It only takes a willing vessel – incapable, ill equipped, and hopelessly flawed.  You know, maybe it really is for the best that we don’t know just how relevant we are!  I know for myself it could so quickly go to my head.  Perhaps that is why God wishes that I/we would remain anonymous.

“In so doing (in His providence) God attends not only to apparently momentous events and people but also to those that seem both mundane and trivial…Indeed, so all encompassing is God’s attention to events within creation that nothing…happens by chance.

- Holman Illustrated Bible Dictionary on the providence of God.

So, for you who are changing poopie diapers, wiping spit up off of every shirt you own, cleaning up spills, teaching toddlers how to pick up their toys, potty training (that’s me right now), packing lunches every day, playing taxi driver as you shuffle your brood from one place to the next, trying to balance God, self, spouse, kids, church, school, work (oh how the list is endless), hormones and bad hair days - for you who think you are invisible to the rest of the world - You (and I).  Are.  Relevant!  God’s hand is in the mundane and trivial just as much as the amazing and momentous.  Nothing happens by chance, and where we are is right where God wants us to be.  This is no coincidence.

It is God’s providence.  And as we continue to walk through the daily ordinariness and routine, may we do so with understanding and fearless conviction that everything we do is relevant.  Our names may never appear in a book or magazine, and we may never get a one-on-one interview with Oprah, but we all have the opportunity to impact the life of another, and perhaps be that one person’s catalyst for change. 

Let us allow God to work anonymously through us.  And may He never be anonymous in us!

9-11

I wrote a post yesterday.  I felt really good about it.  I edited, reviewed, and scheduled it to post this morning.   

Then this morning came.  Today is 9-11.  I felt convicted that I had not taken that into account yesterday as I feverishly worked on my post for today. 

I removed today's original post.  I'll re-post tomorrow or next week. 

This morning I want to simply take a moment to remember.  Not a moment to fear, question or worry.  But a moment to remember.

I also want to stop and pray and thank God for His protection following the attacks on our country eight years ago.  I'm grateful that we don't have to worry.  We don't have to be afraid.  I know that no matter what storms come our way, God is in control.  Our lives are in His hands.

Today is a reminder to never stop praying. 

Today is a day to remember those whose lives were taken away much too soon.

Today  is a day to remember those who have fought, and those who are still fighting, to keep us safe here at home.

Today is 9-11. 

Today I will remember and today I will pray.

Gone To My Head

They say confession is good for the soul.  Okay.  I’ve got a confession to make.  Throughout the long summer months, the challenge of keeping my three little banshees from tearing the house and each other apart has been a major undertaking.  Somehow they have this innate ability to discover Mommy’s weakness, and daily, they zero in on it.  Nevertheless, because I’m a smart mommy too, I have managed to stay one step ahead of them, thus successfully keeping an inkling of peace in our home.  In fact, our final two weeks of summer vacation have been positively fourteen of the most serene and enjoyable days we’ve spent in a long time.  The girls, from the moment their little eyes popped open in the morning, commenced making beds, playing dolls, dress-up, school - whatever their fancy – without screaming, thrashing, and fighting, all the whilst Jackson occupied himself with his trains, cars, and books.  There has been no jumping off of furniture, no throwing hard, plastic objects at each other, no hair-pulling, or name calling.  Truly amazing.  

The first full day of this sweet-natured behavior I found myself blinking my eyes in disbelief and pinching myself throughout the day.  This was simply too good to be true.  And, in an effort not to jinx it, I mustered all the self-control in my being to keep my mouth shut until bedtime when I would point out to them how very much I appreciated their flawless and “Grade A” behavior.

As the days went by and this marvelous phenomenon remained consistent in my home, I started to feel pretty good about myself.  “Hmmm,” I thought, “I must be doing something right.  Look at these three angelic faces.  Had it not been for my dazzling parenting skills, they might still be climbing the walls and spreading mayhem through the land.”  I was really patting myself on the back, thinking I had figured it all out and was now officially ready to dish out parenting advice to all those poor, unfortunate moms still struggling to keep their children from ripping each other apart.  Yep.  I was full of it.

Once again, I think the same childhood intuition that sniffs out mommy’s weak spot can also sniff out the false sense of success that mommy is feeling.  No sooner was I struttin’ along like a proud, colorful peacock then one child swiped a toy away from another innocent child at playgroup on Thursday, inducing heartbreak and tears.  (There’s nothing like having to deal with a misbehaving child in a room full of other moms, especially when you are the group leader!)  After recovering from that humiliating experience, another child decided that she hadn’t been defiant for a while, and our daily quiet time turned into World War III, thus galvanizing this ‘One-Time Super Mom’ to take away all of this child’s brand new school clothes.  (She has to earn them back piece-by-piece; we’re making slow progress.)  In the meantime, I could hear my two-year-old son grousing, “Mommy, I no like you anymore.”  I still don’t know what I did to deserve that one.

Then, there is the “piece de resistance”.  Only three days ago, I was startled to hear a gut-wrenching scream coming from the playroom.  I had put Jackson down for a nap, got the girls set up to watch a movie, and dashed into the bathroom for a quick shower.  I just lathered the shampoo in my hair when Sydney’s voice of panic seized my heart.  I jumped out from the refreshing stream of warm water and, dripping, ran into the playroom to see what had happened.  Brooklyn was lying on her stomach and crying.  When I turned her over, my eyes quickly focused on the large blue knot, smack dab in the middle of her forehead.  She had been chasing Sydney (so much for quiet movie time), tripped, and landed face-first into the corner of their little pie cabinet.  I sprung into action, checking for any signs of concussion, asking her questions, taking a blow-by-blow account from Sydney of the incident.  When I was finally able to rule out a trip to the ER (and let me tell you, that was a huge relief to me), I realized I still had a head-full of soapy bubbles in my hair and was leaving a trail of water behind me.  My once-inflated ego was now popped and lying in complete shreds like a balloon burst into a million pieces.  This 'Super Mom' image I thought I had attained had gone straight to my head, and it took one major head bump (and several other not-so-lovely incidents) to quickly bring me back to reality.

It’s never pleasant to be knocked off my pedestal.  I’m not fond of humiliation either, but for some reason I’ve eaten my fair share of humble pie in recent years.  The saying that kids will bring out the best and the worst in a person is absolutely true.  However, I feel that my worst side seems to be revealed much more often than all my good traits combined.  The process of growing and maturing in parenthood is never-ending.   There is no “arriving” in this occupation.  We are always moving towards something, being stretched, challenged, and struck hard with the reality that there is always something new to learn, something new to teach and lots of surprises in between.  I’m grateful that I have a hands-on husband who takes the responsibility of raising our children as serious as I do, and together we make a great team.  But even further than that, beyond that earthly father figure that Joel represents, there is another set of hands that play a huge role in our home.  Without the influence and guidance of our Heavenly Father, I am certain that I would never be able to survive all of the “growing pains” that parenthood has brought my way. 

Proverbs 22:6

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.”

As an adult, and even more so as a parent, I am consciously aware of my need for discipline and instruction.  God, as my Heavenly Father, is training me, propelling me to reach even further beyond myself, and never tiring when I slip up or have a bad day.  As I am striving to train up my children in the way they should go, not the way they want to go naturally, God is also training me.  His love and discipline trickles down and has provided me with the perfect parenting model.  And rather than taking the walk of shame every time my parenting flaws are revealed, I would rather focus on the character God is forming in me and the character I am developing in my own children.  So, when they’re screaming, fighting, and swiping toys away from unsuspecting playmates, it’s a reminder to me that my job ain’t done yet, and we still have such a long way to go.  As well, when they are stunning me with their adorable sweetness, loving on each other, and reflecting the better side of me, I think it’s okay to give myself a little pat on the back (because seriously, that’s evidence of a lot of hard work on my part!).  Then pause.  Snap back to reality.  And never forget what happens when I let it go to my head.

Strike A Pose

Once upon a time I was a model.  Try as you might to find a picture of me hidden in the pages of an outdated fashion magazine or in a pile of resume head-shots, you will only end up disappointed (perhaps) and confused.  Stating, “I was a model” is using the term “model” very loosely.  In fact, the two words “I” and “model” don’t even belong in the same sentence together.  Let me try and say this again:  (A-hem) Once upon a time I wanted to be a model.  

The time I’m referring to was my ninth grade year of high school.  My sister and I got our hands on a copy of Seventeen Magazine – this, in and of itself is incredible for two reasons:  First, we lived in Kenya, and Seventeen Magazine just didn’t float around our neck of the woods.  And second, even if Seventeen Magazine was available at the local grocery store check out lane, our parents would never buy it for us.  I’m still scratching my head as to how we managed to commandeer such a publication, but we did, and boy, were we inspired.  We studied each page with awe and intrigue.  I think what made the greatest impression on my teenage self-image was how the sixteen-year-old girls posing and articulating to the mag their “I-was-sitting-in-an-airport-terminal-and-this-modeling-agent-came-over-to-me-and-handed-me-their-card-and-the-rest-is-history” type stories, looked nothing of sixteen years but more like twenty-five.  Leaving an insecure, mascara challenged, fifteen-year-old feeling really discouraged and downright ugly.  Their lives were storybook as were their peaches and cream complexions and long tousled locks.  Every page held the unattainable dream of teenage beauty.  (No wonder my parents didn’t want those magazines in our home!)

So what did my sister and I decide to do?  We came up with the genius idea of taking our own modeling shots and perhaps shipping them to Seventeen Magazine, or any agency with the mailing address: New York, New York.  Oh yes…inspired we were (and not too bright either).

We spent days on our little project:  Choosing our outfits, preparing backdrops and themes that would coordinate with our various clothing ensembles, planning our make-up and hairstyles for each shot, and all while listening to cassette tapes of our favorite bands.  We gleaned much inspiration from songs like Chicago’s “Hard Habit To Break” and “You’re The Inspiration”. 

It was truly a magical and sisterly bonding time.  Yet, once the pictures were taken, developed, and scrutinized, we came to the sobering conclusion that our modeling dreams would never be realized.  First, our complexions were far from peaches and cream.  Our hair was way too damaged from perms and overexposure to the sun.  Our figures, while thin, weren’t nearly womanly enough to catch the eye of the adolescent boys at school, let alone a modeling agent.  Even though we never verbalized our insecurities over the many flaws and imperfections we beheld in those rudimentary pictures, there was a mutual agreement that the likes of Seventeen Magazine and New York, New York would never be receiving our package in the mail.

Instead, the photos were sealed in an envelope marked “Please Do Not Open – EVER”, placed in a storage box and forgotten.  That is, until about two years ago.  I was rummaging through a bunch of my old high school paraphernalia and couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the old “modeling portfolios” of Amy and Jennifer.  I disregarded the strict instructions “Please Do Not Open – EVER” and tore open the envelope as quickly as my fingers could move.  As I flipped through the photographs recalling, to the detail, every memory of our modeling venture, I picked up the phone and called my sister on the other side of the country.  We laughed.  We cried.  We laughed again, and cried some more.  Once again bonding and wishing desperately we could share this moment in the same room rather than via phone call. 

 

After hanging up and wiping the tears from my eyes and nose, I looked through the pile of pictures one last time.  Smiling, an uncontrollable reflex when looking at snaps like these, I thought about the fifteen-year-old girl staring back at me in the shot.  Wow.  She was actually kind of cute – dorky and without an ounce of “cool” in her DNA – but cute just the same.  For a moment I felt sad that the girl I was twenty years ago couldn’t see what I saw as a grown woman and mother of two girls of my own.  I longed to tell her that Seventeen Magazine and all those abnormally beautiful faces weren’t the scale by which she should measure her own beauty.  The beauty that God was cultivating in her far surpassed flawless skin and shiny smooth hair.  The beauty she should be chasing after wouldn’t be found in magazines and make-up.  Eventually, I think it finally hit home with her, and her passion for modeling was traded in for a passion of a different kind.  I hope I’m the woman I aspired to become when I was fifteen years old – a model of a woman with a heart after God.

I’m still in progress – working on a different modeling portfolio these days.  As my youth slips away little by little with each year that creeps by, I pray I grow more and more beautiful on the inside.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that goes for both physical and internal.  My husband thinks I’m hot when I’m dressed up, hair done just right and make-up meticulously applied, and equally, when I roll out of bed first thing in the morning.  (Others may not be as forgiving when my hair is a mess and my breath is not so lovely.)  In the same way, when God beholds me in our secret times and not-so-secret-times, I want Him to find me beautiful.  I want my life to reflect Him and bring glory to Him whether I’m sitting in my big red overstuffed chair at five-thirty in the morning, or hanging out with a bunch of girlfriends.  It is far greater a challenge to achieve a beautiful spirit these days than it is a beautiful face.  However, the beauty that comes from within is a beauty that lasts forever – a beauty that lives eternal.

Proverbs 31:30

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;  But a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

 By the way, when my girls saw these pictures they asked me what was wrong with me and why I was "acting" so weird.  I couldn't even convince a six-year-old and a four-year-old that I was a model!  Go figure.

It's 'Go' Time

The countdown is on.  School starts in (a little over) a week, and I can already feel a slight shift taking place; not just in our home, but in the weather too.  I find myself waking up to a familiar autumn chill and, if I could actually smell, the scent of transition lingering in the cool morning air.  Yes, something fresh, something new, something exciting and wonderful is soon to begin.  Yet, rather than jumping up and down like a high school cheerleader, I pause instead - thinking and processing the wide scope of change that is on its way.  

For those that know me, it’s no secret that I’ve been chomping at the bit for the past three weeks, eagerly anticipating the first day of school.  In fact, if school could have resumed on August first, I would have been completely comfortable with that option.  (I already spent an entire blog post on my issues with the end of summer vacation, so I’m not going to go down that road again.)  Suffice it to say, as our home is slowly swelling from the influx of new school clothes, school supplies, backpacks and lists, the reality of our upcoming transition is becoming more and more an actuality to me, and I’m growing – believe it or not – slightly apprehensive as September ninth draws closer and closer.

To be frank, over the past (almost) three months I’ve been lazy.  I’ve done a few things scattered whimsically over the slow summer weeks, but by and large I’ve been a big bump on a log.  I’ve been staying up way too late, sleeping in, reading books for fun, staying in my jammies until noon some most days and playing on the computer much, much longer than my “allotted” time.  I’ve spent so much of my summer bucking the security of my regular routine, that laziness has quickly become equally as comfortable and second nature to me.  So, you can see why I might be looking ahead at the start of school with uneasiness.  I’m sincerely concerned that if I don’t get my act together over the next week, there could be some not-so-delightful ramifications for Mommy.

Joel and I were actually discussing this very thing the other night.  He, too, feels motivated to make some personal changes, and the kick off for fall feels like an appropriate time to do so.  We are embarking upon a new school year, a clean new slate, a new football season (Go Fighting Irish) and a fresh opportunity to reinstate order and self-discipline into our lives.  So, how do we plan to do this?  How will we corral our quasi-feral herd that has run wild and free in the sweet rays of succulent sunshine? What will be our strategy in turning a lazy summer home into a ship shape vessel prepared to set sail on a fresh, new course?  Since I am all about routines, schedules and organization, I have come up with a pretty darn good plan.  Uneasiness is giving way to confidence and motivation, and I think the kids have even caught a whiff of my take-charge vibe. 

It’s ‘GO’ time at my house starting today Monday.  We’re going to take September by the horns and ride into the new school year with confidence, determination and a full eight hours of sleep on our side. 

(Pause.)

(Sigh.)

Wish me luck!  (I think I’m gonna need it!)

Wonder Woman

At the tender age of six I received my first pair of “Underoos”.  They were Wonder Woman.  When I donned this remarkable underwear ensemble, I felt powerful and unstoppable.  My little sister, too, received a matching pair.  Together we were a force to be reckoned with.  We would run around the house, wearing only our Wonder Woman Underoos and armfuls of our mom’s bracelets dangling from our tiny wrists (bullet reflectors, or something of that nature), thwarting off the powers of evil.   

In my six-year-old mind, I couldn’t think of a better role model than Wonder Woman.  (That girl could pull off a mean twirl.)  And as I would take a brief moment to consider my reflection in the mirror - clad in underoos, bracelets, and long dark hair - I knew I made for the perfect Wonder Woman double.  Yet my little sister, Jennifer, with her strawberry blonde locks and fair complexion - a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie - insisted she was Wonder Woman, and I was Wonder Woman’s sister.  Time and time again I would cave in to her demands and play the part of the superhero’s sibling, perplexed at how any of it made sense to her.  Deep down in my heart, though, in that space that my strong-willed sister couldn’t control, I knew I was the real Wonder Woman.

Thirty-some years later, I find myself channeling my inner-Wonder Woman.  When my house is hiding under a heap of dirty clothes and miscellaneous toys, I close my eyes and imagine myself twirling three times and miraculously being transformed into Super Mom.  I’ve tried that, you know.  I’ve tried the twirling thing, and it only left me dizzy, still wearing my blueberry stained khaki shorts, stretched out tee and ponytail.  (So much for my super powers.)  Instead, I feel like Bat Woman – a nickname I earned my junior year of high school.

We were camping out in the rural village of Rumuruti (in Kenya).  It was close to bedtime, and I needed to use the “facilities” (in Swahili, that translates to the “choo”).  My best friend and I, flashlights guiding our way, walked over to the choo, and I went inside.  I squatted.  Suddenly I felt something brush across my toosh.  I was startled, to say the least.  I jumped up and out of the choo in one swift movement.  My friend opened the door, peered inside, and with the dim light from the flashlight surveyed the scene of the incident.  We could find nothing to explain the tooshy brush, and so I figured it was most likely a moth or some “bug” that rear-ended me on its way out of the hole in the ground.  I went back inside to finish my “business”.  Before I was completely settled, this same “thing” slapped me, no less, on the bottom, and from the corner of my eye I watched a terrified bat fly up and out the top of the choo.  This time, I believe I screamed, and so did my friend.  From that day on, I was called “Bat Woman”.

Bat Woman is powerless.  Wonder Woman is all about power and control.  I much prefer to carry myself in Wonder Woman fashion, and not the “slap-on-the-toosh” Bat Woman.  These days I don’t have my Doctor Dobbins’ “Strong-Willed” poster child sister calling the shots in my life.  These days, well into my thirties, I am free to let my inner Wonder Woman out, and set her free.  The condition of my home, my appearance, the boundaries for my children, are all within my control.  While there are days when I feel I’m making no headway whatsoever in any of these areas (having one of many Bat Woman days), I know that I have the power to either correct the problem or act helpless and distressed.  Today, my friends, Wonder Woman is at the helm, steering the way of this massive ship called the Slater Home.  I’m taking control, one little step at a time. 

Now, if only I could rustle up good pair of adult sized Wonder Woman Underoos!

"One In A Million"

There is nothing more unnerving than sitting in a hospital waiting room with the theme music from “Terms of Endearment” playing in the background.  (I think someone messed up on the music selection.)  As I was waiting to have a CT Scan of my sinuses such music was playing overhead, and – while I was not there for anything serious – I couldn’t help but tear up a little bit.  Just as my heart rate began escalating and the palms of my hands went cold and clammy, I heard my name being called by the technician signaling my escape from the depressing mood music.  The scan lasted all of two minutes, and I was free to go.   

I’m rare…very rare.  I guess you could say I am “One In A Million”.  I wish it were due to my unique personality and winning smile, or because of some hidden talent that very few people possess.  Unfortunately, my claim to fame is far from such an assertion.  So, what sets me apart from the rest of the populace?  Nasal Polyps Disease.  Approximately 2% of the population suffers from these benign intranasal tumors.  Of that 2%, the ratio of men to women presenting with this disease is 2 to 1.  I’m not certain of the percentage breakdown on that, but it would appear to me that I fall into a very small and rare category of women.  Which I believe makes me “One In A Million”. 

Usually falling in the category of “One In A Million” would consequently mean, “it’s never going to happen”.  For instance, the average person - like you and me - may have a one in a million chance of winning the lottery, or conceiving a baby after the age of sixty or meeting the Queen of England.

In my case, I did in fact win the lottery.  The  “Nasal Polyposis/Chronic Sinusitis” lottery! 

Joking aside, there are many other traits I hold that set me apart from the rest of society.  We are all “One In A Million”, if we are willing to open our eyes and receive God’s truth about us.  While there is a very small percentage of people that will win the Nobel Peace Prize or climb to the highest peak of Mt. Everest, God’s creativity can be seen in each and every human being on the planet.  I know personally that I don’t stop and think about this on a regular basis.  I fail to appreciate all that God has designed.  I’m so accustomed to looking at the negativity in the world, rather than the beauty and value that each person holds.  We are God’s workmanship.  We are more than “One In A Million”…we are that one unlike any other one.  What a different world this would be if we would all learn to embrace our unique and unparalleled design and see ourselves the way God does.

On the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, “Life will never be the same.”

Because there had never been anyone like you…ever in the world…

…You are the one and only ever you… 

For never before in story or rhyme (not even once upon a time) has the world ever known a you, my friend, and it never will, not ever again… 

Heaven blew every trumpet and played every horn on the wonderful, marvelous night you were born.

…Wonderful…Marvelous…You…

- Excerpt from “On The Night You Were Born” by Nancy Tillman

You ARE "One In a Million"!

Becoming Real

Recently (as in the past six years) I have rediscovered a whole new genre of literary masterpieces.  I’ve enjoyed many-a-book throughout my life:  Great big picture books as a child, the works of Emily Bronte, Jeanette Oke and Charles Dickens as a teenager, and in adulthood it has become more and more about paperback volumes on Spiritual development, marriage and parenting.  However, these days I have three pairs of eager little ears that love to sit and listen to the adventures of the Pokey Little Puppy and the Hiccupotomus.  Through the eyes and ears of my own children my senses have been awakened once more to the profound lessons and deep undertones that many of these books hold within their colorful pages.  One book in particular has caught my attention as of late:  The Velveteen Rabbit.  

In my quest to be real and authentic, I have committed myself to bare my soul, my thoughts, my ups and my downs.  For quite some time I figured that being real simply meant being Amy, without apology.  But for a reason far beyond my understanding, in my attempt to be real there has been a great deal of personal struggle and adversity.  More often than I care to confess, I find myself pleading with God to lift the burden from my shoulders.  I get tired, weary and oftentimes feel lonely walking this journey with God.  I compare myself – my life – to that of others, and from the outside looking in, their lives seem close to picture perfect.  I only see smiles, never tears.  I only hear how wonderful and miraculously perfect circumstances are turning out for them, not the underlying stresses of life that most of us face on a day-to-day basis.  As I compare myself, I end up swirling like a whirlpool - down, down, down - into a state of “woe is me”.  While others seem to have discovered the secret to success and good living, I am still grappling with the challenges God has allowed to invade the path I walk.  What I fail to understand, however, is that it is in these difficult seasons of life that I am ever so slowly becoming real.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day.  “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse.  “It’s a thing that happens to you.  When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” For he was always truthful, “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up, or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once.  You become.  It takes a long time.  That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or who have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept.  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.  But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand…”

…The Rabbit sighed.  He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him.  He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad.  He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

                                               - Excerpt from The Velveteen Rabbit

If only we could become real without the pain, without our beautiful velveteen coats being rubbed bare and worn through.  If only we didn’t have to lose something in the process.  Yet, there is always a cost that comes before greatness.  Before a baby is born there must be labor, and labor is painful.  If I/we truly long to become something more than what we are, we must be willing to pay that price.  The question being then:  Is the cost of becoming real too high? 

Interestingly enough, it is only those who don’t break easily that eventually become real.  If with each obstacle we face we find our spirit, our passion and our faith unbroken, we have come one step closer to being real - one step closer to bearing the likeness of Christ.  I concede that in the midst of trial I question my ability to hold up under its pressure.  My faith becomes so small that I am certain I am going to crumble to pieces like a saltine cracker crushed in the palm of a hand.  Yet, emerging from the darkness and surveying what is left of me, I realize I am fully intact and drawn closer to God.  Evidently He must have a great deal of faith that I will not buckle under the pressure of hardship.  Outwardly I may look shabby and the stuffing might be falling out, but I am that much closer to being what I so dearly long to be…Real.  And there is no cost too high for what lies beyond these temporary circumstances.

As we move towards becoming real, let us not forget that God is with us throughout the journey even if, at times, He seems distant and silent.  He desires to see our lives unfold into the beauty that He intended from our conception.  He longs, more than we do, to see us come through each tough time more real than we were when we started.  He is the One loving us so much that our hair rubs off and our coats become shabby.  He is the One who can make us Real, but we have to be willing to relinquish our grasp on our preconceived images of what real is.  It is not about avoiding the pain and discomfort of the process, but about living our lives through the pain…through the discomfort.  Realness doesn’t just happen.  Realness – Realness - is a process of becoming. 

"God does not give us overcoming life: He gives us life as we overcome.”

                                                                                    - Oswald Chambers

The M.K. Way!

M.K.’s (Missionary Kids – of which I am one), have a simple motto that allows them to cope with the not-so-glamorous moments of missionary life. It’s called: The M.K. Way! Here is how it works: I’m in Africa. I’m sitting in a pastor’s home with something completely unidentifiable on my plate, from an animal my dad slaughtered with a machete - right before church began - all the whilst dozens of flies are hovering and landing in what appears to be “soup”. The dinner prayer has been prayed and we’re supposed to dig in. So…I dive…with a big smile on my face because…it’s the M.K. Way!

It came in handy while itinerating and visiting various churches across the United States. As my sister and I were paraded in front on hundreds of people we didn’t know, being prompted by our mother to proclaim, “Bwana Sifiwe” we could only do so, and manage to keep a smidgen of our pre-teen “dignity”, because…it’s the M.K. Way!

Someone else used it on me when I went to a college M.K. retreat in Colorado (my freshman year). I had never been on skis before, and the whole retreat was centered around God and skiing. Needless to say, as I stood at the top of the Black Diamond slope, looking down at an endless path of moguls something told me this wasn’t going to turn out so well. Just as I was thinking, “How the heck did I get up here?” a fellow M.K. smacked me on the back and said something stupid like, “You can do it Amy…it’s the M.K. Way!” I did it all right…I did it so well they had to call the ski patrol to come to my rescue. The first aid guys that placed me on the stretcher and carried me down the mountain were pretty cute, so I guess it kind of worked in my favor after all. Picking up guys…the M.K. Way!

I used it when I lived in France, and while mingling with a group of young professionals proceeded to call one of the men “cheri,” (over and over again) which is actually a term of endearment in the French language. I thought I was saying “cherry tomato”. I was able to smile and laugh (silly American) instead of crawl in a hole, because…it’s the M.K. way!

The M.K. Way has been a great coping mechanism through some challenging times in ministry too. Someone says something disrespectful and insensitive about my husband or myself, I can smile graciously and keep my mouth closed because…it’s the M.K. way!

However, while the M.K. Way works like magic in dealing with those not-so-glamorous moments of ministry, it really only masks what sometimes is a very deep hurt or pain. On the outside I’m smiling, I’m saying, “It’s okay,” (for the gazillionth time), and mentally willing the tears to not start pouring down my face…because, on the inside, I’m feeling lonely and rejected.

A year ago I sat in a crowded café, all by myself - for an hour - waiting for a group of women to show up for a little summer get-together. None did. I sent a text message to a friend that I thought for sure would be coming.  She had changed her plans at the last minute…I really wish I would have known. I would have changed my plans too.

I have lost count of how many times I have sat in a room, all by myself, waiting for someone…anyone…to show up for an event that I’ve planned. It is a very lonely place to be. In those excruciating moments, when the M.K. Way just won’t cut it, I begin to question God’s calling on my life, or at least my ability to fulfill that calling.

I started a mom’s group two years ago. (MomsConnect – yes, I will shamelessly put in a plug for this awesome group of women). For weeks – a lot of weeks - no one was coming. It started to get a little depressing. “What’s wrong with me?” I would ask this of myself, my husband, my sister, my parents…anyone and everyone! Every Thursday night I would cry my eyes out for at least an hour in the arms of my wonderful and loving husband. “What’s wrong with me?” The answer? NOTHING! There was – and is - absolutely NOTHING wrong with me. Thank God!

So, rather than masking the pain of loneliness and rejection - or whatever hurtful thing may be going on in life - with the M.K. Way, how do I/we cope?

Here’s how God is working on me in this area: I am encouraged by the fact that God knows where I am, what I am doing and the deepest desires of my heart. He has put me in this place for a season of time, and I know I am on the right track. I am encouraged inside to keep moving forward…keep putting myself out there…to keep initiating opportunities. While I love walking into my mom’s group – which has outgrown our little meeting room  – and seeing moms and kids mingling, laughing and socializing, I do so with a deep respect for the One who has drawn those other lonely mommies in there. Just as nobody showing up had nothing to do with me, all those chatty coffee mamas - who I get to laugh and cry with every week - aren’t coming because of me either. I guess I’m finding my “place” in God’s calling.

In regards to the loneliness, pain and rejection: The fact of the matter is, all three are quite certainly unavoidable. There is a void in my life that only God can fill – not a best friend, not success, not a dozen compliments. At the lowest and most challenging point in Christ’s ministry on earth he sought a dependable friend to tarry the night in prayer with him. Sadly, even those who were closest to him let him down. The anguish he must have felt when the reality of his own loneliness set in. I wept pretty intensely after being stood up for coffee last year. That cannot even come close to the heart wrenching weeping that caused Jesus’ tears to turn to blood. He stood alone in a way I never will. If I am ever wondering if anyone knows what it feels like to be alone, I don’t have to look far…Jesus is far more acquainted with this kind of pain than any human who has ever shed a friendless, lonely tear.

So, what can we count on? We can trust that: 1. God will always be there for us, 2. Human beings will eventually let us down, and 3. God knows what that feels like. I am learning, ever so slowly, to let God fill the God void, allow him to bring the right friendship at the right time to fill the friend void and not be discouraged even when my most dependable friend lets me down. Loneliness is a fact of life. Some of us have to endure seasons like this longer than others. So, we can take heart, keep putting ourselves out there, trust that God is in control and eventually we will all be meeting at a café, sipping cappuccinos and laughing about all our silly sob stories of lonely days gone by – M.K. style!