I Am A Poem

Ephesians 2:10

“We are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

Did you know that the word “workmanship” used in the above scripture is translated from the Greek word “poiema” which means “poem”?  I didn’t.  I never took Greek in college, and I vaguely remember any of the heady Bible classes that I actually did take.  So, this morning as our pastor shared this timely insight with us, my heart literally skipped a beat.  Instantly, my mind went back to a poem I wrote in 1995 while in treatment for depression and an eating disorder.

For too many years, I had struggled with a distorted self-image.  I didn’t see myself as God’s workmanship, but rather as one giant mistake.  Through the course of healing, I discovered just how wrong I was – so blind.  Not only did I have a distorted self-image, but I had a very distorted view of God.  In the middle of my recovery, I sat down and penned this poem.  Little did I know that the word “workmanship” is derived from the word “poem”, and God so many times in His word reminds us that we are His.  We are His poem.  God’s workmanship.  God’s masterpiece. 

I Am A Poem

I am a poem

Created in my mother’s womb

I was intended to be this way

With awkward words

And silly smiles

With dreams I pray may come alive

I catch myself in such critical states

And forget that I am wonderfully made

I am a poem

Crafted and perfected

By the hands of the Master Poet

Each word, each phrase

Is a prayer to the heavens

And its beauty is much more than I have seen

I am a poem

-Written July, 4, 1995

Jumping Jack

My two-year-old son is a fast learner.  It didn’t take him long to discover that standing at the top of the stairwell exclaiming, “Mommy, look!  I jump!” could initiate a performance of unparalleled drama and acrobatic skill from yours truly.  With his eyes opened wide and a grin revealing every tooth in that little mouth of his, he watches as I stretch my legs, leaping high, back arching and twisting, arms flailing, crying out in a panic-induced quivery voice, “No Sweetheart!  No, no, no…we don’t jump down an entire flight of stairs!”  By the time I’ve knocked my elbow into the handrail, and acquired a few rug burns on my knees making my rough and clumsy landing on the step below him, his smile has swelled to a hearty belly laugh.  I know he finds my “mother bear” antics both entertaining and impressive.  After the dust has settled and my heart rate has returned to normal, I wonder to myself what kinds of pranks this boy is going to pull ten years from now, and how on earth I’m going to survive them (especially since my joints won’t be nearly as limber as they are presently). 

The instant I heard my husband’s full and powerful voice echo through the delivery room (and down the hall) announcing, “It’s a boy!”, a flood of emotion washed over me.  I had a keen awareness that my life was forever changed, and I wondered – as his tiny, warm body lay curled up on my chest – “Am I ready for this?”  Two-and-a-half years, and innumerable panic-inducing moments later, I can honestly say I was totally made for this.  The adventure of raising a boy is one I never dreamed I had the disposition or temperament to handle.  How wrong I was.  I’ve realized it doesn’t take a rough and tumble, “natural chick” to connect with a boy.  It doesn’t take a once-captain of the girls’ basketball team to teach a son how to throw a ball.  And it doesn’t even take a former wrestling champ to flop on the floor for a tender tussle.  Nope.  Raising my little “Jumping Jack” takes only me (and a whole lot of prayer).

I wouldn’t trade having a boy for anything in the world.  There is no treasure as precious as walking with my son down a hotel hallway and watching as he flicks his “Lightning McQueen” clad foot with a slick “Ka-Chow!” at every passer-by.  Priceless.  Jackson’s obsession with cars, trains, and anything that makes noise and moves has opened a whole new world to me – a world that shuns pink, princess gowns, and tiaras but leaves room for hand-picked dandelions and wild flowers for Mommy.  This new world is truly a joy to discover.

And to think…I’ve only just begun.

(This post was inspired by the countless near-death experiences and mid-air ballet twirling rescue attempts that I have shared with my son, “Jumping Jack”.  Even as I am writing this, he is working tirelessly at putting a pair of miniature sunglasses on my face stating, “Cool Mama…Cool!”)

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!)

Espresso, Pheasant Feathers & A Lesson In Parenting

The other evening my husband and I enjoyed a very rare and much anticipated night out together.  We found a cozy and friendly café that has quickly become a favorite spot of ours, and nestled in for a delicious meal and uninterrupted conversation.  We finished eating, but neither of us was ready to dash out the door, so my husband suggested we order espresso.  I agreed.  Espresso sounded like a great idea.  

As we continued our conversation over the strong flavor of rich coffee, taking slow sips between long and deliberate intervals, memories of my year living in France began to flood my mind.  It has been a long time since I stopped to enjoy a cup of espresso.  Equally, it has been quite some time since I rehashed old memories of France.  One experience in particular put a smile on my face, and even still evokes a good laugh.

It had been a busy day in the “bustling metropolis” of Vitrolles, France.  Truthfully, the bus ride home was more draining than the whole workweek combined, but I still was grateful to finally be off for a few days of Christmas holiday.  As I opened the door to Madame Buendia’s charming French townhome, I found a trail of feathers leading to the kitchen.  Curious, I followed the feather path.  Entering the kitchen, I startled Madame Buendia who was working on a stubborn pot in the sink.  When she recovered, a sly and mischievous grin crossed her face.  I asked her about the feathers.  She told me to open the fridge.  I did.  There, at the bottom of this tiny French refrigerator, lay three dead pheasants – “Christmas dinner!” announced Madame Buendia.  Her son’s father-in-law had a stellar hunting trip, and we were the honored recipients of part of his spoils.  Madame Buendia was getting the kitchen cleared and prepped so she could begin plucking the feathers from the pheasants.  I caught my second wind at the thought of plucking birds and hurried upstairs to change my clothes. 

When I returned, eager to start ripping away at the dead birds, I was sternly informed that I would not be permitted to participate in the pheasant plucking.  I asked why in as respectful and calm a tone as I could muster up.  Madame Buendia explained that this kind of work was not appropriate for “little American girls” (I was twenty-five years old and stood five feet, eight inches tall – not so little if you ask me).  After pausing for a few minutes and realizing she wasn’t going to budge on this one, I asked if I could at least get my picture taken with the dead, pre-plucked birds.  She acquiesced, and I got a nice “before” shot of Christmas dinner for my memory book.

 

I passed the remainder of the evening reading, and occasionally glancing over to the closed kitchen door.  Every now and then I’d hear grunting and cursing coming from, I’m quite certain, an exasperated and stubborn French woman.  If only she would have let me assist - we could have been grunting and cursing together!  How much more fun it would have been to pluck pheasants with company! 

The next morning, the remnants of the prior night’s activities were wafting in the air as I went to prepare myself a cup of espresso.  Feathers were everywhere: the floor, the countertops, chairs.  Every time I made a move, a rustle of feathers would swirl and whoosh like little tornadoes throughout the cramped kitchen.  Madame Buendia was still in bed- I’m sure recovering from her work out with the three dead birds the night before.  To this day I really wish I could have been a part of the Christmas-pheasant-feather-plucking action.   Yet, all I have is a picture of me holding two of them up by the legs. 

What’s the moral of the story?  As I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, Sydney is less than a foot away from me, earnestly sharpening a pile of pencils for school.  She is making a mess, but doing a great job and accomplishing a task that is well within her purview.  As I am slowly discovering – I tend to be a very slow learner – my kids are far more adept at simple and even not-so-simple tasks than I give them credit for.  They can make their beds, clean their dishes, do regular household chores and help me in the kitchen (my two-and-a-half year old included).  Do they do it perfectly?  Not always.  And I’m learning to lower my expectations and appreciate the effort they put into making their beds more so than the quality of the “military corners” and placement of throw pillows.  Those things really don’t matter anyway.

Another thing this teaches me is that the mess is not a bad thing.  Whether or not I helped Madame Buendia with the feather plucking, there was certain to be a mess.  Alone, she stayed up half the night working, long after I had drifted off to sleep.  And later, didn’t have the energy to clean up once the job was completed, as evidenced by the heaps of feathers lingering in the kitchen the next morning.  If I had been permitted to assist, the mess would have been made, but we could have finished a lot earlier and made sure the feathers were cleaned up too.  With my kids, I am doing them a great disservice if I never allow them to join me in making a mess.  Sometimes the only way to learn something is to mess it all up first.  Then, we also learn how to put it back together again.  I don’t want my kids to spend their lives staring at a “closed” kitchen door, longing to be in the thick of the chaos with me and learning something new.  I don’t want them to feel like I did the night of the feather plucking.  Witnessing a missed opportunity, but helpless to rectify it.

So here are a few “messes” I’ll be making with my kids this week:

• Sydney and I will be cleaning out closets, throwing things away and re-organizing (she has a gift, and I want to nurture that in her and watch it grow!).

• Brooklyn will be assisting me in the kitchen, putting together meals and snacks.

• Jackson will be setting the table (something he loves to do!), and “folding” laundry.

If all of this came out of one demi tasse of café, there’s no telling what profound insights will emerge the next time I get a date night with my husband and another shot of espresso!

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!

High-Strangeness

I learned a new term the other night watching ABC’s “The Outsiders”.  It is called, “High Strangeness”.  This term is used to describe those individuals who have been abducted by aliens, or “Close Encounters Of The Third Kind”.  If you are starting to hear the soundtrack of the X-Files playing in your mind, have no fear; this information had the same effect on me too.   

Alien abduction has to be one of the most terrifying thoughts to me.  Aliens in general pretty much give me the willies, especially after watching M. Night Shyamalan’s “Signs”.  And to think that this small group of people – those of “High Strangeness” - have actually lived through the experience and can share it with all of us simply boggles the mind.  If I were an alien and was commissioned to come to Earth, abduct humans, run tests, and experiments on their bodies, I’m not sure I’d want to leave any evidence of my existence behind.  I mean, if aliens are such intelligent life forms, certainly they’ve seen “Independence Day”, and they know how powerful we humans can be once provoked (spoken like a true skeptic).

Silly as it sounds, there are those out there that buy into this.  They truly believe they have been poked and prodded by otherworldly beings.  They live ostracized by the public because of their wacky beliefs and predictable testimonies.  More than the good laugh this “provocative” news story gave me, it also made me feel kind of sad for these men and women.  Whether it be an out-of-control active imagination or series of delusions, these people are living a very lonely and isolated existence.  I want to shake them and say, “Yes, the truth IS out there!  But you’re not going to find it in a camcorder shot of a blinking light in the sky.”  I wish I could convince them that they will indeed find the truth when they get their heads out of the clouds and start dealing with the gigantic void in their lives that they’ve been filling with garbage. 

One woman in this story shared that there has been something deep down in her heart that has always known, and been searching for, a higher power or intelligence.  Then she had her “alien encounter”, and now she believes she has found that intelligent life form she innately knew existed.  I wanted to stand up and scream at the television set.  “Did you know we all share this innate longing to find a higher power?  This is actually a God-given intuition we have drawing us to find God.”  Unfortunately, there are so many that fall for a counterfeit “god”, and walk in blindness to the truth.  As much as I want to chalk all those of “High Strangeness” up as a bunch of crazies, conviction tells me that they are sadly deceived.  As a follower of Christ, I am commissioned to be a light in the darkness.  My prayer is that, while I really do believe much of the alien hullabaloo to be whacky and ridiculous, I would still be a light, shining brightly on the path of truth.  I may never get the opportunity to talk, listen and share with these misguided individuals, but for those around me, I hope my light never dims.  I pray that I may shine brighter and higher than any bobbing UFO zipping through this vast universe.

On Being Blessed

It is difficult to sum up in a few paragraphs a thought that has been percolating in my brain and heart for months (and I venture to say that I tend to babble on even more than “a few paragraphs”).  Some thoughts are easy to express; they flow from head to Word document faster than my hands can type.  Other times the topic is so broad and so deeply personal that, as much as I try to keep it simple, it still takes me weeks to put it all together.  (And I’m never quite convinced I’ve conveyed it appropriately.)  So it has been with this current post on being blessed.  Recently I have found the foundations of my beliefs and conceptions of being blessed and receiving blessings shaken to the core.  I’ve questioned my status with God.  “Am I not doing enough for Him?  Have I let Him down and essentially postponed a hard-earned blessing?”  As I’ve been grappling such thoughts, I have sensed that God has been tugging at my heart to look beyond the momentary thrill of the blessing from God, and more intently on what it is to be blessed by God.  I’m not an authority by any means.  What I share is, simply put, a glimpse of where I am in the journey.

What does is mean to be blessed?  So often I hear people (myself included) throw out the phrases: “We are so blessed,” or “They live under a special cloud of blessing,” or “God has truly blessed them.”  Coincidentally, the individuals described are usually those who have a beautiful home, a beautiful family and healthy bank account.  Things that most of us secretly wish we had too.  I struggle with the parallel that material blessing somehow stands as a symbol of a blessed life, or more specifically, blessed by God.  Then there’s the perception that receiving those blessings signifies an individual’s rank in God’s hierarchy.  Neither one of these thoughts makes much sense to me, nor do they settle right within my spirit. 

I think there is a profound difference between “being blessed” and “receiving blessings”.  A person can have nothing at all- no home, no money, no family- and still be blessed, just as a person can have every blessing in the world and not be blessed.  Being blessed is so much more than having things.  Being blessed is the privilege we have to simply be in the presence of God - to have God when we don’t have anything else.  I am blessed because I know that God is in my life.  God is working all things for my best outcome.  And God’s best for me may not always appear so “blessed”.  God’s best may mean I have to lose something, or a struggle that I am going through, or a very difficult season of life.  God’s best oftentimes contradicts every natural conception of blessing and greatness, but the result is something marvelously supernatural.  A life blessed gives all glory to God because a life blessed comes only from God.  A life blessed is contented in whatever circumstance or challenge it faces because there is a deep seeded faith and hope in that God’s hand is still upon them.

Receiving blessings, on the other hand, is something that happens to both the godly and the ungodly.  Blessings are those temporal moments or gifts that give us a glimpse into what heaven might possibly be like.  I count my husband and the births of our three children as four of the most amazing and indescribable blessings in my life.  The miracles that God has worked on our behalf: financial provision when we desperately needed it, having a home to live in, a job to go to every day, a healthy family, are all blessings that I attribute to God’s graciousness towards us.  However, I can’t confuse my being blessed by God with the blessings I have received from God.  Why?  Because I could lose everything today: my husband, my children, my home, and my health.  I could lose every blessing from God, but I would still be blessed by God.  What I have should not be the measuring stick for how blessed I am.

Job had everything.  Job was a righteous man.  Job had a life that most people envied.  Then, Job lost it all.  He lost his wealth, his home, his children, and his health.  Had God turned against him?  Was God disappointed in Job and trying to teach him a lesson?  No.  God knew Job’s heart.  God knew that the relationship He shared with Job far surpassed any material blessing he could receive.  And I think it is important to state that God did not take anything away from Job.  However, God did allow tragedy, at the hand of Satan, to fall upon Job.  Even still, Job remained righteous and faithful to God.  He was blessed, even at his most lowly state, even in those questioning moments when he cried out for mercy (have we not all been there at some point in our lives?).  God observed this and did not forget, and in the end, poured double the blessings upon Job. 

Before David became king, he went through the hell of his life- running from a deranged Saul, hiding out in caves, and sleeping among rocks and wild animals.  As David looked to the heavens and bore his fear, frustration, and anger on God, he continued to be “a man after God’s own heart”.  Amidst the struggle, God’s hand was upon David – David was blessed. 

As God is dealing with my heart on this issue, I am challenged to redefine and refocus my view on “being blessed”.  Rather than play the broken record prayer of “Lord bless me, bless me, bless me,” I need to stop and realize that I am, indeed, blessed by God.  And as I cry out for the blessings of God on my life, I should do so with a keen awareness that, whether or not I receive them, I still remain blessed by God.  If I’ve asked God boldly for a blessing or some provision, as we are instructed to do, then I can rest in the assurance that, even if God does not grant my request, He will carry me through the situation.  His hand is upon me and will continue to guide me.  I will come out on the other side reflecting more and more the glory and character of God.

Blessings, as wonderful and miraculous as they are, may come and go, but being blessed will carry us through the times when the blessings are few.  And the security in this remains forever.

Perfect submission, all is at rest;  I in my Savior am happy and blessed.  Watching and waiting, looking above, filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

- Blessed Assurance, by Fanny J. Crosby

Enough With Summer Vacation Already!

Disclaimer:  Read at your own risk.  The following may, or may not, come across as a negative tirade of complaints from a super exhausted mother of three.  The fact is it was, in fact, written by a tired and drained mother of three, but is not a true reflection of this tired mother of three’s character and mental stability.  It is simply a brief glimpse into a brief moment of a mindless brain spill (something that happens every so often when a perfectly good mommy lacks a perfectly good nights rest).  

I feel like the “Friday Scrooge”.  I was just on Facebook, reading the Friday morning status updates of all my friends and felt a twinge of conviction that I do not share the same “Friday Feel-Good” sentiments.  In fact, had I not read a dozen “TGIF’s” on Facebook, I wouldn’t have known what day it was.  Of course, I can’t tell people this (and yet, here I am sharing freely with everyone and blogging about it too, which probably makes me look both pessimistic and contradictory).  So, before I lie and post “Amy is ready to get her Friday on”, I have to stop and explain why I’m not quite in the “Friday Spirit”.  It actually has nothing to do with Friday at all.  The negativity I have stems from a deeper emotional and physical drain called “Summer Vacation”.

For the past two-and-a-half months my oldest has been out of school (and my middle child has been out of preschool).  We have approximately three-and-a-half weeks left of summer break, and I’m literally counting down the days, hours, and minutes until I can shuffle Sydney out the door for the day!  I had activities planned and prepared for the majority of June and July, but by the time August rolled around I was out of both creativity and money.  This is not to imply weakness or lack of capability on my part.  As I looked ahead to the hectic fall schedule we would soon be jumping into - the endless car trips to and from school, church, ballet lessons, playgroup, etc. - I surmised that a little August down time would be beneficial to us all me.  I’m so excited, not just for Sydney to head off to school (and Brooklyn off to preschool), but also for fall in general.  However, while trying to take care of myself in preparation for September, my intense and activity-driven firstborn is starting to climb the walls.  Our needs are butting heads, and nobody is happy.

Don’t get me wrong.  There have been quite a few wonderful highlights we’ve shared while the kids have been on break.  We spent a couple of days at the coast: playing in the sand, making homemade pizzas, staying up late cuddling and watching movies into the wee hours of the night; we’ve gone swimming, participated in camps, had play dates and sleepovers.  It’s been great.  We’ve connected, made memories, and bonded as a family.  However, August is here, and Mommy wants to slow down.  Mommy doesn’t want to race to the park and pool multiple times a day.  And I find it difficult to relish in “Friday” when there really isn’t anything that differentiates Friday from any other day on the calendar right now.  Each day sort of blends in to the next, and I am so looking forward to the structure of school, the rigorous weekly schedule, and multiple activities for the simple reason that Friday will, once again, mean more to me than just another day.

As my need for rest and the need of my first grader to be active collide, I wonder if there is hope in getting through the final weeks of summer vacation.  Alas, one survival skill I have learned is to give her lots and lots and lots of things to do.  When I start to see that glimmer of misbehavior gleam in her eye, I give her a cleaning rag and send her off dusting.  When that is done, I task her to sweep the floors downstairs (which she is doing at this very moment), organize her drawers and bedroom toys, etc, etc.  If it means my desk being dusted daily for the next couple of weeks, rather than a whining and disruptive Sydney, I’m okay with that.  I’m finding that her boredom could possibly work to my advantage, ie: a clean house.

So, here’s my honest to goodness Friday Facebook status update: “Amy is conjuring up multitudes of chores for her kids to do today to beat the Summer Break Blues”.  Tomorrow may possibly look exactly the same, and the following day, and the day after that until finally all the World Wide Web will read, “Amy is celebrating the beginning of school and the return of TGIF” (“TGIF” meaning “Thank God Its Fall”), with a spotless house no less.  Until that day comes, I will have to live with the feeling that I am nothing more than a “Friday Scrooge”, keeping that only to myself (and every one who reads my blog), while wearing the façade that I, too, love Fridays and the opportunity to spend another glorious and magical summer day with my children. 

Oy vey – bring on fall!

By the way, I'm not the only one in this scenario who is longing for summer vacation to end.  Daily, both of my girls ask me how many more days until school starts.  We're all in this together.

"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"!

Blemishes

I am very freckly and I have moles.  The freckles are a result of many years of baking in the sun without sunscreen.  The moles?  Could quite possibly be blamed on the sun too, or maybe its just genetics.  I don’t think much about these physical blemishes very often.  That is, until my children so innocently point them out.  Brooklyn feels the need to pray for the mole on my eyelid (it’s inhabited that spot since I was a young child) every night at bedtime.  Jackson thinks my freckles are “boo boo’s” and points that out to me on a daily basis, “Mama…’boo boo’.  Mama…’boo boo’.”  He has even tried to pull the mole - that sits slightly above my upper lip - off with his little fingers.  Try as I may to convince these dear little ones that these are not, in fact, “boo boos”, they continue to insist that Mommy has been wounded in polka dots, and requires much prayer.  

I have cowlicks that run all the way across my hairline in the front.  If I allow my hair to dry naturally, it would literally dry in three different directions.  Thus, my need to both blow dry the fringe in front and utilize a curling iron.  On the rare occasion that I have failed to do so, my firstborn is quick to notice, and matter-of-factly informs me, that something is wrong with my hair.  Mornings before showering are the worst.  The looks I have received from all three children while wearing a mop of bed head upon my crown are priceless.  I’ve even been known to scare my own son with my direction-challenged hair. 

Then there are the physical side effects of birthing three children.  My skin sags…everywhere.  I’m a pretty thin person, so it’s not the extra baby pooch that I’m experiencing, but mostly it’s my skin that hangs and droops.  I keep telling myself, “When the kids are all in school I’ll start working out and toning up.”  I figure I have a couple more years until Jackson, two, heads off to kindergarten.  I guess the saggy skin will have to wait.

I could fill quite of few pages with a long and tedious list of all my physical blemishes (for example, my girls emphatically ask me to PLEASE put make-up on – it’s a good thing I have a pretty solid sense of self otherwise I might fall to pieces), but I won’t.  It isn’t necessary, and after a while becomes depressing.  I neither want to depress you or myself, so I’m thinking I should stop right here with the self-deprecation.

Kids say the darndest things – yes, they sure do.  But when they say something sweet and profound, we pride them with innocent and sincere honesty.  For instance when Sydney says to me, “Mommy, God is shining on me right now,” as she awakens to streams of sunlight pouring on her face.  Or when Jackson cups my chin in his two-year-old hand before we head out the door and says to me, “Mama, pretty.  Mama, pretty.”  And then at bedtime as I’m saying goodnight to Brooklyn and she looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Mama, I just lub you.”  My heart wells up with pride and affection.  Yes, children are honest, very honest.  While taking their criticism can be somewhat daunting - because more often than not they are absolutely dead on – I, too, can take their affirmations.  If they are honest in one thing, then I can trust they are honest about other things too (minus the, “Who’s responsible for this mess?” and of course, no one ever is).

So, the next time I’m cuddling with my three mini-stooges and one of them makes the insightful observation that Mommy’s legs are prickly, I’m just going to keep smiling.  If I can learn to laugh at myself, and my many blemishes, then my kids will learn that imperfection is fine and normal.  And when one of my “babies” tells me that I am the most “beautifulest” mommy in the world, again, I’ll pull that sweet face close to mine and kiss both chubby cheeks!  The “joy” of motherhood that many of us speak about is not just watching our children coo and smile, but the “joy” comes from experiencing life through their eyes.  The good.  The bad.  The ugly.  They will most certainly have something to say about it.  And most of the time their words will bring the biggest, warmest smile to a mother’s face, only if we’re willing to accept the truth of both blemishes and beauty from the perspective of a child.

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

Heatwave

It's been hot.  Hot, hot...HOT!  The Great Northwest has been experiencing a record breaking heatwave, and we have been in survival mode.  When we realized that the Ziploc baggies filled with ice, and stripping down to our undies while sitting on the floor in front of a fan wasn't working for us anymore (ice was melting faster than we could keep the baggies filled), it was "pack the bags and over the river and through the woods to my husband's parents' house we go".  They graciously, and I mean GRACIOUSLY, opened their home to our brood of wild animals, and we've been camping here for most of the week.  They have air conditioning...we don't. Why, you may ask, don't we have A/C?  Well, apparently "out here" A/C is not considered a necessity, thus they do not build homes with air conditioning in them.  We bought our home four years ago, brand new, and if we wanted to have A/C it would have cost us several thousand dollars more to have it installed.  Since simply buying the home was miracle enough for us, scraping up an additional three thousand dollars wasn't going to happen anytime soon.  Joel and I are pretty adaptable people too, and figured we could buck up for the one week of summer weather we get per year. 

We've managed to survive the past three summers of upper 90's/low triple digit summer highs, but not this year.  "Grumpy Amy" just couldn't take it anymore.  I can't do the whole "human jungle-gym" when the indoor temp is registering close to 111*.  My whole M.K. heritage (and pride of growing up in Africa) has flown right out the window, and I haven't once felt guilty about it.  Nope, as I sit here with the cool breeze of air conditioning gently blowing on my neck, I do not feel an ounce of regret, failure or shame.  Me and my clan are happy campers, and I couldn't be more content.

This blog post, while completely random and seemingly pointless, is mostly a "shout out" to my in-laws.  They have spared my husband and children from the wrath of "Grumpy Amy", which is a priceless gift to all of us.  Times like this are a huge reminder to me of how absolutely blessed I am to have such a sweet and generous family.  While the heatwave is blasting it's way through the Great Northwest, we are "shiny, happy people" sittin' pretty in a home full of (not just) love and blessed (oh sweet blessed) air conditioning.

Time for a nice cool glass of lemonade...

Wonderwear, Diamonds and Bedtime Prayers

Bedtime is quite possibly my favorite time of day.  It’s not because I know that once the kids are tucked in and squared away for the night I get a couple of hours to myself.  I love bedtime because it is during those last few minutes before my little ones drift off to sleep that we share our most special and intimate moments together.  After stories have been read, the girls crawl up into their beds and wait for Mommy to come to them individually and pray.  Because this is such a sweet time for us, I utilize it as a way to teach them memory verses from the Bible, and shower them with words of affirmation.   

Listening to the girls recite back to me a verse we have been working on is truly a precious thing, even if some of the words get a little mispronounced.  For instance, the other night I was sitting on Brooklyn’s bed and it was time for her to do her memory verse.  Here is Psalm 139:14 according to Brooklyn:

“I praise you…dee-cause…I am fearfuuuulleee…and…wonderwear…oops…(a-hem)…wonder-fly made.”

Another night I was talking to Sydney about her day.  She had been such a helper, and I told her what a blessing her assistance was to me.  She smiled big and then went on to tell me how she was able to make good choices.  She described it this way:

Sydney:  “Mommy, God put a diamond inside of me.”

Me:  “Oh really?”

Sydney:  “Yes!  A big, beautiful diamond!  It was super shiny and shined a light for me to see how I could be a good girl today!”

Moments like these I want to hold on to forever.  While there will always be challenges in parenting, as I work hard to guide and direct them along the right path, I certainly don’t want to overlook the successes we’ve had.  I do a pretty good job of beating myself up over all the mistakes I make throughout the day, however when I hear my girls talk about God, and how much they love Him, I know I must be doing something right.  I’m an imperfect parent, but I serve a perfect God who also guides and directs my steps throughout the day.  As He is working in me, I am working on the lives of my little ones – one bedtime prayer at a time.

Got Goo?

One of the many things “motherhood” has taught me is that you have to have a strong enough stomach to deal with all of the ‘goo’ that these little bodies produce.  Whether it be the leaky poopie diaper or the nose that perpetually runs like Niagara Falls, mom has to be prepared to deal with whichever end the goo is coming from.  After six years of motherhood, I’ve earned my ‘goo badge’, and I wear it proudly.  I’ve cleaned poop off walls, cribs, clothes and hair (my own).  I have an entire collection of shirts that have religiously been used as Kleenex, as well as cleaned, caught and been covered in vomit.  Oh yes, I’ve earned my badge.   

Goo is simply a part of parenthood.  I remember looking lovingly for hours at my sweet and precious firstborn.  I have hundreds and hundreds (no exaggeration) of pictures and films documenting every move she made and nearly every outfit that chubby body ever wore.  And as much as I was enraptured in the beauty of new motherhood, I too was inducted into a whole new realm of mommy-ness that is not often discussed – the ‘goo’.  Sydney, child number one, spit up on anything and everything (she had impeccable timing and every suit my husband owns has worn the “Spit Up Badge of Honor”).  The reason I have so many pictures of her in various outfit ensembles is mostly due to the fact that I had to change her clothes multiple times a day due to the spit up.  And that does not even cover the amount of poop her itty-bitty body could produce!  You realize, even before leaving the hospital with that sweet bundle of baby, that with every coo and gurgle there comes a lot of goo.

 

So, I can handle my kids’ goo:  I can wipe the green goobers from my son’s nose without flinching and clean vomit from my daughter’s hair with my bare hands.  I’ve got the goo covered.  However, I have to confess, I cannot…(let me say that again)…I CAN NOT stomach other children’s goo.  I have no tolerance for it.  If the child is not genetically connected to me, I really don’t want to have anything to do with his runny nose.  I learned this from working with preschool age children.  I was passing out craft items to a group of three-year-olds when one adorable little girl called me over.  She started to hand me something saying, “Teacher.”  I opened up my hand to receive the mysterious item in her fingers.  Before I realized what ‘it’ was, her ‘gift’ was already in my hand as she said, “Teacher, its my boogie.”  Lovely.  This scrumptious, frilly three-year-old girl just handed her booger to me, and now it is sitting in the palm of my hand.  Did I want to vomit?  Oh yes I did.  I quietly excused myself and went to the bathroom to disinfect my hand.

Just the other day, after both my husband and I had been volunteering at a sports camp that our church hosted, we were talking about some of the funny things the kids had done.  My husband, Joel, shared with me that a little preschool boy picked his nose and proceeded to wipe it on my husband’s arm.  The very arm I had been holding and caressing so lovingly on the drive home, mind you.  Promptly I made him go and wash his arm in one bathroom while I went to another and washed my hands.  Ugh.  I just can’t deal with foreign goo!

What’s my point in all of this?  Well, as humorous (or disgusting) as recounting all of the “gooey” stories is, I just have to ask one thing:  Do we not all carry some kind of ‘goo’ around with us?  I’m not talking about spit up and poopie diapers.  I’m talking about those things we hide because we know that other people simply can’t handle our ‘stuff’, and if we share it we may end up rejected.  I know for certain that nobody is perfect, just as I know there is no such thing as a baby without goo, precious as they are.  Thankfully God takes us – ‘goo’ and all.  He doesn’t shame us or run to the bathroom to wash His hands after touching us.  No.  God receives us just as we are.  When I’ve messed up and wondered if there is any hope of redemption for my soul, I know that in the presence of God the goo is wiped away and He is looking lovingly at me – the person – and not at all of the stuff I’ve brought with me.  God doesn’t care about where the goo came from or to whom it belongs.  He simply cleans it up and restores us back to cleanliness.  He doesn’t judge.  He doesn’t wish we would stop coming to Him a gooey mess.  He loves.  He adores.  He sees the most precious part of us, and He longs to continue to bring out the best in each of us.  How thankful I am that my ‘goo’ doesn’t make my Heavenly Father sick to the stomach. 

Do you have ‘goo’?  Are you afraid to expose the most “icky” part of yourself for fear of rejection?  Let me please put your fears at ease and let you know that we ALL have ‘goo’.  Every single human being on this planet has ‘goo’.  No one is exempt.  The key to goo removal is not found in buying a Costco size box of baby wipes.  The key is going to God, exposing the ‘goo’ and receiving His forgiveness and love.  If you’ve got 'goo', God’s got grace.  And He’s waiting patiently, with open arms, to embrace and accept us - goo and all.

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!

A Best Friend For Brooklyn

Brooklyn has been feeling a little sad lately.  Almost daily she will tell me that she is lonely because she doesn’t have a best friend.  I empathize with her and try to listen to her sweet four-year-old heart express this longing for a best friend.  One day, I told her that I understand how she feels.  I, too, have no best friend in my life right now.  She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Yes you do, Mommy!  You have Daddy.  Daddy is your best friend.”  How true, and what a profound observation on her part.  While I could argue with Brooklyn about the difference between a girl best friend and the best friend I have in Joel, I decided it was best to simply drop it and listen to her.   

It’s amazing to me - this innate need in us girls to have a best friend, even at four-years-old.  There is a definite void in our lives when we don’t have that special ‘gal pal’ to pour our hearts out to.  We can have the most loving, supportive and loyal husband in the world – which I am so blessed to have – but even with all those wonderful traits, there is something missing without a girlfriend. 

As I listen to Brooklyn everything in my ‘mommy’ fiber wants to fix her problem, find her a friend, and make her happy because I hurt when I see my children feeling sad.  I know what it feels like to be lonely, and I hate to see my kids, whom I love dearly, experience that kind of emptiness.  At the same time - while the motherly urge to rescue and relieve runs rampant in my soul - I know at some point my children must experience this pain, and I know that Brooklyn will not be lonely and best friendless forever.  (In fact, out of all three of my children Brooklyn is the one I worry about less in this matter.  She is truly a happy, bubbly, friendly and “doesn’t know a stranger” kind of girl.)

All that to say:  I am working hard (daily) to look at the lives of my children through a bigger lens.  How will they look ten/twenty some years from now?  If every time Brooklyn cries because she doesn’t have a best friend, and I jump to her aid, how will she manage loneliness when she is a teenager?  How will she cope as a twenty-something and out on her own?  Will I still need to set up play dates for my twenty-four-year-old?  (I know - highly unlikely - but do you see my point?)  It is okay for Brooklyn to feel lonely.  It is okay for her to feel sad.  As her mom, and as one with many years of knowing what loneliness feels like, I also know that these feelings - these experiences - are temporal.  Eventually God brings a best friend, sometimes more, into our lives.  God created us for relationship.  He knows how much we need and desire real friendship.

God also knows loneliness.  He has felt the pain and carried the burden of being completely alone and abandoned.  Brooklyn will probably never experience the kind of loneliness that Christ felt, but she will indeed go through seasons of heartache and longing for a friend.  The best thing I can do for my sweet, little girl is to allow her to feel this kind of sadness, resist the instinct to fix her problem and listen - ever so empathetically - to her heart’s cry.  Just as God turns His compassionate ear to me when I break down in a heap of lonely tears, I can listen to Brooklyn.  God, who knows what is best for me, and knows that these seasons never last a lifetime, is teaching me to look at my child’s situation in much the same way.  There are times when it is not about facilitating and fixing, but it is about listening and empathizing. 

So, the next time Brooklyn comes to me and tells me that she is lonely and wants a best friend, I will listen.  I will love her and empathize with her, knowing that her best friend is right around the corner.

The "Stuff" In My Purse And A Trip To Barnes & Noble

I reached into my “mom bag” yesterday searching for a pen.  I knew that, somewhere in the deep recesses of my gianormous purse, there was a pen to be found.  In my search, I discovered a collection, of sorts, that has been accumulating in my bag:  One strawberry ponytail holder, a Lightning McQueen matchbox car, children’s plastic sunglasses, a stuffed monkey, a silk rose, and a miniature leopard purse.  Needless to say, finding my pen took a little longer than anticipated.   

How does this happen to an organized and meticulous perfectionist?  I hate clutter and yet, my purse is filled to the brim with mini racecars and stuffed animals; it’s like the “City of Lost Toys” in there!  Not only does this excess stuff hide my essentials and turn me into Mary Poppins pulling out everything aside from the kitchen sink, but they weigh my purse down so that I feel like I’m carrying a five-pound baby around on my shoulder. 

I guess I could always downsize and use a smaller purse, but I really like all the extra space I get with my “mom bag”.  Plus, it’s very trendy, and I’m all about being trendy.  (Note: I’m “Wearing” Children.)

Another option would be to prohibit my children from putting anything inside my purse, but I can tell you right now- that is never going to work.  I’m a mom.  Moms have purses…big ones, and their kids know it.  They know that mom probably has a band-aid in that massive shoulder bag, along with a quarter for offering and extra paper for doodling.  Plus, the “mom bag” has to be available for toting all those miscellaneous playthings.  Who else is going to make sure those sacred toys make it home in one piece? 

After thinking about it for a bit, I realized the key to this “problem” I’m having is for me to daily unburden my “mom bag” of all the extra stuff.  It’s as simple as that.  There will be plenty of opportunities for my purse to be filled again the next day, but at least it won’t be adding clutter to clutter.

This got me thinking about God and the stuff in my own life – the never-ending clutter that amasses itself in my thoughts, my desires, and my heart.  I seem to collect all kinds of unsightly things such as:  Impatience, a critical spirit, jealousy, comparing myself, negative self-talk, laziness, fear - it’s a pretty nasty list.  Then there are the distractions that also jumble up and leave my life a mess:  Finances, unreached goals, blocked goals, searching for significance.  I find that I can so easily get bogged down with all of these that even when I am supposed to be having my quiet time with God, I end up thinking about all my “stuff” instead. 

Which brings me to today.  I love Barnes and Noble.  I love walking through those tall double-doors and instantaneously coming face-to-face with shelves upon shelves of books.  I have a little ritual I do every time I go to this beloved bookstore.  First, I head straight to the Starbucks in the back of the store and purchase my grande, soy, caramel macchiato.  Then, with a yummy coffee drink in hand, I start weaving my way through the various sections of the store until I reach the Bargain Books.  If I can find something particularly interesting for $5.98, then I’m sold and ready to hunker down on one of the soft and cushy B&N chairs with my newly found treasure.  Today was no exception as I headed towards the bargains, perusing the shelves of various topics and genres along the way.  I was on the hunt for something thought-provoking and engaging and somehow managed to end up in the “Self-Improvement” aisle.  I was dizzy with awe as I skimmed through a myriad of book titles claiming to hold the secrets to a fulfilling life:  “Rich Dad’s Guide to Financial Success”, “Personal Development – All-In-One for Dummies”, “Oprah’s Big Book Of Happiness”, “Live What You Love”, “Plato Not Prozac”, “How To Improve Your Marriage Without Talking” to name a few. 

Rather than feeling inspired to snatch one of these books up and take it home with me, I walked away feeling heavy-hearted.  There are literally hundreds of authors and book titles offering techniques and step-by-step processes to find inner-peace and fulfillment in life.  And really, the only thing these books end up doing is creating yet another pile of clutter.  It’s not just me; everyone is looking for something:  Personal satisfaction, fulfillment, a life-calling.  We are a society lost and internally dry and empty.  There are a lot of sad people in this world, and not sad because they have no food to eat or no roof over their heads; they are sad because they have too much of all those things, but lack peace.  We run ourselves ragged searching for “that one thing” that will complete us and make us whole.  Usually, “that one thing” is clutter.

I sat in a chair holding my Starbucks and began processing both my pen search from yesterday and my book hunt of today.  I was feeling rather convicted regarding the “stuff” in my life that God was bringing to mind.  In all the countless times I worry, fret, and react in a state of panic, I’m not being very godly.  It doesn’t matter if I wake up at 5:30 in the morning to spend time with God when I fritter the time away thinking about how unfulfilled I am.  This junk leaves my heart and soul in disarray rather than drawing my heart towards God.  I think about all of those “self-help” books, and they do exactly the same thing.  They don’t point towards God; they keep pointing to self.  Upsetting to me was that, as I skimmed through a couple of these books, I found at no place did they touch on finding fulfillment and meaning beyond satiating one’s own desires. 

I’m not about completely emptying my purse because there are some pretty essential things in there.  If I were to follow the advice of many of these self-help gurus, I would end up completely empty, as though I had completely dumped all the contents of my purse out on the floor.  What I’m shooting for is removing the “stuff” that bogs me down and keeps me from living life to the fullest.  I don’t want to be empty.  I want to be full, but full of the right things – the best things.  When I need to find something, I don’t want to sort through a bunch of junk in order to find it. 

Philippians 4:6-9

“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.  Finally brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.”

The things I want in my “purse” are those that are true, noble, right, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy.  When I allow the clutter to pile up, it takes such a long time to find the truth.  When fear becomes another pile in my heart, and I don’t dump it immediately, then I end up anxious and worried.  While there are certain things I may struggle with for the rest of my life, I don’t have to let them stick around.  It just means I must continuously empty my “purse” - my life - of the clutter and allow the peace of God to settle inside and fill the contents with all that is excellent and praiseworthy.

This is no small task, both literally and spiritually.  It will require much discipline on my part, but God is faithful.  I don’t need to run to Oprah to discover happiness and a guide to life.  I just need to run to God, to His Word, and hide it in my heart.  It is when I do this that I will find the pen I’ve been searching for and the peace that transcends all understanding.

When God Doesn't Make Sense

The other morning I sat around a table drinking coffee and solving the world’s problems – like Clairol versus L’Oreal - with fellow stay-at-home moms.  We shared candidly about our various hair coloring nightmares:  One woman experimented with an alternative brand only to end up with green hair – she was a blonde originally.  Another was visiting family in Norway and was cajoled into trying something “new” which, surprise, turned out to be bright red.  I was very daring too, fifteen years ago, and tried dying my hair “deep brown” (my natural hair color is dark brown – I’m such a risk taker!).  The “deep brown” I was going for transformed my dark brown hair to a horrifying jet black.  I looked like Morticia from the Addams family.     

We laughed with each other (and at each other), sipping our coffee drinks, sweetly enjoying our moment of female bonding.  The conversation easily and naturally moved on to something about children:  who wants more, how many more, any plans for more, etc, etc, etc.  Almost effortlessly the discussion took on a more serious tone as one woman began to open up and share her reasons for having only one child.  Her story so deeply touched my heart that it is all I have been able to think about for the past week.  It’s late, my own little ones are all tucked into bed, and I am finally finding the time to put my thoughts into actual words.

This beautiful mom had tried for years to conceive, and finally at age thirty-eight, had a baby girl.  It wasn’t but a few days after she left the hospital from giving birth that she developed a sharp pain in her side that wouldn’t go away.  She was quickly diagnosed with cancer and began treatment immediately.  The chemotherapy, while successfully wiping out the cancer, also succeeded in destroying the rest of her eggs.  She suffered from chemo-induced menopause.  As she opened up and recounted the fears and moments of weakness and questioning God, my heart was overwhelmed and drawn to her. 

Another mom entered the conversation, relaying her own story of losing a baby in her third trimester, and due to complications, had an emergency hysterectomy…at age twenty-six.  She had already been blessed with two healthy children, but the pain of this loss, both baby and hysterectomy, was staggering. 

Both women - diverse in their appearance, backgrounds and age – echoed the same conviction:  God was with them through the entire journey, and it was only God who could bring them through.

Amazing.  So often I am prone to shake my fist to the sky when I see something happen that doesn’t make sense to me, or doesn’t fit in my little boxes of what is fair and what is not fair.  I get angry when I don’t understand the “why” - even more so when there is no apparent “why”.  I can become introspective and sorry for myself because I feel cheated that I lost one too many years to depression and an eating disorder.  Then, almost blind-sided, my eyes are opened wide to the suffering of others.  I cringe at my self-preoccupation.  There is so much pain in this world, and again, I want to understand “why”.  Sometimes God just doesn’t make sense.

A brief thought was expressed, but as I have been processing I have drawn it out a little further:  It’s not so much that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.  He does, in fact, give us more than we can handle.  It is during those times when we are under the immensity of a difficult situation and we can’t possibly bear anymore, that God reveals His supreme greatness and strength and carries us through.  It is not in our strength – ever – but Christ in us that will empower us to cope with the hardships, sickness, loss and pain that we will all experience, to some degree, in our lives.

Jesus never promised us a rose garden.  He never guaranteed a life free from heartache and sorrow. 

John 16:33

“In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.” 

Jesus also insured that, though life may come at us in unsightly ways and take us down a road we weren’t prepared to walk, He is still working in us to produce an abundant life.

John 10:10

"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full."

It doesn’t make sense:  Living life to the fullest, yet facing a world of trouble.  God’s ways are so far beyond my tiny scope of vision.  I’m fiddling around with Crayola watercolor paints, and He’s looking at the masterpiece oil painting He completed long ago.  In my season of darkness and shadows, His hand made brushstrokes across the canvas of my life and created something beautiful and breathtaking.  The thief tried to take the essence of my friends’ lives and destroy any hope for a future.  Yet, I hear in their testimonies that, while there are still questions, still moments of weakness and doubt, that God is their sustainer.  When there was trouble, they had hope because God overcome that obstacle, and now they can live in the fullness of Him.

It’s really not about making sense of God because, quite frankly, none of us ever will.  God will never be One of whom we can fully fathom or understand.  I will have “why’s” on a daily basis.  God may allow us to walk through the darkest season of our lives, and it may never make sense in earthly terms, but God is working on a masterpiece far grander than the here and now.  His ways are not our ways, but they are higher.  His thoughts are not our thoughts, but they are purer and wiser.  The world, in its sinfulness, may try to destroy us, but the One who holds the world in His hands is holding us too - steady and ready to breathe new life into our broken souls.

She's Come Undone (Almost)

I’m a crazy woman.  Being the “tech-novice” that I am – and by "tech-novice" I mean a person who lives in a constant state of fear that I am one keystroke away from crashing my computer – decided that not only would I start blogging, but I would also purchase and host my own domain.  So simple, I know (note the sarcasm in my voice).  The domain ownership was not exactly my bright idea.  A friend of mine encouraged me to consider this option, seeing that it could be a strategic move for me down the road.  My initial feeling was to wait, not because I didn’t believe my friend or see the wisdom in her advice.  I was mostly just plain scared to venture into the cyber-world – I am completely cyber-illiterate, you know.  However, after thinking it over for a few days, I resigned myself to the fact that this was, indeed, something I needed to do – sooner rather than later.  So, I took the plunge!

The “easy” part was purchasing the domain and rights to host (and I had a lot of help, too).  Next came the actual creation of the blog.  My brain hurt, my eyes hurt and, at this moment, my mental state is teetering on the brink of insanity.  I’ve pulled my hair, slapped my face, and grunted multiple times at the computer, smacking keys and stomping my feet.  It’s been quite the week.  It was when I started talking to myself in the third person that I decided I needed to take a break and do a little writing.  I didn’t want to unravel right before my children’s eyes, and I‘m a much sweeter mommy when I’m writing.

 As I’ve had a few hours to mull over the week’s events, working with my little sliver of “cyber-pie”, I came up with three lessons I’m learning through this process:

•  It is never as simple as “just click on this”.  One click leads to another click, which leads to another click.  You have to keep clicking until you reach your desired outcome.  And then, there are usually five more steps to take beyond that.  So, just keep on clicking - which leads to my second lesson… 
• Clicking on things will not, in fact, crash the computer.  It is actually a great way to explore, learn, and discover all the wonderful intricacies that cyber space has to offer.  Don’t know what “plugins” or "widgets" are?  Just click.
•  And lastly, while the process may be long and arduous, the end result is well worth it.  (I haven’t quite made it to “the end” yet, but I am highly optimistic that I am going to be very satisfied when I do, indeed, get there.)

 That said:  I just want to say a huge “thank you” to Amy, James, and “Hawkeye” (my new friend at godaddy.com).  You are my own personal “geek squad” – and by “geek” I am in no way insinuating that you are geeks.  You are all super cool in my book and have spared me from coming completely undone. 

 Break time is over, and now back to my blog…