Monday, March 29, 2010

Worry No More

I have a worrying problem. My dad had a perpetual "nervous stomach" while growing up, so perhaps it is hereditary.

I usually spend two hours up in the middle of the night or trying to fall asleep at the beginning of the night.

At first, I worry that my husband will fall asleep before I do.
If he falls asleep before I do, I won't be able to fall asleep because of his snoring.
If I can't fall asleep because of his snoring, I'll be absolutely exhausted in the morning.
If I'm absolutely exhausted in the morning, I won't function well in the morning.
If I don't function well in the morning, I won't get in a good work out.
If I don't get in a good work out, I'll be cranky.
If I'm cranky, I'll have a short temper with my kids.
If I have a short temper with my kids, we'll all be upset.
If we're all upset, the complaining will start.
If the complaining starts, the homework will take longer.
If the homework takes longer, the kids won't have time to play.
If the kids don't have time to play, my "to do" list won't get done.
If my "to do" list doesn't get done, I'll be stressed out.
If I'm stressed out, I won't be able to sleep.
If I can't sleep, my husband will fall asleep before me.

I should, by God's grace, be able to replace each and every "If" with one, simple "Because."
Because God is faithful, I can trust in Him.

Photos from Family Day







We had a family day last Thursday and decided to try the City Museum. Aside from losing two out of three of our children for several minutes at a time, fighting over whether or not to attend the magic show, getting my way and entering the magic show only to leave two minutes later because our two year old climbed up on stage, enduring a severe temper-tantrum because taking the balls hostage from the ball pool is not allowed, having to stop the train in the middle of the ride because someone's daughter panicked in the middle, and getting caught in a rain storm, we had a great time. If only every outing would go this smoothly.... :)

Tall Tales

My son is extremely gullible. For the last several weeks, he's been complaining about a scorpion that's been hiding in his bed. Due to the unwelcome creature, he has refused to use his covers. Instead, Jrod has requested a light, but itchy, wool blanket that barely covered him. I needed to do something about the situation.

So, one morning I came down the stairs and announced that I had caught the scorpion. He looked at me with big, believing eyes: "No way, mom! What did he look like?"

It was as easy as that. "Well, Jrod, he was green, but a nice green, not a mean green."

"Where did you put him?" I anticipated this question, figuring he would want to see the creature.

"In the toilet."

"Mom, you killed the scorpion!" This, I did not anticipate.

I thought quick. "You see, when the scorpions go down the toilet, they go into a river. Once they're in the river, they're safe."

"Oh, man, Mom. So he's going to come back!"

Good grief. This one was keeping me on my toes. "No, Jrod, he won't come back because he was a winter scorpion. You see, it's spring and almost summer now. So he's gone - he doesn't like the warmer weather."

"Great. Glad that's over." That night my son pulled up his covers....for the first time in a month.

Sometimes, I can't believe how easy it is. And sometimes after one of these tall tales, I wonder to myself: what is more disturbing? The fact that he believes every word I say or the fact that these fictional stories come so easily to me?

Tonight, once again, my son proved his absolute vulnerability and I proved my fictional creativity (for the sake of argument). I put curlers in Ella's hair for the first time, just to try something new. When I was finished, Jrod came downstairs and exclaimed, "Mom, what in the world is in Ella's hair?"

"Alien reactors, Jrod. You see, these help Ella to get a better sense of what the Aliens are saying."

Ella stood there very still. She is a rational child. A child with a conscience (which clearly does not come from her mother). I could tell that she was having an internal debate - do I tell him that these are plain old curlers, or do I tell him the sensation I'm getting from the Alien's messages?

After getting as close to Ella as he would allow himself, Jrod spoke up very cautiously: "Ella, what does it feel like? Do you feel it in your brain or is it just like sharp? " I couldn't help myself. "Jrod, she can't feel it, she can only hear them."

"Wow."

Ella couldn't take it anymore. "OK, OK, they're just curlers, Jrod. They just make my hair curly!" I suppose I should be thankful that when my husband is away, there is at least one adult in the house.

Jrod tilted his head and replied with a very simple, "Oh."

The funny thing is that I couldn't sleep last night. There was something bothering me that I couldn't shake. I tried to rationalize my absurd and ridiculous thoughts, but what if my worries had merit? What then? So, at 2:30 in the morning, I crept into my sons room, lifted up his newly used blankets and did a big swipe. No scorpions.

I deserved that wrest less night.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Accomplishments


My mom has been cleaning out her house. She's been deep cleaning out her house. Ella has been hearing about this cleaning out process and asked that I put in a special request: she wanted all the trophies that my mom has proudly displayed through the years that represent various accomplishments from her three girls.

I granted Ella the request, but under one condition. We were not going to take home all the trophies, just a few of mom's old ones. Ella looked at me, twinkle in her eye, and said she was totally fine with that. And there it was - one of those proud mom moments. One of those moments where you imagine your daughter thinking to herself: "Wow, my mom's cool." She wanted my old trophies. How cute.

Ella was willing to follow my stipulation; however, my mother was not. She brought over three garbage bags full of trophies and high tailed it out of our house. I had no other choice but to drag them into the living room and dump them on the floor. I told them they could each choose five trophies to keep. The rest were going in the trash.

Ella started crying. Oh the sentiment: "You can't throw these away! These are not trash! These are trophies!" And then the groveling begun. "Please, please mom don't put these trophies in the garbage! They'll just get crushed up and......"

"Fine!" I resented my choice, but I decided to up the number. They could each keep ten. Another proud mom moment. My two kids looked up at me with gratitude in their eyes. I could now hear my sons thoughts right in line with his sisters - "wow, my mom is so cool."

I thought it was ridiculous to keep twenty old trophies around the house, but I have to admit I had a sense of pride...they wanted something that represented their mom's "coolness" that I just knew was front and center on their minds.

Both kids began meticulously picking up each trophy, putting much thought into which ones they were going to keep. And here's how the next several moments went:

"Wow, mom! I can't believe you got this huge soccer trophy! I didn't know you could play soccer so awesomely."

"Yea, well, Jrod, that's auntie Bekah's trophy. But look at these...."

"Mom, this trophy is so cool. Look at how huge it is. I mean this is like the biggest trophy I've ever seen."

"Yea, well, Ella, it's not that big. And, um, that's Auntie Bekah's too." Once they stopped fighting over who would get this prized posession, something else caught their eye."

"Wow! Look at all these swimming trophies! You must have been the best swimmer ever!"

"Yea, well, kids were Auntie Erin's, but check out these...."

"Ella! Look at this one! This one is for basketball! Mom, you got a trophy for basketball?"

At this point, I was sitting on the couch with my arms folded. I wasn't going to answer the question. I wasn't going to tell them that the five basketball trophies also were my sisters. Yes, friends, I had a thirty-one year old temper tantrum. I was giving them the silently treatment until I finally came up with a plan. I began putting to the side all of my trophies. I then interrupted their "wow's" and "cool's" and called the room to attention.

"Guys," the pride was dripping from my voice, "look over here. These are all of mommy's trophies. Ella and Jrod, my basketball team may not have won state, I may have only lasted in soccer for one year, and I may not be able to swim a lap, but let me tell you, mommy could play piano duets. I really rocked. I mean, I could really play those concertos."

As soon as I finished with my "vote for mom" speech, I realized just how lame I sounded. My kids didn't seem too impressed by the miniture sized cups next to the grand soccer statue.

"Um, cool mom." I knew J-rod said it merely out of sympathy. So Ella chimed in, following her brothers lead: "Yea, mom, those are, um, cool."

At that point, I changed the rules. I told them they could still pick out ten trophies, but five of them had to be mine.

They started whining and complaining. They just had to have all ten of auntie E's and B's. They were just way cooler! After about thirty seconds, I stepped back from the situation and I started to laugh. What was I saying? Well, I know what I was saying, but really, was I actually telling my children they had to pick my piano trophies to display in their rooms? Yep, I was.

I regained my maturity and told them they they could pick whatever ten they wanted, just put all the rest in paper bags. It didn't take but another five minutes, and their chosen trophies were proudly put up in their rooms. Ella put them all over her dresser and stood in front of them with a sense of pride and satisfaction. Jrod put them all over his bed, telling me that they would give him good dreams.

Good Grief.

I went down stairs and took the rejected trophies to the garage. I kept three of my trophies for Lily....who I'm sure will very much want them one day....I'm just sure....

So, my dear sisters. My kids admire now everyday your great accomplishments and your magnificent awards. I will swallow my pride and clap my hands along side of my star-struck children. Just remember one thing:

I am the oldest. There are some accomplishments that are so great, they need no trophies or awards, and being the oldest is one of them. And I will remind this to Ella one day when her children are marveling over Jrod's gold medals and ridiculously sized gold men. So I hold my head up high and tell myself this one little lie: I am the oldest of three. Surely, my friends, they learned it all from me....

Friday, March 12, 2010

Personality Disorder (s)


My daughter sang a song at school last year entitled "Germs (My Invisible Dog)" Here are some of the lyrics:


"....I hide him in my pocket cause he's very, very small
Germs, Germs, my invisible dog
He runs like the wind, and he knows some funny tricks
He doesn't like carrots and spinach makes him sick
He loves cotton candy and purple lemonade
Oreo cookies and yellow Gatorade
I hide him in my pocket cause he's very, very small"
Germs, Germs, my invisible dog


When my daughter first sang the song to me, I did not respond like a normal mother. I did not tell her how cute it was or how funny it sounded; instead, I put on my serious tone and used the words to reinforce all of my lessons on hand washing, taking vitamins and eating vegetables. My daughter never sang me the song again.

I have a bit of a germ phobia (although my husband would take out the "bit of"). Last year my daughter was invited to a birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese. My poor child was the only one who brought in a birthday present AND a bottle of hand sanitizer.

My son just turned six and we threw him a movie themed birthday party. I set up the table with a red tablecloth, a real popcorn machine, paper plates, soda, and, of course, in the picture above you will notice a huge bottle of hand-sanitizer. No party is right without it.

Yes, I'm the crazy mom that takes out the anti-bacterial wipes and sanitizes the seats on the plane the few times we've flown with the kid.

I am, however, working on this. Instead of saying "no" to the mall's indoor, germ-infested, come and play and go home sick, play ground, I reluctantly give in and merely shower them with Lysol when their finished. I'm sensing improvement in this area.

I'm also working on another personality weakness - my lack of empathy. I'm not a naturally empathetic person. When my husband gets sick, he goes to his room, closes the door, and he knows not to come out again until all is well...literally. Every-once-in a while I will speak through the crack in the bottom of the door, just to make sure he's alive.

And I don't expect sympathy in return - I really don't. In fact, right before our company arrived last night, my back almost went out. I literally collapsed on the kitchen floor and for the next fifteen minutes, my family walked around (and over) me, going on with business as usual (except for my son who took one look at me, noticed I was helpless, and quick grabbed a cookie out of the pantry).

This lack of empathy can be blamed on one thing and one thing only - my childhood. My parents were good at so many things, but sympathizing with us was not one of them. My dad would often remind me that "Life's tough. So buck up."

In Kindergarten, I was playing on the playground with a friend. At one point, I told her to push me off a bouncy bridge so that I could "feel what it's like to fly" (this is another whole story). My friend agreed and then she pushed me. Not only was it not what I expected, but when I landed, I heard a crack. The teacher called my mom, and my mom brought me home. For one whole week (this is kindergarten, mind you) I was told to "walk it off." Finally, when I was literally crawling to the kitchen for breakfast, they took me to the doctor. And yes, my foot was broken, and I was in a cast for months.

I only missed one day of high school for being sick. In fact, I was playing in basketball games after a full day of school while I had bronchial pneumonia. Needless to say, sympathy was not an area that I was groomed in growing up.

Every once in a while, my germ phobia and lack of empathy comes to a head. This morning, at five a.m. to be exact, I had one of those moments. My daughter, Ella, had a big part in her classes chapel program. She doesn't talk much, but for three weeks I have heard every detail of the second grade skit. Ella had even been sleeping with the script.

Today was the big chapel day and she woke up sick. With tears in her eyes, she looked at me shaking and said "but I'm still going to chapel, right?" In that moment, I could do nothing else by lay next to my germ-infested daughter, breathing in all of her coughs and putting my arms around her little shaking body. And I cried with her. We talked about how God is in control and how there will be other plays. I sat with her until she dozed off.

When I walked out, I considered something. There are very few people in our lives that can, in an instant, change our personalities. But when it comes to my children, I can go from a dignified woman to a tea-drinking princess. I can transform from a productive housewife to a one-eyed pirate. And I can even change from a germ-feared, non-sympathetic person to a no gloves on, crying mom. Kid's tend to force these changes in us. And, well, most of the time, it's a good thing.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Home at Last

Rodney D Stortz
December 23 1949 - March 9 2003

Seven years ago today, my dad went home.

This last weekend my husband and I attended a Mission's Banquet at a church where my dad used to be the Pastor. I was tired and by the end of the evening was more than ready to go home. Just as I was heading out the door, I felt a tug on my arm. Reluctantly, I turned around to meet a teary-eyed woman.

“Katie, you probably don’t remember me. The last time I saw you, you were about five years old. But I wanted to let you know that your dad led me to the Lord. He also married my husband and me,” at which time she turned to point out a man that I recognized from years back.

This short encounter warmed my heart in a way like nothing else does. And this sort of encounter happens often, in two different ways.

First, like many others, my paths cross several times during the year with people who remember me as a child. They remember me running around our church sanctuary. They remember me sneaking into the basement and finishing off the bread and grape juice from communion. I run into people who remember that crayons and a whole lot of gum were the only ways I could make it through a sermon. People who remember that in 5th grade I suggested we put a leadership team in place for our children’s church. And I elected myself president. I also run into people who remember my sister’s and I playing “nobody can see us” around the church. A game that had a clear and definite objective – sneak into the sanctuary while the Korean church (who used our sanctuary in the afternoons) had their services. The first one to be “seen” was out. Somehow I always pulled out a win.

And yes, these people still, somewhat surprisingly, extend a hand or even a hug. In fact, as I sat down at the Missions Banquet Saturday evening, I extended my hand to greet an elderly couple sitting with us. In return she put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “It’s so good to see you, Katie! I was figuring out that I have lived through four generations of the Stortz family.”

I smiled (with what some have referred to as my “pastorly-wife smile”) and asked her to kindly remind me who she was. Still, I didn’t recognize the name, the face, or even the stories, but her sweet memories of my family made me smile. I just hoped she didn’t remember things like “nobody can see us.” However, I became curiously suspicious that she remembered these sort of on goings when she said: “My how you’ve grown and matured.”

But another part of this encounter happens equally as often - encounters with dear people who were touched by my dad. Most often their stories are about how his passion and love for the Lord affected their own spiritual journeys. I hear stories about how the radio program, Oaks of Righteousness, made an impact in one way or another. In fact, during the last visit I had to the ER, the nurse recognized the name on my license (I have taken Stortz as my middle name) and began what seemed like a long story about a question that she had answered from my father through the radio program. I don’t remember the details; I just remember my pain.

My relationship with my dad was special. As public of a figure as he was, I always felt like my family had our fun little secret….what dad was really like.

When I was in Jr. High, I had a friend ask me this question: “Just how long does your dad pray at the dinner table?” I’m sure she imagined us at home, on our knees, reciting the Lord’s Prayer, the Nicene Creed, and other corporate confessions. Of course, this wasn’t what it was really like. Here is what I remember most about my dad:

Dad was one of the most optimistic people I have ever known. When I’d be up late studying for a test, dad was the one who would enter my room and say, “you know, in twenty years, you’ll never remember the grade.” And he was right.

Dad was funny. He was very funny. His dry sense of humor came out mostly around his family. And Dad had a unique way of just saying it like it was. There was no beating around the bush with him. On my wedding day, dad drove me to the church and we had one of our “last” father to daughter talks: “Honey, just remember, you must always forgive the man [yes, he referred to Chris as “the man”]. He’s going to totally screw up. So start forgiving now.” I can laugh knowing that my Dad loved Chris as much as I do.

Dad was a character. He would take pictures of the new members in our church, print them out, and have me quiz him in the car. If he got one wrong, we had to start all over. Needless to say, I knew every cottin’-pickin’ name in our church.

Dad was a hard-worker. He never stopped. He really never stopped. He was late to bed and early to rise. I would find him in the mornings on his knees in his office praying for us and for the church. He would, however, slip in the occasional 30 second nap at stop lights. Friends, strange as it was, this memory is nothing but factual: We’d hit a stoplight. Dad would say “wake me up when it’s green,” put his seat back, and immediately he’d be out.

But of all the memories I have of my dad growing up and of all the lessons he taught me, there are two that will remain imbedded in my heart: His love for the Lord and His love for the Church.

In fact, he would be nothing short of embarrassed by all the attention I have given him in this little blog. He wanted nothing more than his life to point others to Christ. At one point during his three year battle with cancer, he took a walk outside and began praying. He recorded a prayer in his book, A Diary of A Cancer, asking God that if the end of his earthly life would mean further spiritual growth for his family and loved ones, then he would be grateful.

My dad and I were close and we talked about everything from sports to boys to politics. I knew with everything in my how much my Dad loved me, but I also knew I was not everything to him. Jesus was. He could not have left me with a better memory of someone who truly lived and breathed Jesus.

Dad also loved the church. Oh how he loved to be with God’s people in God’s house. He loved to worship and he loved to plan worship. This heart for Christ’s Bride affected me. I saw the delight in his heart for the ministries in the local church and it affected me. I also watched as my dad seized any and every opportunity to share the gospel – even with the cop who was writing out his ticket. Yep, dad led people to the Lord in strange but God-ordained circumstances. And all this affected me. It was through his example that the Lord brought me to Himself.

I am sitting writing this while my daughter has a piano lesson, from the same teacher who taught me. I’m sitting on the same couch where my dad used to sit and work on his sermons during my piano lessons. From one generation to the next, God is faithful. Lord, I thank you for the fifty-three years you gave my father and I thank you for the tremendous influence he had in my life. May we all strive to live each day in faithful obedience to our Savior, and may our eyes be consumed not with the earthly things that surround us, but by that which awaits us….our glorious and eternal home.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Just an Ordinary Day

I could never do my husband's job. He's good at what he does, and the demands on his day will always be beyond me. But, well, he couldn't do mine either.

Yesterday, my husband was left at home with Lily for three hours. When I got home, there was an audible sigh of relief. He could now "get something done." I rolled my eyes. Yes, I rolled them, but hey, I kept all commentary to myself.

Now, before you write me off as "that kind of wife," let me explain the way my day has gone thus far.

I took Lily downstairs this morning so I could fit in a run on the treadmill. The two others were still asleep, so I figured with AM cartoons on, and dolls in place, I would have plenty of time before the rush of the day began. So I flipped on the Today Show and began running.

Within fifteen minutes, my "plenty of time" was over. All three surrounded me in the storage room where our treadmill is located. I thought getting them out would be an easy sell: "Hey guys, Imagination Movers is on in the other room! You could totally watch that and play....at the same time." And yet, somehow, the humdrum of the treadmill was more appealing. Suffice to say, in order to get that run in I said I sad good-bye to Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera and instead watched with great anticipation at how the Imagination Movers were going to solve the dilemma of the day. In between cartoons, the kids became bored, and I was suddenly dodging balls, a game which they thought was hilarious until I explained to them the kind of horrible death their mother could die on this treadmill if they continued. I finished my run.

I needed a shower. Out went several toys and I told them mommy would be back in twenty minutes. Five minutes later, in waddles Lily. After throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn't allow her a bath, I pointed out a ladybug on the bathroom window. She cautiously walked over to it. I was so glad for this small gift from God. His little creation gained me five more minutes to shampoo.

As I watched, I noticed that Lily was no longer carefully curious about this little insect. She began to kiss it. I had considered that she might smash the insect, but I thought she'd have to be pretty deliberate to end it's life. Or so I thought. The next thing I know, the ladybug was in her mouth. I think I was late on the morning snack.

I quickly got out, pulled the ladybug out of her mouth, and sat through another temper tantrum (clearly she enjoyed lady bug taste) while trying to get dressed. And....enter the other two. We have a fairly large house, but for some reason they all three ended up with me....again. They came in with bathing suits asking if they could pretend the bath tub was a hot tub. Whatever....I needed to get ready.

Within five minutes, half the tub water was on the floor. They transitioned the game from "hotel hot tub" to "Ella needs to go to jail and Jrod will put her there." I told them to get out. Temper tantrum number three begins. It wasn't until the water in the tub began running out that Lily realized she wanted to get in.

Thirty minutes later I had a huge mess, a crying and kicking baby, and a dead lady bug. But I got in that shower.

It was snack time. I had an awesome snack prepared because I need some time to study. It's my turn to lead our Ladies Bible Study next week and I had done very little to prepare. So, I set out the snack and told them to quietly eat while mommy studied.

I sat down, took a sip of coffee, and opened my Bible. Almost picturesque if you didn't know about the chaos in the adjacent room. But onward I went....for three minutes. The snacks were devoured and the fighting had begun. I got up and chastised Ella for deliberately shoving her brother, but then told Jrod that if you're going to handcuff your sister, these things are going to happen.

I sat down, opened my bible and studied....for another ten minutes. The sudden crying was not an ordinary whine. Someone was in pain. And as I suspected, the two eldest did not heed my previous instructions and were continuing their arguments. Ella was still defending herself and Jrod was still trying to imprison her. This time Jrod figured he would try the shoving thing, and, like Jrod, Ella didn't take it well either. I sent them to Chris' office, told them to sit in silence until I returned, and then I shut the door. And begins temper tantrum number four.

Lily wanted into the office as well. For all she knew, that's where the party was located. I tried to explain that they had been bad, but the kicks on the floor and banging of the head signified that she was not in line with what I was saying.

So, I turned on her favorite CD: High School Musical (please, no editorial comments about this, thank you). As I suspected, she moved away from the door and began dancing. I sat down, opened my Bible and began to read....for another five minutes. I stopped in order to prevent temper tantrum number five. Lily wanted the music "up, up, up...." So, I turned it up. Again, I went back to my Bible and had a solid twenty minutes while "Get your head in the game" blared in the background. But....I got in a grand total of almost forty minutes of study.

I finally put my study to the side, turned off the music, and opened the office doors in order to have a good, long talk with Ella and Jrod. As soon as the doors opened, my little protege started at them. She pointed her finger and chastised them in her own little language. And, as she always does, she ended the tyrant with "Ella and J!" We all began laughing....uncontrollably.

I love my job. I really do. But expect an eye roll when you tell me what you CAN'T do.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Nothing Mindless About It


I've decided that my expectations need to be realistic when it comes to Kindergarten. In fact, I'm OK if I can at least be assured that in some way, shape, or form Jrod used his mind during the day. When I pick him up for school, I am usually assured of this....but not always in the most traditional ways.

Most days picking up Jrod from school is uneventful. Like many boys, he doesn't like to talk a whole lot about his day. "I forgot" is a common answer to my question: "what did you do today?" As I've mentioned before, he may think I'm clueless, but I don't let him in on my little secret that I'm not. That boy can remember every detail and just doesn't feel like talking about it. I'm usually OK with it - he'd much rather plan out the rest of his day, talk about what he's NOT going to eat for lunch, and flip through the Adventures in Odyssey's to decide which story to listen to next.

Every once in a while, however, Jrod gets in the car with a purpose. A grand purpose. And I know he's used his mind. Yes, every once in a while my son enters the car in carpool line ready to lay it out like it is.

For example, it was just a few weeks ago that Jrod got in the car, sat down, buckled up, and looked at me. He then declared: "Mom, you have got to get a job."

It's at times like these that I realize Jrod and I are a lot alike. You see, my hope is that my children will attend school to learn. And certainly this is the case, but I also know that Jrod treats school like I treat running - it's a time to solve all of life's little problems and dilemmas. When I run, my mind is clear and fresh, and for that hour, I come up with conclusions to problems that seem impossible. I dream up possibilities that are nothing short of exciting, and I see things in a whole new light. All is put back into perspective, of course, when I walk through my front door. As the saying goes, "Back to Life, Back to Reality." And suddenly my solutions to life's problems don't seem as brilliant.

Jrod goes to school and pays attention to the necessities, much like I pay attention to the cars around when I'm jogging, but for the rest of those three hours, my son solves all his dilemmas. On this particular day he was informing me of a conclusion that he came to that was much too important not to share.

"Jrod," I told him, "I have a job; a very important job."

"I know, I know. Take care of me. But mom, seriously, you need a real job - like Dads."

"OK, Jrod, if I got a job, who would pick you up from school?"

"Mom, we'd figure it out. This is just really important. I mean, mom, you have got to stop using Dad's money to pay for your police tickets."

It only took two school days for him to figure out how poor Dad was not going to go broke and end up on the streets because of mom's speeding tickets. Problem solved.

Today, I pulled up to the carpool line a few minutes late. When I drove up, I saw Jrod standing in the carpool line by himself with his teacher. I opened the door, he got in, sat down, buckled up and asked: "What was it this time, mom? Was there like totally so much traffic or did you just fall asleep on the couch?" Another dillemma solved: Figure out what mom does all day. Check. Surely mom was late because of some great catastrophe on the highway. And if not that, she fell asleep. Because, well, what the heck else does she have to do?

I began slowly but surely climbing my pedestal. I went on and on about how important my "job" is at home. And how he doesn't have to cook and clean, because I do. And how he doesn't have to worry about his daily schedule and snacks and school, because I do. And how mommy was late because mommy was spending the morning studying God's Word with the ladies in her Bible study. God's Word, for heaven's sake! If that's not an excuse for being late, I don't know what is!

I slowly stepped down from my pedestal, lowered the rear view mirror and saw Jrod playing his video game. "Did you hear me, Jrod?"

"What, Mom?"

I decided in that moment to leave my sons world alone. He'll figure it all out someday, and probably way too quickly. So for now, I'll send him to school knowing that he'll ponder some other crisis or dilemma and I will gladly listen to his conclusions on matters such as "why my best girl friend is taller than I am." He has yet to have a "walking through realities door" like I do after a run. But what does it matter? He's using his mind.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010



I married into U2. When I said "I do" to my husband, I said "I do" to the understanding that Bono would become a part of our relationship as well. I suppose it could be worse....I mean, it is Bono...and The Edge....and Larry....and well, Adam Clayton as well. Yep, my kid's learned "Vertigo" before Jesus Loves Me. And when Jrod rode in a car with some friends the other day, he asked them if they would mind turning on "Get On Your Boots."

My husband was a youth pastor for ten years. And while his impact spiritually on the lives of those he mentored was far reaching, some may have suggested that his love of U2 might have had an equally powerful impact. He created followers....of Bono that is. The above picture is a reunion of some of those followers. We went to a U2 concert last fall and I watched in awe as the group followed around Chris like royalty: Tell us, oh great one, where to find Bono, how to be close to Bono, where to go, where to sit....we will listen. Seriously, it was pretty much like that. The funny thing is, he was right on pretty much every move - we met the band, had the best seats in the house, and, admittedly, had a really great time.

So, we go again this summer. Another U2 experience. Chris delights in bringing friends who have never been to a U2 concert - they are some sort of a captivating audience for him. Thank you, Lisa and Bryan, for being captivated! :) This summer he has invited some more friends. Let me warn you, oh innocent friends of ours, once you've entertained this part of my dear husbands interest, you may never be the same again. Trust me - I married into U2.




My protege'


I have a mini-me. Her name is Lily. She's my third-born and the only one of the three that resembles me. I've noticed of late that she copies everything I do. I know this is somewhat typical of this age, but Lily handles the whole copying thing a little different than the other two did at this age.

When I raise my voice at either of the older two, there is a moments pause and then a strikingly sharp, loud, and stern ramble that follows. The only part of Lily's secondary admonishment that is ever understandable is the last word - either "Jrod!" or "Ella!"

I have secretly thought this to be cute. Until today. Today, we had a moment that took being a protege' to a whole new level. Today, Lily drew all over the hallway wall. In a sharp, loud, and stern voice I explained to Lily that you only draw on paper....not on walls. There was a moments pause, and then I experienced the most unbelievable thing. Not a cry, not a whine, not even a look of confusion. No, Lily pointed her little finger back at me and acted out my rampage....in it's entirety, and in her own language. I did, however, understand her concluding word: "Mama!"

So, I am currently working on re-directing my little protege's understanding of the way life works. As you can tell, this may take a long, long time.

Blessed, Blessed, Blessed

I recently had the opportunity to visit some refugee families with my husband. There were many things I was reminded about on this particular day, but one reminder stood out above all others: I am blessed. I am blessed beyond what I could have ever imagined. So, today I decided to reflect for a few quiet moments on some of the many things I am thankful for:

A warm house with space for entertaining
Three beautiful children who bring delight to my day and mess to my warm house
A husband who "gets me" when no one else does
My church and the role they play as my extended family
The ability and opportunity to play piano and lead in worship
The ability to run
The way my children get excited when Chris turns up "Bono" on the stereo
Sisters and endless conversations with them
Rainy days
Jrod's endless talking about his Wii games
The way Lily makes me smile when she dances
Ella's creative creations
Quiet time to write and reflect

I am thankful. I am truly and completely thankful.

"About Me"

For some reason, I always find it hard to fill out the "About Me" parts of blogs, facebook, or wherever you have a small space to explain to people exactly who you are. If you're anything like me, the struggle becomes what exactly to include in these boxes that supposedly explain, in some form or another, who the heck we are and what in the world we are doing that is significant.

So I struggle. At times I feel the need to include the fact that I'm a college graduate, that I graduated with a 4.0 in high school and college, and that I was a successful teacher for several years. But why? What does all that really explain "about me?" I mean, I couldn't regurgitate back anything today about Pythagorean theories or explain to you anything about writers from the 18th century. I could, however, tell you who was on the latest Sesame Street episode. Which brings me to another option....

Perhaps I should include what it is that I currently do with the majority of my time: Change diapers, drive carpool, complain about homework (yes, I do), and cook dinners that my children don't like. Throw in there reading about Ariel and Star Wars, building Legos that rock (if I do say so myself) and dancing to high school musical. I sneak in a couple of shows at night, but am usually asleep and drooling on our couch by 9:00 p.m. Hmm....maybe I'll go for option C....

Option C - the other part of my life that holds so much significance - being a pastor's wife. This label has it's own separate profile for those who are not regular church goers, or for those who have never had a relationship with their pastor and wife. A few years back, I was chatting with a women in our neighborhood who had just found out I was a pastor's wife. "I bet you have a lot of lace-collared dresses, huh." Huh? Huh, is right. I had no idea what she was talking about. And whether she was kidding or not, it didn't occur to me until later that evening that there is a certain box that ministry wives get placed in. In fact, if an average Joe Shmoe would put together a "wanted ad" for a pastor's wife, it might go something like this:

Wanted: Women who wears long dresses with heavy, lacy collars. She must be able to play piano, travel across the country to feed the poor (at least once a year), work in shelters on a regular basis with her well-behaved children by her side, smile incessantly, cook like Martha Stewart, keep a clean house (again, like Martha Stewart), be ready and waiting for guests to arrive at any moment, be able to put on fabulous coffees, and speak like Laura Bush. Oh, and she must attend and lead every ministry in her local church.
I honestly think there are those out there who think this way about their pastor's wives. And It is for this reason there is so much anxiety for those seminary wives anticipating their husbands future calling in the ministry.
But, alas, not only do I not fit in the "box," the label of a pastor's wife does not really tell "About Me" either.
About me - there are a few tidbits that I included in the small space on this blog that are not insignificant in anyway. But ultimately, there is one thing that defines my existence. I am a child of the King. I am who I am because of God's gracious and merciful provision in my life. I am imperfect and continually being sanctified. I am saved by Grace alone. This is who I am. Thank God I don't have to label it any other way.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Liar, Liar, pants on......


My son ran up the stairs yesterday, quite suddenly. He had been playing Wii in the basement. The boy will not, under any circumstance, leave his game unless one of his parents call it quits. In fact, Jrod would play all day long if we allowed it, but....we don't. So, running up the stairs in the middle of his game time....well, I knew something was up.

"Mom, I totally need new boxers. I mean, I've been wearing these ones for like weeks and weeks."

I often wonder if my children have actually concluded that their mother is stupid. I mean, I know that all children think it at one time or another, but I do think that at times they have simply decided on stupidity.

Jrod stood behind the door, so that all I could see was his head. If he wasn't such a sinner, he might have actually looked a little innocent in that moment.

I simply responded: "Jrod, why in the world did you pee in your pants?"

"Um, mom, I just tried, but I was running, or I was jumping, and it just, well....mom, how did you know I peed in my pants?"

It's common knowledge that mom's know everything.

It's also common knowledge that kids will lie. They will lie and see what happens, and apart from the Grace of God, they will keep doing it. And, unfortunately, adults do too. If we think we can get away with it, and if we deem it necessary, we are no different than my son popping his head around the door while trying desperately to hide his wet boxers.

So I shared a story with Jrod....

When I was sixteen, my parents allowed me to drive myself to church on Sunday mornings. As the pastor, my father was frustrated by my inability to get to church on time. Of course, I had many extenuating circumstances that caused this untimeliness (such as bad hair, my need for sleep, and a lack of what I thought were "good clothes") But my Dad wouldn't hear it. He finally declared one Saturday night: "you will be on time to church or you will no longer drive."

Suddenly, being on time was not a problem...or so I thought. Even the threat of my license being revoked couldn't get me to church on time. I was five minutes from church and I had one minute to spare. I sped down 141 as fast as I could and turned into the church parking -way too fast. Even faster than my turn into the parking lot was my turn into the parking space. BAM. I nailed the bumper of the suburban in front of me.

For a moment I simply sat there. While my life was flashing before my eyes, there was one vision I couldn't get out of my head....my parents.....driving me to school, church, sporting events, social events, the movies, dates....the list when on and on. I started to sweat. Seeing that I would already be busted again for being late, and that I had wrecked another car less than a month ago, I came up with a plan.

And yes, like my son Jrod, I had concluded in that moment that I was smart. Everyone else was dumb, but thank God - I was smart. So I decided I would park my car in the back of the church. Surely the suburban didn't have much damage - it's a suburban for heaven's sake, and I had a little beat-up Toyota. I would park my car in the back, assess the damage to the Suburban, and go from there. So, I put the car in reverse and parked it in the back lot.

Walking up the sidewalk, I kept one eye on the bumper of the suburban. It didn't look too bad from a distance. In fact, maybe it was only a scratch and a small dent. And really, who would ever notice that?

In less than a second, I went from feeling good about my smart idea to calling down curses upon myself for my utter and complete stupidity.

The driver's door to the suburban began to open. And I began to shake. The owner of the car, who had been sitting in his car during this whole episode, slowly got out and stood in front of me on the sidewalk. There was no card I could pull to get out of this one. I concluded that right then and there, my life would be over.

I did the only thing my body would allow me to do. I fell to my knees and started crying. To this day, I don't recall anything I said. In fact, I probably looked and sounded like a fool. The man calmly stopped me, helped me up, and said "It's OK."

In the midst of apologizing (and pleading for my life) the man said something to me that I will never forget: "You know it's wrong to lie. Katie, if you promise me that you will not lie again, then we will keep this accident between us."

Grace, Grace, Grace. Not that I didn't lie again, I am merely a sinner saved by that Grace, but God hasn't let me get away with it. In fact, quite unfortunately, I have many similar stories.

So, I will remind my children of the same Proverb that my Dad use to remind me:


Proverbs 19:5
A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape.
Jrod, go put your pants on. And next time....just tell me you peed.

The beginning

I have thought about starting a blog for a while. No particular reason to begin now other than the fact that I think in blog. I think about my day in stories and illustrations. So, instead of keeping a mental diary, I decided to go ahead and write down the many nuances that occur throughout my day and the thoughts, insights, and lessons that surround them.