Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Christmas Letter

Merry Christmas Friends and Family!

We hope all is well with you and yours.  The year 2014 has had ups and downs for the Polski’s, but we are grateful for good health in our immediate family; God has allowed us each to serve Him this year in several different ways and through various gifts and talents.  We’re thankful for a full year, and most of all, we’re thankful that God sent His Son to redeem us from our sin and pain.

We’re also thankful that Lily stopped sucking her thumb.  We truly wondered whether she’d give her future husband the same speech she gave us on the necessity of thumb-sucking.  And so, we decided that since she was old enough to become philosophical about it, she was old enough to stop.  As mentioned in a previous blog, because of a particular dental appliance, her thumb is no longer attached to her mouth.  And thanks to the dental appliance, mom has listened to lily talk more in the last couple of months than ever before. 

Because Lily’s lack of thumb sucking and increased talking capability came to mind when I thought about 2014, it occurred to me:  we need to write our 2014 family Christmas letter…for each other.   So, that’s what we did.  Here are the questions that were asked and the answers that were given by different members of the family (with a bit of *necessary* commentary from mom): 

The Questions: 
1.  If this person were an animal, what would they be and why? 2.  If this person had three hours to have fun, what would they do?  3.  If this person was finished with their work or school work, what would they do?  4.  What is this person’s favorite meal that mom cooks?  5.  What one accomplishment this year would this person be most proud about?  6.  How would you describe this person’s day?  


Our answers about each other…                                                   

Jrod’s (10) answers for Dad…

1.  If dad were an animal, he would be a Gorilla because he’s laid back and calm…and a little big. (Our kids are nice to us like that.  Aging is particularly difficult with kids in the house.)    
2.  If dad had 3 hours of fun time, he would totally nap. 

3.  If dad was finished with his work, he’d nap. (It’s quite necessary to state that my husband does not spend the majority of the day in bed and enjoys multiple other activities that do not actually include a pillow.) 

4.  Dad’s favorite meal mom makes is chili. (The reality is that this is the one meal dad has perfected.   Mom has actually never made chili). 

5.  Dad would be most proud this year of preaching at Easter time. 

6.  Dad spends his day doing a lot of Bible study and sermon prep, and rests a little, and watches a TV show or movie, and goes to bed (Hmm….reality from a kid’s perspective….lots and lots of sleep and rest)

Lily’s (6) answers for Mom…

1. If mom would be an animal, she would be a flamingo because she looks very pretty and dances.  (I appreciate Lily’s compliment, but please feel free to refrain from imagining me doing flamingo type dances around our kitchen; I assure you this rarely happens.)  

2.  If mom had three hours to have fun, she would play with us.

3.  If mom was all done with her work, she would watch a movie and rest. 

4.  Mom’s favorite meal is a salad (of all the meals?)  

5.  Mom would be proud that she became a nice person this year (I really have no words). 

6.  During the day, mom cooks food, watches movies and rests. (Well, at least she acknowledges I cook.)             

Mom’s answers for Ella (12)…

1.  If Ella were an animal, she’d be a hermit crab because she likes to hide away in her room, coming out every once in a while for a little fun…or food. 

2.  If Ella had three hours of fun, she’d spend it with the band, One Direction. 

3.  If Ella had all her school work done, she’d listen to music and take a long, hot shower. (It’s the simple things that make this kid happy.) 

4.  Ella’s favorite meal that mom makes is French Dip Sandwiches. (Due to the disgusted look on my daughter’s face, this was apparently wishful thinking.) 

5.  The accomplishment Ella would be most proud of this year is making the Jr. High basketball team at Westminster Christian Academy. 

6.  Ella’s day includes waking up quite a bit earlier than she’d like (Ella is my night owl), going to school, playing sports after school, listening to One Direction until bed time, then dawdling for a good thirty minutes after bed time until she reads and falls asleep. 

Dad’s answers for Jrod…

1.  If Jrod were an animal, he’d be a fox because he’s sly and sneaky (candy wrappers hidden in an empty tissue box next to his bed might be…could be…an excellent example of this). 

2.  If Jrod had three hours of fun, he’d play Minecraft. 

3.  If Jrod was finished with his school work, he’d play Minecraft. 

4.  Jrod’s favorite meal that mom makes is butter noodles. (Why, oh why, do I slave over the stove, I wonder, when my kids sing my praises when I do things like throw a slab of butter onto a bowl full of cooked noodles?  Oh-vey.) 

5.  Jrod was most proud of making the select soccer team this year.

6.  Jrod’s day includes eating three or four very large bowls of cereal in the morning (I can attest to the truth of this due to visual proof and grocery bill proof), school, and he would include recess as a significant part of school, homework in the car, sports, violin practice, computer games, reading, and bed. 

Ella’s answers for Lily…

1.  If Lily were an animal, she’d be a Hyena because she’s loud. (Ella nailed this one!)

2.  If Lily had three hours of fun, she’d wrestle with her brother (and she goes back to this activity day after day in spite of rug burns, scratches, and bruises.  Like a lamb to the slaughter…). 

3.  If Lily was finished with her homework for the day, she’d try to annoy people (that’s an older sister for you). 

4.  Lily’s favorite meal that mom makes is boxed Mac and Cheese (again…no more slaving over meals…).

5.  Her greatest accomplishment has to be learning how to read. 

6.  Lily’s day includes waking up, going to school, coming home, eating a lot of food, watching movies, drinking a lot of milk and going to bed. 

The kid's answers about themselves…

Ella: 
1.  If I were an animal, I’d be a spider because they’re sneaky.

2.  If I had three hours of fun, I’d go to a One Direction concert. (What?  We were all terribly surprised by this answer.  Or not at all.) 

3.  If I was finished with all of my school work, I’d watch a movie (probably a movie about One Direction.  I’m just putting that out there). 

4.  My favorite meal that mom makes is Orange Chicken and Gooey Butter Cake (I’ve now decided there is some sort of conspiracy against mom.  The Orange Chicken that my firstborn is referring to is frozen and pre-packaged.  Heat and Serve.  Good grief.) 

5.  The accomplishment I was most proud of this year was making the basketball team at my school.

6.  My day consists of waking up really early, taking a shower, doing homework, eating, watching some TV & going to bed. 

Jrod: 

1.  If I was an animal, I would be an eagle so I could fly around (Jrod is definitely my free- spirited kid). 

2.  If I had three hours of fun time, I would have an airsoft gun war with my friends. 

3.  When I’m finished with my school work for the day, I like playing Minecraft.    
       
4.  My favorite meal that mom cooks is baked beans and Barbeque ribs. (He’s referring to the already marinated, pre-packaged ribs.  Heat and serve.)    

5.  The one accomplishment I’m most proud of this year is getting on a select soccer team (I'm going to add that Jrod also rocks at the violin). 

6.  My day includes school, games, shows, dinner & bed. 

Lily: 

1.  If I were an animal, I’d be an elephant because you can eat so much yummy stuff and spray water through your nose. (This answer describes Lily so well.)

2.  If I had three hours to have fun, I would jump on our trampoline. 

3.  When I’m done with my school work, I like to play with Jrod (While this sounds incredibly sweet, there are times when money is exchanged in order for one person to play with the other.) 

4.  My favorite meal that mom cooks is chicken and spaghetti (this is the closest acknowledgment to an actual meal that I have made.  Thank you, Lily Joy). 

5.  I am most proud that this year I learned to be nice to my friends (I’m sincerely glad that someone else learned to be nice this year). 

6.  My day includes eating ice cream, painting, and playing. 


And why not live in a dream world?  With that, folks, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year.  May your days be filled with ice cream, painting, a lot of playing, and above all, may you feel the presence of our Savior.

With Love,
The Polski’s



   



Monday, December 8, 2014

Christmas Reminders

I've been looking at old photos over the last couple of days.  Some cute ones...and some not so cute ones.  Kind of like the junior high pictures that give proof I actually chose to wear my bangs the way I did:  curled up as high as you want to imagine them and sprayed with so much hair spray that wind coming my way would have blown them up in one bulk.    

I stared for a long time at the pictures of my kiddos when they were babies.  Oh, the innocence and sweet phases of wanting to sit on my lap all the time, loving a hug and kiss before school, and the more often than I should admit background noise of Thomas the Train and Elmo's World.  OK, I don't so much miss those background noises so much, though I'm trying to decide if the endless sound from boy bands these days is any better. 

And then there were the pictures of sweet baby smiles - these are the moments I remember with such joy. I want to embrace these memories so tightly that I don't forget any of them.  

And yet, babies grow up.  As quickly as I became sentimental over what used to be, I remembered the sleepless nights (I actually told one of my kids that if they got out of bed anymore at night, they would discover all the things that started crawling around in the middle of the night.  This, folks, was the state of desperate need for sleep that I only heard about before becoming a mother.  And I'm sure my kid will end up in counseling regarding the creepy crawlies).   And the diaper changing.  Oh, the diaper changing.  This needs not commentary. 

And then the crying when Elmo's World was over.  I discovered quickly that logic does not work with a two year old.  No matter how many times I explained I simply cannot make a TV show come back on, there were tantrums galore at the end of every sesame street.  I actually wrote PBS (and I kid you not about this) stating the need for an afternoon showing along with their regular 10:00 a.m. airing.  PBS never listened.  Thus our rather large library (now boxed up) of Elmo's World on VHS.   I do believe that DVR's were, in part, created for parents of toddlers who face these sort of desperate situations today.    

And then there was the grocery shopping with toddlers.  If you don't have one of these precious angels yet, here's a read to keep you from grocery shopping with them.  Possible forever.  

http://www.polskifamily.blogspot.com/2010/05/long-list-trip-to-walmart.html

So, it didn't take long for me to become a little less sentimental and much more grateful for my growing children. 

Last night, I attended the Messiah.  It was a beautiful concert, and in many ways I was caught up in the glory and Majesty of God as the music unfolded the beauty of the Messiah coming to earth.    

At one point I glanced over at my son, who went unwillingly but sat politely and was eating the skittles I brought as a bribe, and I became teary-eyed over the young man that God has been growing right before my eyes.  I loved cuddling him as a baby, I loved his mischievous spirit that kept me on my toes as a toddler, and I'm currently loving his humor, his love for life, and his profound (though at times ridiculous) questions about life.  I found myself longing with anticipation about his future. What will he be like as a high school student?  As an adult?  Will he still be asking for grenades for Christmas as a college kid? (Let's hope that one is outgrown after this year).  

Of course, I was quickly brought back to reality when he noticed me looking at him and leaned over saying, "Mom, stop staring!  And why do they have to repeat every line like five times?  I got that 'unto us a child is born' like the first time they sang it."  

Touche' son.  Touche.' 


I can't help but wonder if these sort of emotions are what we should be feeling at Christmas time. The profound mystery that Christ came to earth as a baby to save us is something as believers we should remember not just a Christmas, but every day we are granted life.  Remembering the past is essential for all of us as believers.  

When I read Isaiah 9:6-7
"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end," I'm held in the miraculous embrace of what Jesus did for me.   The knowledge of what Scripture tells us happened in a dirty stall so many years ago - that God, our King, humbled himself and came to earth as a baby in order to save us - should affect our daily work, our decisions, and our attitudes. And what happened that night should cause Christmas season to be full of Joy and wonder.

But the joy of the season doesn't end there.  In the same way that merely longing for what used to be causes angst, our thankfulness for what Christ did should cause us to look ahead at what he will do. Advent season isn't only about Christ's first coming.  Jesus came to earth....and He's coming again! When we sing Joy to the World, it should inspire in us a sense of longing for what is to come:  when Jesus returns, the fields, floods, rocks hills and plains will all cry out!  And the shouts of joy will be repeated over and over again.  I can't wait for that day.  
  

Sadly for me, Christmas can be consumed with the stresses that it often involves.  But I'm thankful for the bold reminder through last nights concert of what this season is about as I was surrounded by magnificent music from instruments and voices singing, "And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it."  And as we all sang out together:  "King of Kings and Lord of Lords...and He shall reign forever...Hallelujah!"  

And I'm thankful for the gentle reminder from Jesus about the meaning of Christmas when I glance at my son and am filled with gratitude for his past, his present, and all that is to come.  


(Christmas 2008)






Saturday, November 8, 2014

On Suffering

The other day I asked my six year old what she thought it meant to suffer. 

"Oh, my goodness.  I totally know.  Suffering is about the thing that I'm going to get into my mouth to make me stop sucking my thumb."

So, the torture device, I mean the dental device, is for that exact purpose - once in, she literally cannot suck her thumb anymore due to the sharp prongs that hang down in the front of her mouth.

OK...they're not sharp.  But I admit I was a little nervous about the torture device.  And not really because I secretly feared that it was in some way torturous, but because of the implications for mom and dad.  I secretly wondered how parent's got through the "stop cold turkey" thumb sucking.  Would she be awake all night?  Would she cry for hours on end?  (I decided that I'd have her call her dentist if either of these first two fears came to fruition)  Would she be mad and have temper tantrums?  Would she end up in counseling?  Were there support groups for me and my husband?? 

I had in mind my daughter's definition of suffering when the day of installation came around.  She was pretty brave at the office - a definite mix of tears and laughing, which is about the right wave of emotion that we experience with our six year old.  There's never much in between. 

When it was all said and done and the torture device was in, my daughter and I got in the car.  I had kind of hoped that she would be a little quieter than normal, due to the regular frustrations of a daughter who talks non stop (and I'm not exaggerating here; the girl has a remarkable talent in the talking department), and due to a progressing headache.  I knew it would be tough to talk "normally" for a while, since the appliance made her speech sound funny, so I was sure she'd take a few more breaks than normal. 

 Alas, she actually talked more than usual on the way back to school.  The problem was that I couldn't tell her to take a break and put her thumb in her mouth.  I was starting to convince myself it was a torture device for parents.  I was also pretty sure that I was the one who was going to end up in counseling.

"Mom, I can't say 'T.'  T, T, T, T."   Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.   The amount of spit in our car was unreal.  And then we went from T's to S's to Z's and back to T's.  She then went on to repeat every kid's name in her class several times to ensure, she said, "that no one will be confused when I call for them." 

When she calls for them?  Man, a thumb sucking device could be the least of her worries. 

I actually told her to put a fist up by her mouth to see if that would help her be a little quieter.  "No, mom.  I have to practice my 'T's,'" as the spit came out abundantly. 

The good news was that for the first several hours Lily seemed completely un-affected by the appliance, other than "T's" and "S's."   She thought she'd suffer, but instead she delighted in it and in the amount of spit that she produced when trying to say "T" or "S."  

But, when night time came, the suffering started.  Oh, the suffering began and began big, boldly and over-dramatically (this is how we tend to do everything in our household). 

It started with how it felt to her tongue:  "My tongue hurts SO bad and my tongue just keeps on hurting and hurting."  Literally an hour later she told me her tongue was fine.  It was actually something on her foot that was really hurting. 

And then the suffering continued when it came to eating:  "I can't eat anything and I don't know if I can eat again," as she put her head on the kitchen table.  Her dad gave her a toothpick and told her to figure it out.  We're sympathetic like that.  This complaining too lasted for a very short time.  It was especially over when the Halloween candy came out.  All of a sudden it was totally fine and easy to eat!  It was a miracle! 

And then the suffering ended with a bang right before bed:  "I just feel so much like my thumb needs sucking!  It just really needs it so much.  My mouth needs my thumb!" 

But, I am happy to report, that was the end of it.  Once I closed her door (with perhaps a few warnings about kids who get out of bed and complain about silly things like torture devices) the suffering was over and she was fast and peacefully asleep. 

In the morning she suggested to me that she was ready to go ahead and get it out.  I told her she'd have to talk with her dentist.  She told me she was going to have a conversation with him about it.  I don't doubt for one second that will actually happen. 

Such is suffering to a six year old.  And for a time, to her mom. 

I had the privilege this past week of leading a Bible Study discussion on 1 Peter 4 on the topic of suffering.  I have a hard time expressing how much I got out of studying this passage. 

Verses 12 through 16 talk about a very specific type of suffering:  Suffering for being a Christian.  Suffering because we stand up for the name of Jesus.  Suffering because we believe that the gospel is the answer to all things.  Suffering because we have hope in the mist of difficulty, which some have suggested is a naïve and oblivious way to live. 

It's tough, though, for many of us to apply this specific kind of suffering to our lives - it was tough for me.  I've been wrestling the last couple of weeks with the ways in my life that I have (and haven't!) suffered because I am a follower of Christ.  Verse 12 tells us to not be surprised as though something strange were happening.  Implying, then, that suffering because we are Christians will happen and should happen at some point in our journeys.

There are so many places around the world where suffering because of an unrelenting hope in Jesus  is neither strange nor uncommon. 

I was recently confronted with a video of children in Iraq who were shot because they would not renounce their faith. It was one of the most disturbing ten second clips I've ever seen.  It truly shook me to the core.  And while our natural response may be to turn our head and ignore it because it's difficult to absorb, I believe it's our responsibility as the body of believer's to pray for them and to be aware of what they are facing.  May we be willing to empathize with them as we pray urgently for those whose lives are in danger because they believe in the gospel that saves.  Lord, come quickly

These precious believers have set for us a remarkable example of what it means to truly follow Christ, and I am eternally grateful for both their example and their testimony.  After studying this passage, I've found myself more worldly aware and have committed in a new way to praying for those who don't have the same freedoms we do. 

The beautiful culmination of this passage is found in verse 19 when Peter reminds us that those who suffer entrust their souls to a Faithful Creator.  And this truth applies not just to those suffering for being a Christian but to any and all kind of suffering.

God, who made the universe, who created me and knows every time a hair falls from my head, is faithful in the midst of all suffering.  He's faithful.  This brings together the beauty of knowing the Creator God as a personal Savior.  He will never leave us, forsake us, or have us suffer for the sake of suffering. 

And why the suffering?  Because it refines us.  The word 'refined' is defined this way: " to remove impurities or unwanted elements."  Like lily's torture device - it's tough now, but it's ensuring to us that the thumb, which isn't good for her teeth or speech in the long run, is effectively being removed from her mouth.  (And beyond that, I can stop having nightmares of her sucking her thumb in her college dorm room). 

Suffering reminds us of who we are and whose we are while drawing us closer to Jesus.  It doesn't make the suffering less painful, but these truth's give us hope in the midst of it. 

Unfortunately there is sometimes a tendency to rate the pain of those around us. There's a sinful need to see who's suffering more or less or whose suffering due to the pains of this world takes precedence over another.   Suffering is suffering, whether it's a dental torture device or a terminal illness.  When you're in it, it's hard. 

Roman's 8:37 through 38 reminds us: 

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

We are more than conquerors!  All the suffering that we experience as a believer lay at our feet  conquered because of the hope we have in Jesus.  And they're not just at our feet, but they serve us because God works through them for our own good. 

As a parent, I would love to think that my six year old won't suffer beyond the thumb sucking appliance that is on the fore front of her mind (and mouth) at the moment, but as a believer, I know this won't be the case.  My prayer for my daughter is the same prayer for my own heart in the midst of current and future suffering: 

Lord, may my faith be unshaken when trials come, and may I give testimony to you, my Faithful Creator, in the midst of the suffering that comes.  Lord, may Your will be done in order that you might refine me. 






Wednesday, September 24, 2014

My Plot in Life: Bon Bon's and Baby Questions

So, I had a day the other day.  One of those days when, in the middle of it all, I wished I could have tapped my shoes and said, "There's no place like Hawaii, there's no place like Hawaii," and then I'd be beamed to the beach.  How great would that be - to be beamed to the beach?   Apple needs to get to work on that.  If they can make a watch talk to me about my day.... 

This particular day started with a run.  Not necessarily to be in the best shape, but to clear my mind for the following hour:  wake the kids and get out the door hour.  I can't speak on this particular time with too much detail, as it's much too traumatizing. 

The important fact is that all three kids made it into the car, mostly fed and generally in one piece.  The difficulty of this task can be understood in terms of priorities:  having clothes is a priority.  Wearing them backwards is a not a priority.

And we weren't singing "Merrily we go to school, go to school, go to school..." Oh, no. I spent the first five minutes trying to break up a fight between my two "youngers" over how babies come out of mom's tummies.  Each kid was passionate that they knew the answer, and at first it was hilarious.  My daughter was essentially arguing that God takes them out, and my son was countering with the fact that knives were involved.  It started becoming annoying when they began yelling their arguments, kicking each other's chairs, and throwing back packs.  For heaven's sake. 

Thankfully no one felt the need to ask the one mommy in the car if she had any answers to this quandary.  Thankfully, or this hour also would have been too traumatizing to retell. 

One thing and one thing alone broke up the argument:  My son realized he forgot his shoes.  For the love....

How does one forget ones shoes?  I seriously considered making him go to school in his socks, but alas, I turned around the car and we were then sufficiently late to each school drop off.  My younger two don't get upset about being late (unfortunately, they're kind of used to it when mom is involved), but my oldest is a different story.  She wants to get to school early enough to socialize before her first class.  So, my son's lack of shoes now eliminated social hour and devastated her up-until-that-day unblemished late record. 

She sat with her arms folded in the front seat, mad at her brother, who managed to forget shoes for the day, and mad at me for turning the car around.  I told her to imagine walking around in socks all day and then consider whether or not I should have gone back to the house.  She suggested she'd like it.  She actually probably would.  So, that didn't work. 

After dropping off late children and running errands (which included picking up "the way wrong deodorant," according to my son), I went over to my parent's old house to help with a few things in order to get it on the market as soon as possible.  While there, I had a lovely encounter with two mice. 

Most people would have left the rodents for the professionals...most smart people, that is.  Again, I will spare the details other than to say I left alive and the mice did not.  However, I did have a minor (that may be understating it, according to my husband) panic attack that night over mouse disease.  I have no idea if such a thing exists, but I was sure for about an hour that I had it. 

 After finishing up at mom's, I walked in the house to nap and eat Bon Bon's... 

...in my Hawaiian dreams.  Instead I decided to tackle the toilets and laundry and general clean up.  The clean up, just to highlight a few of the more exciting aspects of what I had to look forward to, included picking up an entire roll of toilet paper waded up in the corner of the bathroom - who, what, why?  I have no idea - and scrubbing down the carpet in the car after spilling my green smoothie the day before.  Yes, the day before.  It was gross. 

But none of it was done sufficiently because within a few minutes of walking in the door, I received a phone call from my oldest: 

"I forgot my iPad." 

"Well, at least it wasn't your shoes.  So, have a good day without your iPad." 

"But my teacher says I need my iPad!"  Shoot.  Apparently having her iPad is a priority.  Having a pencil these days, is not. 

My plan was to shower.  At some point in the day, I really was going to shower, but I realized on my way to a class at the seminary that I never actually accomplished this important task.  I literally considered whether putting on Chap stick under my arms could have the same affect as deodorant.  And I wasn't in the mood to learn anything. 

I went to pick up the kids from school, lavishing in my ten minutes of carpool time to work on the Bible study lesson that I am leading.  It's amazing what a mom's mind can (and can't) absorb in ten minutes.   I'm pretty sure I stared at the same page of the John Stott commentary for all ten minutes.  But, somehow I felt a little more accomplished.  And then I sat back, wishing I was in Hawaii.  And it was only 3:00. 

After chauffeuring kids who complained about late slips and the wrong deodorant, I headed out to teach piano lessons, only to be interrupted half way through by my parent's realtor asking if I knew anything about the dead mice in the basement. 

And again, I tapped my shoes together. 

I've recently had a number of different conversations with women about their "plot" in life.  Some work outside the home and some do not, but what's amazingly consistent is how discontent so many feel.

For those who work outside the home, there is a sense of guilt over not being with their kids enough or frustration in feeling "stuck" in their careers, lamenting that what they do is mundane and not really making a difference. 

It's not too different from those I've spoken with who stay at home.  Many of these women feel they are lacking something in their lives and that their work at home feels, at times, insignificant. 

I get it.  I was introduced recently as a "Pastor's wife and homemaker."  I seriously cringed.  I wanted to stand on top of a table and shatter every image of those around who were imagining me sitting on the couch in my Snuggie, sewing the kid's clothes, and eating Bon Bon's.

But there is a clear call for us as women and believer's in Christ when it comes to our "plot," whatever that may be:  "Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men [or women]." Colossians 3:23. 

What we're called to, whether it be folding laundry, cleaning up spills from messy toddlers, planning a presentation, or giving a lecture, we're called to do it heartily.  We can't (and shouldn't!) waste our time wishing that we had the life of someone else.  As soon as we neglect the place in life to which God has called us by being critical or discontent, we lose heart for our work. 

My husband reminded me recently that when God blesses us, he blesses us with more responsibility, not less.  What a brilliant reminder.  Our responsibilities are a blessing!  The fact that I have to chauffeur kid's around after school is a blessing...I have children who are healthy and thriving.  The fact that I have to clean up my parent's house is a blessing...I am capable and healthy (at least until the mouse disease hits).  And the fact that many of you are in the midst of presentations, meetings, and lectures...you have a job when so many others would give anything for employment. 

I pray for a spirit that is less critical and less longing for what I don't have and instead for an attitude willing to be thankful for this season of life right here and now - even in the midst of days I'd rather be in Hawaii. 

And one of the best ways to do this?  Be mindful of the good parts of the day - they're always there.  Sometimes we have to fight hard to think of them, but they're there.      

Even though I was regularly tapping my toes and wishing I could be beamed, there were some good parts to the day that I needed to identify: 

First, I watched one of my piano students get so excited to show me how well he learned his piece that he hardly sat down before playing.  And then he told me my lollypops were better than his moms. 

Second, the passage that the professor was giving a devotion on at the seminary class had implications for something I was deeply struggling during the last several days.  The Lord spoke to me that day through His Word, even in my smelly and unteachable state. 

And last, I laughed, instead of crying, when lily interrupted my own piano practice to ask me if I could tell her "just how babies become free from those bellies." 








 




Friday, September 12, 2014

On Being a "PK"

My dad kept a diary during his journey through cancer.  The diary was published the year he died, almost twelve years ago.  I read the book for the first time this week. 

It was certainly hard to relive the journey through the words on the pages, but it was also encouraging to be reminded of his bold and unwavering faith in Jesus.  The pages tell a story of a man who had fear, fought hard for life, and peacefully relented into the hands of Jesus when He called him home. 

In reading the diary, I was also reminded of how much he loved his job.  My dad loved being a pastor, he loved his congregation, and he loved worship. 

Because he was called to full-time ministry, I grew up as a pastor's kid, or "PK," and shared my dad with many different people.  Dad had a very public ministry as the senior pastor of a large PCA church, an author of a few books, and the host of a radio program.  "Open-line Friday" at the radio station was something he looked forward to each week; callers from the area would call in and ask him any spiritually related or Biblically related question they wanted to.  And he absolutely loved it.  And I will never understand that.  My mom couldn't even listen to the show.  She'd get nervous that he might not know what to say, or that he'd say too much.  I totally get it.  I get hives when I'm walking down the hallway at church and can't think on my toes of what to say to the person I run into.     

I was recently talking with a fellow pastor's wife who lamented the fact that many parent's who face the prospect of full-time ministry often hear the stories of pastor's kids who, for many different reasons, grow to resent the church and the ministry to which their father's were called. 

So, I'm certainly no "success story" when it comes to growing up as a "PK." (Incidentally, when I was called that in elementary school, a fellow student inquired about the label.  Another student spoke up and said, "It means she is a potential kid."  I had no idea at the time just how awesome that answer was.)  There was, of course, some tension throughout my childhood that was related to ministry, whether I recognized it at the time or not, and I was by no means an easy pastor's kid.

In fact, I was kicked out of Sunday school in the 5th grade for talking non stop with my neighbors.  The only thing I really remember about the incident was that I was upset with my friend who didn't get kicked out with me.  I told her later that if we were asked to leave together, then we could go play on the playground during Sunday school.

Another time I argued long with my parents about a not so appropriate dress I wanted to wear to church that when they made me put on an alternative outfit, I "somehow" managed to cut the bottom of my dress with scissors during Sunday school.  Somehow. 

Yep.  I was that kid.  And so when my son, J-Rod, came home last year with "speaks out of turn" on his report card....well....

And when my youngest,  Lily, left the house for back to school night in tears because I wouldn't let her wear the Burka that her dad brought back from the Middle East...well...I suppose I'm just glad she didn't come home with her shorts cut in half.  I suppose.

There were times, especially as a teen, when my parent's and I fought over whether or not I needed to attend a particular church activity, and I'm sure they struggled through parenting as ministry leaders, trying to feel out when to push and when to let me alone. 

As a pastor's wife, I know the tension.  I get the struggle.  When the kids were younger, for example, we could talk about anything going on in the church, and it didn't matter that the kids were around.  When they got a little older, we'd start spelling names and various other sentences.  This made for super long conversations and a confused husband, due to my very bad spelling. 

And now that the kids are older, every so often we catch ourselves talking too freely about church difficulties in front of the kids, and every so often I revert back to my spelling days.  And then my twelve- year old quickly reminds me...she can spell, as does my ten year old, and my six year old just says she will tell on us if we're talking mean about someone.  Parenting is truly humbling.   

But with all the struggle, I can say something very confidently:  By God's grace, I never resented the church or the ministry that my dad was called to.  My two sisters and I remain actively involved in our churches, and two of us even married pastor's.  Admittedly, we were all kind of excited for something different when my younger sister married a JAG, but alas, he became an elder and she is now the music director at their local church. 

With the many stories today that focus on what their pastor-parent did that pushed them away from the church, I want to share three specific ways that I believe my dad, through God's mercy, helped me not resent being a "PK." 

His role in the church never denied me access. 

"Back in the day" (I'm really not that old...at least not old enough to use that phrase), we didn't have I-phones.  I tried to explain to my kids the other day what a phone was that actually sat on a receiver, had a cord attached, and was plugged into the wall.  Oh my word, the questions they had just trying to picture what I was talking about were priceless.  Lily wanted to know if "that kind of phone could call aliens."

So, we didn't use phones with the frequency that we do today, but even so, as I got older I always knew it was possible to get a hold of my dad.  His day was consumed with meetings and teaching preparations, but he answered his phone for his girls whenever it was possible.  And if we stopped by the office on the way home, he'd slip out of a meeting, check into what we needed, and then go back to work.  His job at the church never meant we had to wait our turn to talk with him. 

And his availability didn't mean that he attended every sporting event that I played in, but his readiness to talk and be available gave confidence that I was a priority, even if he was not always physically present. 

And as a younger child, when I would hug him after a sermon, he always turned, looked me in the eye, and give me a hug back.  It didn't matter who he was greeting, he took the ten seconds to look at me and show me that he loved my presence as his kid. 

And when he was home, he was available for us.  He helped me with math homework until he didn't get it anymore (I've already reached my helpful limit in math with my fifth grader), and for the most part, he put his work day's frustrations and joys aside and was just, plain dad. 

His calling to the church was a joyful responsibility.

Being a pastor's wife, I now know that church is not always a joy.  What?  Gasp!  It's true.  There are days in ministry when I want to urge my husband to go ahead and look into that sportscaster career he had talked about when he was younger. 

Fortunately, that sentiment is not too frequent, but I do know how hard it can be to remain joyful in the midst of the calling if the perspective on why we do what we do is skewed, which is why I'm incredibly thankful for the example my dad set with his attitude toward ministry:  whether it was an event for the church, a Bible study he taught, or a sermon he was preparing, dad did his best to refer to his work with a sense of joy and excitement.  And although he was passionate about his ministry, I'm sure there were times he was tired of it all and had to conjure up the positive attitude, but when he was frustrated, he took the difficulties to the Lord and not to us. 

I don't ever remember him trudging out the door the evenings he would go out to lead evangelism teams, and I know he had to be tired.  He had three kids and worked hard.  I have three kids and work hard!  Maybe he had a magic potion. 

I'll never forget standing in the sanctuary with my dad and our worship director after a good Friday service.  With the sanctuary emptied, he pointed out the details of how the lighting aided to the service and how the words in the music tied together the themes woven in throughout the night.  The man was so excited, you couldn't help but smile along with him.  I remember looking at the music director and there was a large smile on his face as well.

No, there was no magic potion.  He loved his calling, even when the calling was tough; his excitement for Jesus and creativity in worship was contagious.

And even at a young age, I caught it. 

His ministry to the church often included his family. 

I went on hospital visits with my dad when I was in elementary school.  OK, so it wasn't an amusement park or an ice cream shop, but doing ministry with my dad was so important. 

When we went with him to visit folks who were ill, or when we dropped off a basket of goodies to a family in the church, doing it as a family reinforced to us that we were a part of his ministry.  Although lines between being a dad and being a pastor were present, there were times when those responsibilities overlapped and any possible resentment of his job versus my time with him was eased.  It didn't matter to me whether we were dropping the dog off at the vet, grabbing McDonald's, or visiting someone with cancer, just being with my dad was important.  And I believe he understood that. 

It meant something to be a part of what he was called to.  So, when we'd pray at dinner, he would include in his prayers the people in the church.  And then we too, even as children, were a part of  ministering to those particular people.  And as my younger sister developed in her musically abilities, he asked her to write music for the Christmas services at church with the hopes that her talents would be used to minister to the congregation.

I even remember driving around in the car after school, and dad would hand me pictures of all the new members asking me to quiz him on their names.  I was a part of that responsibility of his, and although I beat him nine times out of ten when it came to the names of folks, I would actually know who they were when I saw them at church the next Sunday, bringing me into an aspect of his ministry.  Incidentally, I never told the new folks about the flash cards, but how funny would that have been:  "You made it into the 'kept missing' pile.  We'll see how long it takes for you to move to the 'memorized pile.'" 

He wasn't perfect, but dad tried hard to prayerfully do what he could to keep us from resenting Christ's Bride, the church.  For the many potential full-time ministry folks (at least you're not  "potential kids;" it could be worse), be encouraged.  There are many stories like mine of "PK's" who grew to love the church as much as their parents did.

In his diary, my dad wrote these words: 

"I pray for my girls every day that God will protect them, give them a thirst for Him, a hunger for His Word, and a passion for worship.  I pray each day that God will provide them with godly husbands and that He will keep them from rebellion and temptation.  God has so faithfully answered my feeble prayers for my three precious girls.  They love the Lord and His church.  I am so proud of them.  I hope that the Lord grants me the grace to spend many more years with them on this earth.  They are so much fun to be around." 

Praise God for your prayers, dad. 

And now that we've produced three "PK's" that keep us constantly on our toes, I echo this prayer every single day:  Lord, keep them close. In spite of our failures, we feebly pray that they will always love you and love your church.  Amen. 
















Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Color Coding Memories

We have a lot of stuff.  Like most American families, we've acquired this stuff over the years, and much of it sits uselessly in the storage room of our house.   We recently put our house on the market and did a big clean out of the whole house. 

It's truly amazing to me how a toy that has remained untouched in my six year olds closet for literally two years is all the sudden her "favorite toy she's ever had in her entire life." 

While cleaning out this closet, I wasn't moved by my daughter's sentiment for the plastic house I found so threw the toy in the donate pile.  For a second it was like I was watching a movie in slow motion:  Lily dove to block my attempted donation and grabbed the house. 

"You can't give this away!  I'll never ever forget it! My ponies need it!" 

So, I bargained with her.  She could keep the house if she found two other items to donate.  She  methodically plodded around her room, and a few minutes later she came out handing me a mini doll's outfit and a marble. 

Fortunately, in the last couple of months she has grasped on to the idea of giving things away.  While getting ready for our vacation a couple of weeks ago, she told me she wanted to bring a particular doll to give to her cousin.  She explained to me while packing it carefully into her suitcase that "its a great one to give away.  It's lost almost all of it's hair and has pen on it." 

So, we're still working on the act of generosity. 

It is funny how we become attached to our things.  Maybe it's more unfortunate than it is funny since most of us have an over abundance.   But amidst the heaps and piles of things our family needs or doesn't need, some of which sits collecting dust and cobwebs, are the gems that hold sweet memories. These gems are the treasured possessions that often  look insignificant or useless to others but they're tokens taking me back to a particular place in time with memories incredibly distinct.

While cleaning out the house, I came across one of these gems.  I noticed that my kids had discarded an old, flattened, discolored, penguin stuffed animal.  It wore a blue T-Shirt that read,  "TLC."   I seriously reverted back to a child and put on the same temper tantrum my six year old did over her plastic house.

While my youngest told me I could keep the penguin if I picked out two other items to give away, I quickly jumped into an explanation since my older two had a look like I needed to be institutionalized.

When we were little, my sisters and I were terrors to babysit.  Quite literally, we were terrors.  Since I was the oldest, I was usually the ring leader.  The goal amongst the three of us was to make sure that we never had a babysitter back twice.

In fact, I will never forget my mom and dad standing in the kitchen flipping through the church directory and my mom expressing her frustration:  "None of them are available and I've been through the entire book!"

We were little devils.  And for some reason the babysitters never "told" on us.  They would just never return.  I remember telling made up stories to these poor, innocent teenagers about our house being possessed and then "waking up" long after bed time telling them that my sisters and I heard something scary.  They would freak out every single time.  And because that still makes me chuckle, I deserve the afternoon headaches brought on by my feisty six-year old.

But then something remarkable happened.  My parents found a babysitter who could keep us in line.  She expected obedience, she told my parents when we misbehaved, and she was even....nice.

Believe it or not, we became attached to this babysitter.  I became especially attached and would cry myself to sleep in the weeks leading up to her college departure.  We all shared tears when it was time for her to go (including my parents, who probably feared never finding a sitter again), but she left me with something to remember her by.

I slept with the penguin that she made for me every night as a kid (and it may or may not have accidentally made it into my suitcase when I left for college).

And so, after reliving my childhood for a brief five minutes, I expected my kids to embrace me and let me know that I could keep the penguin as long as I needed.

That's not reality.  They reminded me how odd I looked hugging a stuffed penguin and I reluctantly tossed it into the pile, smiling as I remembered the one babysitter who would consistently say "Yes!" to my desperate for a date parents. 

My mom and step father are moving into a retirement home in a couple of weeks, leaving the house I grew up in.  With the progression of her disease, we're very thankful for a place my mom and step father can live comfortably with extra help.  But, change is never easy. And moves are always hard.  Because of  their physical limitations, I've been handling the majority of the details of the move for them.  I've spent the bulk of the time the last several weeks color coding each and every item in the house.  Some of the items will go with them, some will go to other family members, and other items will be donated.  Each piece of furniture, each setting of silverware - they all get a color. 

I've gone through a wave of emotions while doing this chore. In each room of the house, I'm thrown back into time while color coding certain items. 

In my sister's room, I found all of our wedding dresses and bridesmaids dresses for each other's weddings.  I have distinct and wonderful memories of each one of these events.  One of my favorite memories was at my sister Erin's wedding when my husband (who was officiating) finished the last half of his homily using only U2 song titles. 

If you don't believe it's possible, you don't know my husband.   And while the bridesmaids and groomsmen, also fellow U2 fans, laughed at every phrase, my grandmother said to us afterward, "I thought the word Vertigo was an interesting disease to pick in teaching about the phrase 'in sickness and in health.'" 

And in the kitchen while I marked the dishes, I couldn't help but remember standing over the counter watching my dad scoop ice cream into his bowl attempting to see how high he could pile it without the ice cream falling out the bowl (my younger sister comes by her ice cream obsession innocently; it's genetic).

Walking through the bedrooms, there are both happy and sad memories; some have faded, and some feel as though they happened yesterday.  Both of my parents had healthy, vibrant days in the house, and both of them grew ill in the house.   The items and the furniture around me remind me of both kinds of days.

The beautiful reality is that when the house is emptied in a few weeks time, the memories will not go with all the stuff.  Each color coded item will go to it's new place, but the memories will remain.  And they will be cherished, I pray, for years to come.

Many would say to let go of the past and simply embrace the present, waiting for whatever is to come.  I disagree.  The past is significant.  It reminds me of God's faithfulness in getting me to this point right here and right now.  Each threat of anxiety begs me to look at the past and be reminded of how God has tenderly and mercifully cared for us and gives hope that He will continue to do so in the future.

In fact, I believe it's hard to move forward in this life that is sometimes unclear and foggy without a reminder of the road already traveled.  Joy comes with an appreciation of the God-given memories that make up our past, an acceptance of where we currently are, and a confidence in what is to come. Sandra McCracken has a song entitled God's Highway (the link is below).  In the song she sings: 

 My feet are strong, my eyes are clear, I cannot see the way from here.  But on we go, He knows the way, and in His arms He keeps me safe. 
Fear not.  Keep on. Watch and pray.  Walk in the light of God's Highway. 

You see, it's not the possessions in and of themselves that are significant; it's the meaning and memories behind some of them that have value because they are a part of the road I have traveled.  It's not over the stuff that I grieve, nor really in the loss of the house where I grew up, but in the remembrances of what used to be.  Those can't be color coded - those will come with me. and in them I'll rejoice. 

http://vimeo.com/88185064





Tuesday, April 15, 2014

A Marathon and a Suit: Lessons in Committment

Sometimes it's hard to commit.  It's especially hard to commit to something when the outcome is questionable and the end goal is far off. 

Take a marathon, for example.  Those of you who have attempted this feat (I'm told that is less than one percent of the population) know that there's nothing "for sure" when deciding to commit to this insane distance in running.  The commitment to the weekly running routine is nothing short of arduous, and let's be honest, no one can promise you that six months later you'll actually cross that finish line.  There are injuries and sickness to contend with, scheduling conflicts that make it impossible to get in that long run during the week, and from time to time the:  "I've hit a wall and can't do it anymore" attitude that could keep the end goal of crossing that finish line a mere dream. 

With all these possibilities in mind, I decided to commit to training for 26.2 miles about a year and a half ago.  To say I was nervous is a huge understatement.  When I scrolled down my training schedule and saw 20 miles....18 miles....I completely second guessed my ability to make such a commitment.  Actually, I didn't second guess my ability to run when I saw the schedule.  In all honesty when I saw the training regimen, I imagined myself conquering the concrete; I imagined wanting more at mile twenty four and I pictured doing it all with grace, poise, and lot's of muscle.  In actuality, this is what I imagined: 

 
 
After my first "long" run, I realized there's really no such thing as the above image.  Give me a break.  Ten miles was a huge milestone and I physically wore every inch of pain that I felt during the run.  And even if I wanted to pretend the above were true, my kid's honest reaction every time I walked in the door from a long run shook me quickly back to my reality:  "Ooh, mom, you're so sweaty!"  Or the more common, "Mom, you look really bad."  Or my all time favorite, "Mom, can you please not come near me." 
 
 
But, I was committed.  Very, very committed.  I stuck to that schedule thanks to two runner friends (who, incidentally, probably looked a little more like the above picture).  And even though there were some Saturday's when I thought my legs weren't going to go more than four miles, I always felt a sense of accomplishment when I hit the pavement and could check off another long run on my training schedule.  No matter how painful or ugly the run....I was committed. 
 
The Expo the day before the race pumped me up.  I was even beginning to see my face on the girl in the picture.  The excitement and momentum was a real boost, building anticipation for the longest run of my life. 
 
 

This happy, mom's a rock star, I thought I could be a rock star, picture all happened before my conversation with one of workers at the Expo. I noticed the gentleman describing the route of the half-marathon to several runners standing around.  They looked excited, he looked excited, and then he wished them all luck as they walked away.  I stayed and asked him if he would show me the route for the full marathon: 

"You're doing the full?" 

"Yep!"  I told him it was my first marathon, shared with him a little about my running buddies and even told him my hopeful finish time.  It was clearly more information than he was looking for and I'm sure I looked a little idiotic (maybe like my make-believe running girl picture). 

"Well, this is one of the hardest marathon's for a first timer.  But I'm sure you'll make it." 

All happy--mom's a rock star--I can run like that girl in the picture--thoughts and hopes were officially dashed.  He was sure I would make it?   Way to go with the encouragement, Mr. Expo man.  Geez. 

But I was committed. 

So, at 4:00 a.m. the next morning I began the process of eating the right food, and getting nervous about whether I ate too much or too little of the right food, putting on the right clothes, and getting nervous about whether I was wearing too much or too little, and getting to the start line with enough time to snap the photo to document that I did in fact make it to the starting line, even if I did not, in fact, look anything like the girl in the picture - even before the race began. 

I hit a wall around mile seventeen.  Thankfully my other running buddy came to the rescue and provided bagel bites, advil, and the much needed freshness in order to be able to talk us through the last ten miles.  I had never been more interested in hearing about someone's weekend. I just needed her to keep talking.  I was going to finish that blasted race.  I was committed. 

She kept us going and all was well in my running world until the last 1/4 of a mile.  This is the point at which I had a panic attack.  Why, you may ask, would I have a panic attack when I could physically see the finish line?  I have no, earthly idea.  I'm sure my running buddy was mentally asking the same question while at the same time telling me to "breathe in; breathe out." 

But I was committed...and I finished that race.  26.2 miles of pure and painful running.  And while I couldn't move my body for a good twenty-four hours, I wore a constant smile knowing what I had accomplished. 



I've learned during this past year that my son has the same commitment gene to challenges as I do.  Two nights before Easter last year, I began trying clothes on my son in the hopes that something would work for him to wear on Easter Sunday.  Unless he was going to go to church with pants that would be safe in a flood, I realized he was going to need a new outfit. 

So, the day before Easter I found him a suit.  It was a quick decision, leaving little thought as to whether or not he (or anyone else in the family) would actually like the suit.  I justified that he'd only be wearing it for one day, so if he didn't like it, he wouldn't have to wear it again. 

He hated it.  I mean, he really hated it.  Being the night before Easter, I wasn't about to run out and get something the kid liked and return the bad decision another day.  Unfortunately for my son, I'm not that mom.  He was going to wear the suit. 



Instead of happy, Easter smiles, all we heard from my son was how itchy, scratchy, hot, cold, uncomfortable, and ugly he was...no matter how many times we reiterated that the day was not about the suit, but about Jesus' resurrection.  But the suit itched.  And the suit was hot.  Or cold.  Or whatever he decided it was in the moment he decided it. 

After the services, the complaining continued.  And it just so happened to continue in front of our youth pastor and friend.  He was one of the many whom Jrod cornered that morning in order to make known the dire situation that his mother had placed him in. 

Before I could really process what was happening, there was a challenge extended to my son:  Wear the suit every Sunday for an entire year and you'll get something. 

He agreed.  And my son was committed. 

For an entire year, I have seen Jrod put on that lime green suit.  I have slowly begun to hate the suit almost as much as my son did on Easter morning almost one year ago.  In every holiday picture with my kids this last year, Jrod is wearing the suit:  Mother's day, Father's Day, Christmas...the lime green suit is there.  We couldn't escape it.  My son was committed. 

And we tried to get rid of it.  There were times when I was the gentleman at the Expo, trying to convince my son once the sleeves shrunk and the pants began riding up his legs, to just give in.  Six months was long enough, son!  We tried to pat him on the back and say, "Yea for you!  You made it so many months!  NOW BE DONE." 

He even hit a wall.  Right around nine months the pants were becoming noticeably short.  But, like my running friend who came to my rescue at mile seventeen, Granmda Buswell came to the rescue with her needle and thread and took that hem down.  Yay, Grandma.

My son was committed to this challenge and he was going to get to that finish line. 

There were times when I wanted my husband to explain from the pulpit why our son was wearing the same outfit during the course of the year.  I felt a particular urge to make the challenge known when we'd receive a random bag of nice boys clothes left in my husband's office.  Or when someone would stop me in the hallway and say, "Boy, Jrod sure likes his suit."  But I never felt the urge more than when someone mailed us a nice Sunday outfit marked, "For Jrod for Christmas."  We weren't the only ones sick of the lime green.  And frankly, I was concerned that others wondered about our ability to actually purchase clothes for our son. 

Much like my race day, my son has neared the end of his goal. And he has certainly stayed committed throughout.  I even sense some excitement from him that in spite of wearing clothes that really don't fit anymore, he's made it.  He has stayed committed and he's about to accomplish his goal.  I totally get it, son. 

Somewhat unfortunately, in this last "1/4 of a mile" until the finish line, I'm sensing a bit of panic from J-Rod.  He's been saying things like, "What else is there to wear?" And, "Maybe I'll just keep wearing it because I really don't know what else I'd wear."  Yes, he's having that same sense of panic that I did.  Even with the finish line literally in sight. 

Son, the end is near.  You're almost there.  And I very literally cannot wait.  And I think there are about 200 other friends and family who share in my sentiment.  And when you cross that finish line, you'll be thrilled in spite of being uncomfortable, perhaps unfashionable, and maybe even a little smelly throughout the year (although the smelly part is admittedly my fault for skipping one too many washes in fear that the suit would actually begin to shred). 

You did it, Jrod.  You committed. Maybe one day we'll run a marathon together.