tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82268681683030025192024-03-06T00:23:19.883-08:00Perspective on Life from a Pastor's WifeKatiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-69581162893914967982016-06-21T18:52:00.004-07:002016-06-21T18:52:51.617-07:00A New Website!Friends,<br />
<br />
My site has moved. I would love for you to visit <a href="http://www.katiepolski.com/">www.katiepolski.com</a> for new posts. <br />
<br />
Blessings to all!<br />
KatieKatiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-22138111133254183812016-05-24T19:12:00.003-07:002016-05-24T19:12:50.302-07:00A Shorter Perspective <div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve written a lot about having
different perspectives in life – an eternal perspective on our earthly journey, a humorous perspective on the
mundane, and even a grace filled perspective as we trudge through frustrations that make us look way too much like Jekyll and Hyde. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the perspective that I’m
most fascinated by is a child’s perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just a few weeks ago I knelt down so I that was the height of my eight
year old daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked up at all the people
around me and asked her what life was like from this perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It's just</span> shorter, mom.“<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh. So that was a deep and
meaningful conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking back to my
son’s poetry reading when he was in second grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wrote a poem about me from his perspective
and recited it in front of all the kids and parents in his class<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had you been watching my
anticipation of this public reading, you would have laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had my camera all geared up and after listening to one accolade after
another from the students to their mothers, I had a premature smile across my
face awaiting anxiously the words my son might declare about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he’d note that I was the master at
packing his lunch every morning. Or maybe he’d declare how his mom was his
biggest fan at his soccer games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My son
and I shared a mutual affection for his pet rat at the time, so I was sure there would be some kind of praise for purchasing the rodent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then this from my boy:</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Mom.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good Cook<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Big Teeth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smelly<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Mom. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed along with everyone
else while becoming increasingly self-conscious of everyone staring at my
apparent big teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good. Grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
do big teeth even look like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately I had the
wherewithal to <i>not</i> do a quick sniff of my armpits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teacher tried to explain on my behalf announcing that according to my son, his mother was an avid runner and was apparently often sweaty because of the sport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Im pretty sure <i>that</i> really helped everyone’s mental picture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least I was a good cook
from my son’s standpoint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I
smelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it's fun (though admittedly embarrassing at times) to see life through the eyes of our kids, and
so when my youngest daughter came home with a story she had read to her class that was
written and illustrated about an important event in her life, I was as excited
to delve into it as I was to hear my son’s poetry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so this is Lily’s story,
and it’s entitled:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<u>Max and the Vacuum Cleaner:<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once my dog Max was walking in the
kitchen and my mom was getting ready to vacuum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And my mom started to but she did not
see my dog so she vacuumed up my dog’s tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My dog bit the vacuum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And one summer we went to the beach and
we stayed for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When we got home our dog forgot about us
until I came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I sat down and Max sat on my lap and
slobbered on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I didn’t like my dog any more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I locked him in my closet and in the shower
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now I love my dog and he hates me
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He follows my mom too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My dad does not like him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my dog loves him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But Max does not follow him around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The End.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8Tc2GyCFITr0mbOAcyqllFz-6FfLIddlCb9lc6mMez1kY0TSI-4bbfRbEDnZYp_5UY86UyXhG8pnIABfmR745Gn0rNvEmp-uWHeWxI_ShxqLUWo1iMlW5IyZNTOyO_AH4WfL8gs2P9M/s1600/IMG_3038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8Tc2GyCFITr0mbOAcyqllFz-6FfLIddlCb9lc6mMez1kY0TSI-4bbfRbEDnZYp_5UY86UyXhG8pnIABfmR745Gn0rNvEmp-uWHeWxI_ShxqLUWo1iMlW5IyZNTOyO_AH4WfL8gs2P9M/s320/IMG_3038.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I inquired. I asked her why she chose to write about this
“significant” story in her life. Why not
write about, oh, something she learned at church or something fun we did on a
family vacation or really anything other than mom sucking up the dog’s tail in the vacuum cleaner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She explained that those are
just “not good stories, mom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The curious thing is that while
I can kind of recall each of these moments she wrote about, none of them were very
memorable to me, other than vacuuming the dog’s tail, of course. Totally an accident, just to clarify; I
suspected my daughter was horrified by the event because of the way she dramatically coddled the dog
who was clearly fine (I have to admit that I laughed pretty hard after making
fun of poor Max for years because of his fear of vacuums. I mean why run away from a vacuum,
Max? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Annnd…. that’s why. Poor dog. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the mind of an eight-year
old girl, when her teacher said “important and memorable,” her memories went to Max
and the Vacuum, and it reminded me of something important as a
mom:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what I deem as little and even insignificant moments in life are probably more important than I realize in the eyes of my children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It takes bending down and having a shorter perspective to see just how important those moments really are. </span><o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My actions and attitude, my rants and my raves are noticed by my kids (as are my big teeth and body
odor).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank the Lord for His grace
because I mess up in parenting repeatedly, but I’m grateful for the reminder
that the little moments matter along this journey of child rearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to notice these moments, savor them,
and make them count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every once in a
while, I want to kneel down and look at life through the eyes of my kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to see from my daughter's perspective how important the few
minutes of concentrated time are when she asks me to watch
her “show,” even when I'm in the middle of other tasks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to look through the eyes of my oldest
when she pops her head in late at night even though I’m crawling with
exhaustion, and I want to know for a few minutes the excitement my son feels when he tells me about a video game, even though I can't quite follow most of what he's saying. (I'm getting old). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my son matters to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And those five minutes matter to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was at the beach last week in the same spot my family has vacationed for the last twenty-seven
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cried when we walked up to the
beach; it wasn’t the beauty that overtook my emotions but the memories of my
mom and dad, my grandma, grandpa, sisters, and all the years of laughing,
crying, conversations, card playing, and…little moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll never forget being a preteen during one
of these vacations and sitting on the beach listening to my parents discuss possible advent themes for the upcoming season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While they talked, I made my way to the
ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad followed unexpectedly and we bobbed
around in the water for what seemed like a long time while I told him about all sorts of things that were important to me at the time:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>youth group, basketball, piano competitions, and a variety of
other topics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad may or may not have
remembered those moments, but I will never forget them. From my
perspective, dad took the time to join me and listen to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From my perspective, he showed that what I had to say mattered to
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It may have been a little moment for my dad at the time, but man, those few moments meant the world to me. <i>He was bending down and seeing life from my shorter perspective. </i></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i> </i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last time I was at this beach I sat on the shore holding the phone out for my bedridden mom to hear the ocean waves. She cried restlessly on the other
end while I cried quietly on mine. I sat on the shore for a while during this recent vacation thinking about other little moments with mom and tearfully considered what will only be memories from here on out for me and my sisters. While reminiscing, I also thought how much fun my youngest has each summer collecting all the shells that surrounded me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at the waves and smiled at the fact that my son cannot contain himself when he sees a red flag on the beach, warning everyone that the waves are a bit dangerous. The bigger, the better. And I may or may not have started humming a One Direction song at one point remembering my oldest introducing one of the band's newest releases while sitting on the beach. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have many little moments from my own childhood all tucked away that I'll never forget. But my hope, my prayer, in that in the coming days, weeks, months and years I'll continue to put down the book or the phone for a few minutes in order to collect a few seashells, body surf a few waves, and listen along to some of the newest music. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's all about kneeling down and seeing life through their eyes. Even if it means One Direction. Even if it means learning you're a little smelly with large teeth. Even it means merely having a <i>shorter perspective. </i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-8017453493790220912016-04-27T09:34:00.000-07:002016-04-29T03:45:22.664-07:00Luxe and Sanity: Lost and Found After almost a year, my seven year old daughter still has a hamster named Luxe. <br />
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You just can't understand how surprised I am by this reality. Luxe has been cuddled (squeezed), played with (tortured), and handled regularly by a sweet seven year old girl (sometimes monster). </div>
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Just a few weeks ago while Lily was playing (torturing) with Luxe, she called out: "<i>Mom! Luxe doesn't like roller coasters! But maybe she does a little." </i></div>
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Yep. And nope. I don't have the specifics...</div>
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But man oh man, for all the times I've thought of having mercy on the animal and kindly handing her over to a more gentle soul, I'm always reminded of the depth of love that Lily has for this creature. We had a few kids over for dinner one night, and I found some directions on Luxes cage that Lily had written for her friends: </div>
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<i>Please do not touch. If you touch she might get out. So DO NOT TOUCH. </i></div>
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Luxe has escaped her cage a number of times longing, I'm confident, for a life beyond the hands of her handler; perhaps she's looking for a quieter, saner life... maybe one without roller coasters. But through her tears of despair when Luxe has briefly escaped in the past, Lily has always managed to find the animal. </div>
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Sorry, Luxe. <br />
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We traveled back from my grandpa's funeral this last weekend. Exhausted, we trudged through the fourth airport of the weekend and made plans for a late night arrival back home that evening. <br />
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And exhaustion is what I blame for my free flowing tears over a text from home informing us that Luxe was lost. She'd escaped and had been gone the entire day. I had a moment walking through the airport when I actually asked myself: W<i>hy, for the love of the world, are you crying over a hamster? </i>Because exhaustion. Because two funerals in a month. Because I could visualize the end of my sanity. But mostly...because Lily. <br />
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I knew that once Lily received the news, the last leg home would be filled with tears, drama, speeches, more tears, and perhaps even plans for another funeral service. Because we've had a service for a pet before. The goldfish had a service and burial. <br />
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Duh. <br />
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While walking through the airport, I called a friend to talk with her....about the hamster. Listen, if you don't have a friend who will not slam the phone down when she realizes that the tears are flowing because of a lost hamster....well, you've just got to get one. And if you don't have a friend who will actually GO TO YOUR HOUSE to look for said hamster<i>.</i>...these kind are few and far between. But they're rock star friends. Everyone needs an "<i>I will drop what I'm doing and will FIND that hamster for you" </i>kind of friend.<br />
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Since the hamsters cage is upstairs, I assured my friend that the hamster would probably be upstairs looking for a new home...a safe and quiet space...without roller coasters. <br />
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But alas, the hamster was no where to be found. My rockstar friend couldn't even find evidence of a lost rodent - no drippings, no chewing, no missing treats that were put out to lure Luxe in (though the dog enjoyed several along the way). The hamster was just gone. <br />
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I couldn't blame Luxe for escaping. I kind of felt excited for her ensuing adventure and the probability of a saner life without roller coasters and squeezes and moments like: <i>"Mom, look! When you pull down her little lip you can see Luxes yellow teeth!" </i> But I also resented the hamster for the news I had to share with my seven year old. The same seven year old that asked me at different points during the weekend: <i>"Do you think Luxe got food? Do you think anyone played with Luxe? Do you think Luxe got out? Do you think Luxe misses me? </i><br />
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Yes, no, no, and...um....not at all. But I kept that last bit to myself. <br />
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My husband advised me to keep this newly found, and potentially devastating for our seven year old, information to myself until we arrived back in St. Louis.<br />
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But sometimes I do stupid things like not listen to my sane husband's advice. And thank the Lord one of us is sane. Thank goodness we were not both crying over hamsters. For the love of tears and hamsters, with that thought... things could have been far worse...<br />
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So, I told her. And her reaction did not go as I suspected. It was far worse. Through the sobs and the overly dramatic hand gestures, she said many things in a very loud voice in the middle of the airport:<br />
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<i>Why would you tell me this? Why couldn't you have waited until we were home to tell me this horrible thing? </i><br />
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Because your dad is sane and I'm stupid. <br />
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<i>Why on earth would she run away? Where on this earth is she going to go? </i><br />
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Because she's tortured. And somewhere that does not give roller coaster rides to hamsters. <br />
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<i>What if she is hurt or stuck or bleeding or electrocuted? </i><br />
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Honestly, the electrocuted concern made me laugh a little. I just picture these kinds of things and then I laugh. It's only mildly disturbing. <br />
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So, I tried to comfort her. I tried to assure her that Luxe was OK and we were going to work very hard to find her when we got home. "<i>Lily, Luxe is not hurt or electrocuted." </i><br />
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"<i>What if her legs got cut off somehow? How would she crawl back home?" </i><br />
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I'm not even sure that the loss of limbs would make her go back to whence she came, but one never knows. <i>"Lily, Luxe is fine." </i><br />
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<i>"How do you know? You're not God! Only God knows all things." </i><br />
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And so that was the end of that conversation. And as predicted there were continued tears and anxiety the rest of the way home. <br />
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Once we landed we came up with a fast getaway plan, which Lily thought was for Luxes sake but which we knew was merely for our sanity's sake. Our carry on bags had to be checked because of the small plane, so the kids and I walked quickly to the carousel. We grabbed four of the five checked bags and then waited....and waited...and waited for the pink and purple Scooby-Doo suitcase which never came out. <br />
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Lily's suitcase didn't make it home. <br />
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I stomped my way over to the baggage office, smoke could have probably been seen coming from my head, and I encountered a line. Fourteen people were ahead of me waiting to report loss luggage. <br />
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Aaaaand....loss of sanity officially occurred. <br />
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I had a proverbial temper tantrum in the line waiting to report that Scooby-Doo was missing. I said, not under my breath in any way, shape, or form: <i>"This is why we pack in CARRY ON bags so that we can be allowed to CARRY ON our bags and not have to check our CARRY ON bags. I will no longer be flying with an airline that says you can have CARRY ON bags but does not allow you to CARRY ON your BAG." </i>My son wondered who exactly I was talking to. <br />
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Whatever. <br />
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And my attitude became even more awesome when Lily started crying over all this extra time waiting that was making Luxe "even <i>more lost</i>," and my son started complaining that his iPad was <i>"almost out of battery completely." </i><span style="background-color: white;">It was like I could momentarily identify with the hamster: I needed to get out of there. I needed to escape the chaos. Could I actually hear the annoying squeaking of a hamster wheel? I was losing it. </span><br />
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If you have not experienced an adult tempter-tantrum before, they're ugly. While they vary in form, mine included very loud huffing and puffing, louder than normal chastising of children for doing things like, oh, sitting and standing, and texting angry-faced emojis to people without explanation. <br />
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Yep. <br />
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But the tantrum escalated when I became the second person in line. Because when I became the second person in line, a woman came and stood suspiciously to my side as though she might just attempt to jump in front of me in line. <br />
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There was a part of me that wanted her to cut in front of me; I was ready to *talk* with her about all the injustice in the world and all the reasons that a woman like her would feel the need to jump in the line in front of a woman like me - a woman who was exhausted, who had three children...and dying iPads.....and lost hamsters. <br />
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So when she actually took a step in front of me, I had no qualms about putting my hand on her shoulder when I said these words: <br />
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<i>"Um, Ma,am, I'm pretty sure you were BEHIND me in this line." </i><br />
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I almost didn't recognize the immaturity of what was <i>my </i>voice. "Um" and "Pretty sure?!" I might as well have sprinkled in a few "Like whatever" and "This is totally unfair" because that would have fit my behavior. <br />
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The woman turned and looked at me with wide eyes....and then began speaking in a different language. The man who was in front of me in line turned around and said in an appropriately stern voice: <br />
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<i>"Excuse me! This is my wife! We just flew in from Indonesia and lost our luggage." </i><br />
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Oh. <br />
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And so I responded responsibly and maturely: I looked down at my phone and began pretend texting someone. I PRETEND TEXTED. Citizen of the year right there, folks. <br />
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Good. Grief. <br />
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Once I was able to gather myself (and stop pretend texting), I pondered my behavior, considered the fact that lost Scooby-Doo and Luxe were just not the end of the world, and then imagined how nice it would be to crawl into a hole and briefly escape the chaos I had created around me. <br />
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I apologized profusely to the couple once I had declared Scooby-Doo missing and felt the sanity slowly begin to enter back in as I restrained myself from blaming my short fuse on our lost hamster. <br />
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It took Lily thirty minutes to find Luxe. The hamster had made her way down three flights of stairs, gathering treats along the way, crawled into a closet, up a hamper, and had begun making a little home for herself in the basket filled with stuffed animals. Talk about determination - and a really, really great plan. Slowly but surely normalcy was settling in. <br />
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And look what arrived the next day: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdEvSQ5hHqMgDtZaHYoz7KKPrdMeWs7XF1WreqGEhTdWQnKfpwruO_wIiirUc4Q6u-o46M6M3jyzCO3PQR1BvZMtvrVKH2LmqyLI1UNfYc2Q_hoY34sotmlQnTNACwn-TYYiECpF1uBY/s1600/IMG_2907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdEvSQ5hHqMgDtZaHYoz7KKPrdMeWs7XF1WreqGEhTdWQnKfpwruO_wIiirUc4Q6u-o46M6M3jyzCO3PQR1BvZMtvrVKH2LmqyLI1UNfYc2Q_hoY34sotmlQnTNACwn-TYYiECpF1uBY/s200/IMG_2907.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<i>Luxe: </i></div>
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<i>You almost made it. </i></div>
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<i>But let's face it...there are worse situations than little girl roller coasters (worse situations like having temper tantrums in airports and yelling at foreigners for standing next to their husbands in line). We can't completely escape the chaos, so let's just embrace it and not lose our sanity by doing things like escaping cages and grabbing stranger's shoulders. Keep your cool and realize, rodent, that it could always be worse. </i></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">....Um, but for you</span><i style="text-align: left;"> maybe not....</i></div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-43250316528535642512016-04-19T17:17:00.001-07:002016-04-19T19:02:46.681-07:00How Wonderful! My dad used to play the mini violin in the air for me growing up. This happened often.<br />
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If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's the sympathy violin - the one that responds readily to the "woe is me's" and the "my life is the hardest life in the history of life" kind of phrases. Those moments with my dad looked something like this: <br />
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It's not that my dad wasn't sympathetic; it's that I was a complainer. I complained about everything: the cream of wheat dad made was too hot, my pop-tarts weren't hot enough, basketball was exhausting, piano was too hard, I had more homework than anyone in the entire high school, and my bangs would never. ever. stay sprayed the right way. </div>
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Life was tough. And so I complained about it. </div>
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And so should I really be surprised when my seven year old daughter rolls around on the ground (um, not exaggerating) over the state of our car? This is the train of complaints heard most recently about this horrid problem: <i>How do you expect me to sit in this car with crumbs everywhere? The crumbs sit under me and make me itch! And then all I do is itch all the way to school...and at school...I just itch and it's all because of this car! And I have to hold all my stuff in the car so my stuff doesn't touch the crumbs and then my legs get way too tired from holding my stuff. And I can't even run at recess! </i></div>
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It's a tough life she leads. And it gets even tougher when I remind her who put the crumbs in her seat in the first place. </div>
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I often think about my grandfather when I get sucked into the ease of complaining about my misfortunes in life. And it does happen with ease, doesn't it? It's just way too easy to complain about what could have been better, what should be easier, and what isn't going right. </div>
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But my grandpa just had a totally different way of looking at life. Life to my grandfather was <i>wonderful</i>. </div>
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I will always remember the questions he'd ask about about our ongoings and with each description (difficult or not), he'd respond with an emphatic and hearty: "<i>Wonderful!" </i>He'd open his arms for an embrace and say with a smile, "<i>Wonderful!" </i></div>
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Several years ago, grandpa and I were chatting in front of the fireplace in my house while they were in town for a visit. I asked him how he was doing since he was in the midst of trying to pass several kidney stones: </div>
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"<i>Are you in pain, grandpa</i>?" </div>
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"<i>Yes," </i>and he said it with a smile. "<i>It's just so wonderful to be here with you all." </i></div>
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And not another word the entire evening about the pain plaguing his body. There was never a complaint about the suffering he faced in life: cancer, heart issues, even losing a daughter...my grandfather never ever complained. </div>
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So what was it that was so <i>wonderful</i> for my grandfather? How is it that life was worthy to live without complaint? </div>
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<b>He loved Jesus with everything he had. </b>His relationship with Jesus was clear in every conversation and in every aspect of his life. The saving work of Jesus was <i>wonderful</i> to my grandfather, and his trust in this Savior flowed out in a fierce way. I could not sit down with grandpa without being reminded that God is in control, that prayer is necessary, and that Scripture is powerful. In life and in death, he knew the Word is penetrating to the soul. </div>
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He was on his knees before God with every difficulty our family faced and with every praise for the One from whom all blessings flow. I desire so much to emulate his perspective on life. His lack of complaining was not inauthentic; he was honest while holding tightly to the promises found in Scripture. </div>
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And if those promises penetrate our hearts, how can we not rejoice in the midst of difficulty? If we truly believe that our help comes from the LORD the maker of heaven and earth, how can we not respond with praise in the trials? How can we not give thanks for both the peaks and the valleys, as difficult as that may be at times. </div>
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Our grumblings are sometimes so trivial in light of eternity. Our small complaints are mere moments of forgetfulness for what we have been given even now: <i>Life. Breath. Shelter. Family. Friendships. Church homes. Beautiful scenery. Jobs. Sunsets and flowers and food that tastes so good, </i>and what we have been promised will come: E<i>ternity with Jesus. A new heavens and new earth filled with all goodness and perfection. Life without sin and sorrow. </i></div>
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And this is nothing less than wonderful. It's <i>wonderful</i>. </div>
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Yesterday I called to check on my grandpa and while on the phone, it became clear in a matter of seconds that grandpa was going home to Jesus. I pulled into the parking lot at my kid's school and wept along with my aunt and grandma on the other end of the phone. I listened over the speaker to the heart-wrenching sounds of grief as grandpa took his last breath. In that same moment I watched as a group of young girls headed out excitedly for a birthday party. </div>
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<i>"The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the LORD." </i></div>
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And the grief was devastatingly wonderful as I listened: <i>"Do you see Jesus? You're surrounded by angels and glory." </i></div>
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Last night when I went to tuck in my youngest, I found this on her desk: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHyW_8hgkdJa6gNqZVQK4gnyUHp3tSkZGCQFQfLC8x06P0sLfAzxcgfwchu6EkP9o5kh-wNaG7mjUaufJLERuuIBJKCpqut6TSvFdsDNMfpONWTtRL9UAKAXoRmm82OtkhcSnxgscBffk/s1600/IMG_2779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHyW_8hgkdJa6gNqZVQK4gnyUHp3tSkZGCQFQfLC8x06P0sLfAzxcgfwchu6EkP9o5kh-wNaG7mjUaufJLERuuIBJKCpqut6TSvFdsDNMfpONWTtRL9UAKAXoRmm82OtkhcSnxgscBffk/s320/IMG_2779.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>People who died in my family: Ya Ya, March 15, 2016; Pa Pa Rodney, March 9, 2003; Grandpa B., April 18, 2016. </i></div>
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"<i>And mom, they're all in heaven with Jesus so we will see them again</i>." </div>
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Be still my soul. </div>
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Isn't it <i>wonderful. </i></div>
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-22610884086471885302016-04-07T17:51:00.000-07:002016-04-07T17:51:23.728-07:00The Grip I recently came across this beautiful quote by John Piper: <br />
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"<i>Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have." </i><br />
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These words have saturated my thoughts during the last couple of weeks. <br />
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What does it actually look like to grieve? Whether the death of someone dearly loved, a job lost that gave security, a perplexed place in life that has caused fear and anxiety, or a relationship broken that seemed steadfast, whatever the difficulty may be, grief can grip with a determined hold, and the question is not <i>if</i> we will face the pain of loss but <i>when </i>we experience grief's embrace, what do we do with its firm hold? <br />
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<b><i>Let grief remain for a time. </i></b><br />
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So my husband has been very patient with an unbelievable roller coaster of emotion after losing my mom: tears over salmon that was just so good (I hadn't been out to dinner for a while), more tears over mom's jewelry which led to tears over the fact that I don't have jewelry to pass on to my own kids....which led to tears over the fact that I just don't really like jewelry. <br />
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Good grief. Kind of literally. <br />
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Then there has been the anger over making school lunches (But then let's just be honest, school moms, this is <i>not</i> a seasonal anger. You know what I'm talking about.) Never-the-less, my emotions have been larger than life. And my poor husband has been a trooper with it all, not asking me to buck up and think straight, but instead he has allowed me to remain in the grip of grief for a while knowing that sometimes it has broad and unexplainable effects. <br />
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I've shared with a few friends that I'm beginning to understand the Old Testament mourning period. After mourning for a week or so in our day and age, folks innocently start popping their heads around the corner saying in all various ways: <i>you good now? you ready to get back to the good old daily grind? </i>They only cautiously pop their head around the corner, though, just in case tears start flowing over the jewelry they may be wearing - it's best to have a plan for a fast getaway from a griever. I mean, can you blame them? I'd draw out my getaway plan and put it securely in my pocket if I was confronted with someone crying over salmon. <br />
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But in the Old Testament folks would mourn for weeks and months at a time and it wasn't uncommon to find them grieving in very public ways: ripping their clothes, wearing sackcloth instead of regular clothing, and...removing all their jewelry. <br />
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Because even folks in the OT had jewelry to pass on to their kids. <br />
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Whatever. <br />
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And they wept...even hiring professional mourners who would wail loudly on their behalf for hours or days (Ex. 33:4; 2 Sam. 14:2). <br />
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My tears over salmon and jewelry just don't seem so over the top in this context. There is something to John Piper's words when he says to <i>occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. </i>I don't always do this well. In the past it's been much easier to let out a good cry then quickly sweep the rest of the deep emotions under the rug in order to get downstairs and make school lunches (stupid school lunches). <br />
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<i>But let the grief grip. </i><br />
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Being decidedly honest before Jesus and crying out smilier words as the Psalmist when he says, "<i>My eye wastes away because of grief... " </i>is good and right and it's what ultimately leads to the loosening of the grip. He is the only answer to the grip. Jesus Himself knew grief beyond grief. He was <i>acquainted </i>with grief, Scripture tells us. He was familiar with it, accustomed to it, and He knew it well. Sit for a time in the embrace of the One who understands grief, empathizes with it, and loves us in the midst of it. Drink deeply of His grace and mercy. <br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">And then allow Jesus to loosen the grip.</i><br />
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There is grace in grieving, but the grief shouldn't debilitate us indefinitely; rather, our grief should motivate us to move forward with unabashed trust in Jesus. <br />
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And this is exactly what Piper is reminding us to do: "...w<i>ash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have."</i><br />
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It's not necessarily a quick transition, but after sitting in grief's grip for a time, there is something refreshing about standing, washing off the tears, and embracing the here and now. I'm learning that kids help in pulling the here and now scene in front of my eyes when I'm having trouble walking forward. <br />
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This embracing of my current life happened for me on April fools day, and it involved my youngest monster...I mean child... who had woken at the crack of dawn in anticipation of the practical joke she couldn't wait to play on me. <br />
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I had just finished working out and was standing in the living room looking intently at my mom's rings and began deeply weeping (I'm telling you...there's something about the jewelry...). I walked into the bathroom for tissues and discovered that an entire tube of toothpaste had been squeezed out and spread from the top of the sink to the bottom. My white, porcelain sink was CREST blue. <br />
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Holy mad momma. Because how was I supposed to remember it was April fools day? <br />
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Now Lily and I were both crying. I was crying over rings and she was crying, and I quote, "because you are mad at me for squeezing out the whole toothpaste!" <br />
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Um...yes. <br />
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I sat on the floor and the "here and now" came rushing at me with force. My baby girl wanted to play a joke. She wanted to see me laugh. It was April fools day and although it was the worst possible joke to play on a mom on a school morning...when the lunches weren't even made yet....she just wanted to see me laugh. <br />
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So, I sat on the floor and laughed.<br />
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And I tried to join in the fun by playing my own practical joke later in the day (not my forte, admittedly): <br />
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<i>"Mom, I need to teach you how to do jokes. That was a bad one." </i><br />
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And there's my reality. There's my here and now. Hello sweet blessings that I've been given in this life; there are too many to count. <br />
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Stand up. Walk forward. Wipe the tears. Loosen grief's grip and continue to hold on tightly to Jesus. <br />
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His is the only grip we ultimately need. <br />
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-70113502310474173572016-03-23T18:13:00.001-07:002016-03-23T18:21:36.939-07:00Gravity and Brokenness <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re broken, finite people. I
don’t always want to believe that, and there have been times in my life when
I’ve tried to defy this reality. My
youngest likes to hear the story about the time I broke my foot in elementary school. I’m pretty sure
it’s not the broken foot that fascinates her but it’s the<i> reason </i>that it broke: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was trying to fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Duh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was not a soul who could convince me that my
plan was ridiculous. I was sure that if
I could get up …just high enough….that I could make this flying thing happen. My youngest loves to hear about this bizarre occurrence from my past and when she does, these are the kind of questions that follow: <i>“Did
you actually fly? Like maybe for five seconds did
you fly? Can you show me how high you
jumped so I can try too?” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Um, no - to everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You probably couldn't fly because your arms weren’t strong
enough. You didn’t do workouts like me when you were my age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me show you my muscle. So, I could
probably do it mom…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I bring up gravity regularly when we
discuss this story because, well, who can argue with gravity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hope is that her wide eyes that I
just know are imagining jumping off the playground bridge because her muscles
are bigger than mine, will be somewhat…um….squelched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then on one occasion, she said this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But God could have let you fly if he
wanted to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But He
didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t made to fly in my
broken state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as a child, my fractured, broken bones
reminded me of that reality for weeks after my attempt to defy gravity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom had some tough last days this side of
heaven, an ever present reminder of this broken physical state. One particular day, while she was
in and out of consciousness, I watched her wrestle to sit up on her own, even
move her leg off the bed in an attempt to stand up. I pushed her leg back into the bed with
a sense of guilt because pushing it under the covers was a way of saying to
my strong mother: <i>let your strength go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be still
and give into your weakness, mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>It
didn’t feel right to say it much less write it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But the process of dying should never feel
“Okay.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death was never the intention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reality of our frailty is not
celebratory, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>death is not good; in
fact, I’ve seen first hand how ugly it can be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Death is a result of this broken world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Jesus Himself lamented death in the book of John when His friend Lazarus died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those watching the face
of the Son of God exclaimed, “See how he loved him!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Jn 11:36) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve thought many times about the weakness that this disease caused in my mom through the years. Since her diagnosis only three years ago, she has fought to defy the
implications of a brain illness: She read out loud to her grandkids every chance
she had, but over time she simply could no longer form the words; she traveled to the beach regularly, but soon enough it became
impossible to function in a regular room without hospital equipment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet, with the loss of speech, strength, and simple abilities, she surprised us all with a unique strength of spirit that was displayed through her legs and her hand. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just three weeks before she died, mom made one last visit
to her home church. Though she was essentially wheel chair bound, mom was determined to walk down the aisle and out those church doors after the brief service. I couldn't have been more proud to watch that ten minute struggle down the aisle as she clung to the neck of her caretaker. I laughed imagining her twirling around and kicking the wheel chair to the side. Because really, she probably would have if she could have. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And while she didn't have the use of her right hand, she used that left hand to communicate everything she possible could, even in the last days. Mom pointed, hugged, pushed cups off places they shouldn't be placed (truth), and grabbed on to the things she wanted. That hand stayed so strong throughout her deterioration. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>But, the reality is that we are broken. S</i>he was broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The strength in her hand and legs</span> could not defy death; it
showed it’s ugly face and we lament it's existence, just as Jesus did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, that’s not the end of the story. Praise God it’s not the end of the
story. We weren’t saying good-bye to her
forever when we whispered in her ear:
“<i>It's ok to fly to Jesus now, mom.” </i><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU-MIvhlylage73w6tYOeQJkNpGlUd9J8sUMgAOvCMcKiQjGcoc-PI4osg7AkJbVWokP5DMr5qLhyphenhyphenZEb7Ww5XrGrvyyRRD3iUK0d_XpiExrSow0G3DhWMddRC8KgRZkEJSejgfgxqnxE/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU-MIvhlylage73w6tYOeQJkNpGlUd9J8sUMgAOvCMcKiQjGcoc-PI4osg7AkJbVWokP5DMr5qLhyphenhyphenZEb7Ww5XrGrvyyRRD3iUK0d_XpiExrSow0G3DhWMddRC8KgRZkEJSejgfgxqnxE/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For every believer in Jesus who has kissed good-bye a
precious loved one, we’re not
giving into death. Death
does not have the victory, though it feels in our weakness that it has somehow
won. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“<i>Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No. Death has
not won, but it reminds us of our brokenness without a Savior. Without Jesus, we fear the grave. With him, we have defeated it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Jesus is so close in grief. My sisters and I know His presence fills the gap where our parents used to stand. Praise God. And praise God for the brokenness that forces us to long for what mom is experiencing now: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Seeing her Redeemer, </i></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>running without growing weary, </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>celebrating without sin, </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>worshipping with a restored heart, </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>feasting with loved ones... </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>and maybe there's even some flying. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom is broken no more<i>. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmpaVTF7h1WN5Kumho8Almbcm7kgwP9kmjSvtAAtcq5flGCAqqmrR73pJHw79HnElWC5wJJz01dGAJKN7wDidJFjlGo5PugMWqpb6qcE95eYUKXOAXjFZzM2xR7bnpLTvmLrCKcNbZOA/s1600/IMG_1791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmpaVTF7h1WN5Kumho8Almbcm7kgwP9kmjSvtAAtcq5flGCAqqmrR73pJHw79HnElWC5wJJz01dGAJKN7wDidJFjlGo5PugMWqpb6qcE95eYUKXOAXjFZzM2xR7bnpLTvmLrCKcNbZOA/s320/IMG_1791.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-72904325285968694512016-03-01T17:36:00.002-08:002016-03-03T06:39:11.620-08:00Just DanceMy husband and I were watching Footloose with our oldest daughter the other night, and, of course, we started dancing during the movie. I showed my eldest all my really cool moves, and it didn't take long for her dad to join in (For the record, neither of us can <i>actually</i> dance. We pretty much look like rabid monkeys when we try to bust a move. Have fun imagining that.)<br />
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And, of course, my teenager joined in laughing and dancing with her mom and dad shouting: "This is so awesome! You guys are so awesome!" <br />
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Not at all. In reality my daughter was basically horrified. She caught our dance on video for evidence, she says, of why she may or may not need to be adopted at a later time. And she seems to enjoy sharing these videos. She's so generous. <br />
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"Mom," she said after I had accidentally tripped over the bench and fallen on top of her, "you guys are just not normal." <br />
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And neither were my parents when I was a teenager, of course. My parents were just, plain odd when I was in junior high. Take my dad, for example, whose nickname for me was "Mongrel." Yep.<br />
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"<i>Hey, Mongrel! Time for dinner." </i>So, this sort of command was common, and even somewhat affectionate coming from my dad, but while I heard, "Hey, Katie come and eat," my friends probably heard, "Hey, crossbreed! Come get your feed." It just wasn't a terribly conventional nickname, but I'll never forget it. <br />
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And then there was my mom: a woman who at the age of sixteen had the awesome opportunity to watch the completion of the St. Louis Arch. With all the excitement in St. Louis at the time, she and a friend decided to attend the opening day at the arch. When they arrived for the big event, the line to get in the doors was incredibly long. Noticing that the handicap folks were allowed to go straight to the front of the line, my mom did what any normal person would do. She acted like she was blind so she could jump to the front. <br />
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Duh. <br />
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Oh, yes she did. I asked her on many occasions why a blind person would want to experience the sights from the top of the arch. "Duh," she'd say. <br />
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Kidding, kidding.... <br />
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Oh, mom. She would just smile a conniving smile and remind us that she was one of the first people to enter the doors of the arch, and she held in every bit of "oooh" and "ahhh" whilst at the top. Instead, she stared straight ahead with her friend guiding her along, both relishing in their bizarre accomplishment. <br />
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So, not much normalcy there either. And definitely a story that even the grandkids have remembered through the years: "<i>Tell us that story of when Ya Ya pretended like she couldn't see so that she could go up in the arch to see what it was like!" </i>Yep. <br />
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But this abnormal behavior goes back even farther. When my parents were engaged, my mom's grandpa was anxious to meet the young beau who had taken my mom's heart. So, my dad and great-grandpa met. Mom introduced dad to her grandfather saying, "Grandpa, this is my future husband." My grandfather, who could see clear as crystal, held out his hand and said, "Yes, well, I'm blind and can't see you." And my dad bought it. <br />
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Hook, line, and sinker. For the remainder of the night, healthy-eyes grandpa Witmer was blind as a bat as far as my dad knew. And I'm pretty sure no one's ever going to forget that story. <br />
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But then there's also my husband, lest you think this uncharacteristic behavior is one sided. In college he would dress up like gandhi. Why, you wonder? Well, because new students would visit the campus. <br />
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Duh. <br />
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And so he would greet new students dressed like this: <br />
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And then he would say in his gandhi accent: "This is the flower of life. This is the flower of death." And it would look something like this: </div>
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His college friends will still talk about gandhi when reminiscing about good old college days, and there's just not much more I need to say about that. The pictures speak a thousand words. Or create strange thoughts. Or produce questions. Or just leave you bewildered. Something along those lines. </div>
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Just this last week my husband and I had a proud parent moment while watching my son impersonate Napoleon Dynamite in front of his entire school. Yes, that's right. All in one sentence: proud parents and impersonating Napoleon Dynamite. While each class prepared group lip syncs, Jrod approached us with the idea of doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance by himself, and all we could think was: </div>
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<i>Awesome. </i> </div>
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He spent hours learning from tutorials, chatting about his progress with friends from church, and he watched the dance over and over....and over again. And then he did it. My son danced a choreographed dance by himself, dressed up as the ultimate nerd, and while it was pretty unusual for an elementary school lip sync, it was pretty awesome. </div>
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And really, this is something he'll remember forever. It's probably something I'll remember forever, standing and clapping for this odd dance like a mother whose kid just won the Nobel prize. There's just something great about doing things a little uncharacteristically, living fully in the moment, and embracing the abnormal every once-in-a-while. Dance. Greet others like gandhi. Wear a huge wig, moon boots, and bust a move. Why not? Have fun, enjoy this life we've been given, and make memories along the way. Life's too short to only be normal all the time. And I'm pretty sure my eldest daughter is starting to embrace this herself: </div>
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Cheers, my girl! Mom has videos too....</div>
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-18924232748432964652016-02-01T16:58:00.003-08:002016-02-02T10:55:03.250-08:00Contentment and Toy Dinosaurs I recently came across some pictures of my kids from several years back. Here is just a sampling of what I found: <br />
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I mean, come on. They were edible. Those cheeks for heaven's sake! But these pictures made me acutely aware of something more than the fact that my kids were completely endearing when they were babies; these pictures made me attentive to my desperate discontentedness. <br />
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My husband was the first victim of my state of gloom: <i>I want them to be that young again! They were so cute, and they really liked me, and they cuddled, and Jrod liked dinosuars....honey do you remember when our son liked...dinosaurs? </i>And this was followed by more jabber and ugly tears and blah, blah, blah. <br />
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I couldn't let it go. I mean, I could <i>not </i>let it go. All the anxious thoughts of how quickly life goes by, how short my time is with my kids, and how much I wished J-rod still liked dinosaurs sat on me like a heavy brick while lying in bed that night. And so, I did what everyone does when they can't sleep because their kids are getting older and no longer playing with dinosaurs: I opened their baby books and began flipping through the pages (incidentally, I have two baby books and three children. This is because, as many of you know and what I have learned from friends, number three doesn't exist as far as pictures are concerned....until about...oh...graduation day). <br />
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But something unexpected happened while flipping through the pages: I started <i>actually </i>remembering the days when my kids were babies. I'm not far enough removed from it that I remembered quite vividly... the poop. <br />
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Oh, the poop. There was so much of it. Diaper after diaper, mess after mess, and explosion after explosion. My son, God bless him, would "paint" with what was left in his diapers during his "quiet time" in his room. And "quiet time" should always go in quotations just because, well, you know what I'm talking about, moms. <br />
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The first time I discovered his "art," I cracked... just a *wee* bit. It was absolutely disgusting and it was absolutely everywhere. After several stern warnings and explanations of why this so was stinking (literally) bad, my son went to "quiet time" the next day and fully submitted to all of our rules and warnings. <br />
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Not at all. <br />
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His art was even more extensive than the previous days "quiet time." This went on for several days in a row until I threw my hands up and did what any mom would do who needed to remain coherent. I wrapped his diapers with duct-tape. A lot of duct tape. <br />
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My son had duct-taped diapers for the entire second year of his existence. Next to his changing table we had placed in organized bins: diapers, wet ones, bags, and...duct tape (duh). It worked brilliantly except for the nursery time at church. How does a person succinctly and courteously explain to one volunteer after another why there is duct tape in the diaper bag, and, um, on his diapers? <br />
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And then I also remembered the cold coffee. I'm quite certain that I didn't drink a hot cup of coffee that wasn't reheated sixteen times for about five years. I can still recall opening the microwave and finding my cup of coffee from the previous day. And there may or may not have been times that I pressed "quick cook" as soon as I found it. Gross. <br />
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And I remembered the lack of sleep. The kind of lack of sleep where my face actually hurt. Like I remember my cheeks hurting because I was so tired. Is that a real thing? Cheek pain from being so tired? I think it is. <br />
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Moms of babes: you're super women. And there is light at the end of the tunnel: you will enjoy a hot cup of non-reheated coffee and painless cheeks someday soon. Praise be. <br />
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And I remembered how many times I longed for my babies to be older. I remember being excited about the next birthday because it meant they'd be that much more independent, but then in the same moment I would have opposite thoughts: <i>don't get bigger. You're so cute and chubby and I don't want you to get bigger. Ever. </i>And then, before I knew it, there would be poop, cheeks hurting, and cold coffee...and I couldn't wait for them to be older. I'm kind of a Jekyll and Hyde mom: <i>Grow up! Please grow down. Go experience the world! Please never leave home. Like ever. </i><br />
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I struggle at times living in a constant state of discontent and very seldom do I focus on the stage of life that is <i>today.</i> Instead, my tendency is to focus either on where I've been or where I'm going. This kind of discontentedness is so common for parents, I'm fully aware, but as I've been seeking out what it looks like to have a contented life, I've been gently reminded of what it means that "godliness <i>with contentment</i> is great gain." <br />
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In his book, <u>To Live is Christ to Die is Gain, </u> author Matt Chandler says this: <br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">If the grace of life is replete with treasuring Christ, then w<u>e have a joyful duty to live as unto the Lord with all our might.</u> When we seek joy and contentment anywhere outside of Christ we do so to our own disappointment and destruction, and even to the detriment of others around us. </span></i></div>
<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><u><br /></u></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that I seek </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">with all my might</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> whatever I can to cover up my occasional gloom</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">: a conversation with a friend that involves little else that me complaining - just because I need to get the woes of my life "off my chest." But I also cover it up with a night out, Netflix or even a book that I can't put down, all of which are great things but ultimately leave me in the exact same state of dissatisfaction. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm beginning to understand that these states are similar to the times when I'm hungry (which is more often than not) and need food. Crackers will cover up my hunger pangs only for a while, but soon enough I'm gonna need some </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">food</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> to satisfy</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">. </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Satisfaction won't ultimately come from more crackers; I mean, thank the LORD for meat, and potatoes, and fish, and veggies. And bread...we can never forget the bread. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can be filled to overflowing with everything that doesn't ultimately satisfy and still wonder why in the world I'm not content. Outwardly I appear very calm (and let's just remember that calm is relative), but inwardly I'm bursting with discontent until I'm able to step aside, refocus, and stop feeding myself crackers. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't fully enjoy all the blessings God provides in life unless I do so in the framework of His glory: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">To live unto the Lord with all our might. </i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My grandmother recently shared a story of a friend who lost her grand-daughter in a tragic car accident. At age twenty-two, her grand-daughter was on her way to her first day of teaching and was struck by a young man who had fallen asleep at the wheel in the early morning. The woman died later that night. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How do you breathe after something like this much less find contentment in the midst of it? </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">By living unto the Lord with all of our might. </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">This kind of living is not always simplistic; in fact, the journey in working out what living unto the Lord actually looks like is usually messy and complicated, but the end result will always be the same: Grace. Grace in the midst of the trials; grace in the sludge of dissatisfaction; grace when we're discontent. It's what allows us to find the road again that leads us back to Him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This precious family who lost their grand-daughter had the opportunity to tell the young man who caused the accident about Jesus. He gave His life to the Lord. And a year later the young man's entire family gave their lives to Jesus, finding out, by God's grace, that there is such a thing as ultimate contentment in the midst of a terrific storm. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was helping my ill-mom try to walk the other day, and I couldn't help but think about this sort of contented living. For my mom, walking is about carefully and slowly putting one step in front of the other. Some days it comes more easily than others, but it always takes desire and commitment and it never happens without someone who is stronger to hold her up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm quite confident that I'll have many more tears of gloom over what my seven year old calls "the good old days" (she's seven, folks), but my prayer is that I will be satisfied in the desire and commitment to live unto Him </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">with all of my might</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> knowing that He's holding me up along the way. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
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And ultimately, my friends, it's in that grip that we find contentment in ALL things - kids growing, sickness appearing, life changing, and even relationships in need of healing. I'm deeply grateful for these gentle reminders that bring peace and resolve instead of dissatisfaction and can allow me to relish the days of picking up iPads and school planners while remembering with thankfulness that it used to be toy dinosaurs. <br />
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<span class="text 1Tim-6-7" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-43430476282912557232016-01-13T20:08:00.002-08:002016-01-14T03:52:55.795-08:00Reality Check<div style="line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 2px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as I think I've got this parenting thing under my belt, the Lord slaps some good and needed humility in my face. And that's when I experience the preverbal "reality check." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because the reality is, I have no idea what I'm actually doing (Take comfort, children. Your dad has some<i> </i>idea. And if not he, we have some good friends who have successfully raised their children; they have a few extra bedrooms available). The reality is that I need an abundance of Grace in attempting this thing we call "raising children," and I need it every single day. And sometimes the hardest reality for me to swallow: I am <i>not </i>in control. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm confronted with these parental realities somewhat regularly. Take, for example, the conversation I had with my younger daughter a few weeks ago about sitting in church: "Lily, why don't you write down a few things that you hear dad preach about during the sermon today, and then we can talk about you learned. It's so important to listen and learn from God's Word." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"OK, mom." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was one of those parenting moments where I slapped my hands together, patted my back, and thought, "<i>There we go. Important, spiritual lesson learned</i>." Well done, mom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then this was handed to me after the service: </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was eating my cheeseburger. I could taste the cheese chicken and bread. It was time for class. Bob tripped me and I pushed Bob. The teacher sent me to the principal. I tried to tell him I was right and Bob was wrong. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yep. Reality check - cheeseburgers and Bob instead of grace and forgiveness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then there was the "encouragement" from my youngest when I asked her how mom and dad are doing as parents: "<i>Well, so, um, Dad's good because He tells us and people about God and loves them. And mom, you're good because you show us good TV shows and stuff to eat." </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, good. I'm so glad to hear that Dad's got the spiritual stuff covered so that mom can focus on the important things....like T.V. and food. And so there's a nice dose of reality. Just in case I secretly pictured myself like this: </span></div>
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This <i>might </i>be a little more realistic....</div>
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Good. Grief. </div>
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And then, of course, there's all the wonderful and complicated and crazy aspects of raising a teenager. Just yesterday I reprimanded my oldest for not talking more to me. <i>"Just tell me something! Anything! Words more than 'Yes,' 'No,' and 'Maybe!" </i>I actually threatened to print out a list of vocabulary words that might help in our deliberations. </div>
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And then, through her tears: <i>"Mom! Sometimes I just don't know what words to say." </i></div>
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I stared at her for a moment and was immediately confronted with an important realization: my daughter is <i>different </i>than me. Duh, I know. And yet because words have always come so easily for me (which is not always a good thing), I can't understand not having them to spew out to the person in front of me. Each and every parent teacher conference was like a broken record: <i>Katie tends to speak out of turn. </i></div>
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I spoke out of turn, in turn, and around every turn. Coincidentally, my middle is my penance for this flaw. I sat across from my son's teacher at conferences this fall and she said, "<i>Jrod tends to speak out of turn." </i>Yup. Penance. </div>
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But that's not my oldest. She's quiet, she's introspective, and she's not me. Her words will be fewer, and sometimes they come out in a picture or drawing, and those words are usually something pretty profound. The reality is that she is a beautiful child of God that I will spend a life time learning about, and I will probably verbally process my way through it. </div>
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We asked our kids recently where they thought they would be in ten years. Here were their answers: </div>
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My oldest will be 23: <i>I'll have graduated from NYU with a degree in performing arts. I'll be living in the middle of the city and I have no earthly idea if I'll be married. </i></div>
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My son will be 21: <i>I'll be running cross country for Covenant College (and will, of course, be one of the best runners), and I will be majoring in history. I'll be looking for a job as a cop, though I may move to Italy in order to run (I'm pretty sure it would be fun to run in Italy). I'll also be married to a tan, athletic girl who is a christian and who is NOT a girlie-girl. At all. </i></div>
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My youngest will be 17: <i>I'll be driving all my friends around to get hot chocolate. And I'll be going to Covenant College and my boyfriend will be Ian because we're the same. We both like to annoy people a little bit and he's quiet so it's OK I talk a lot." </i></div>
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(I may have more than one child who's excessive words are a part of my penance). </div>
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<i>A</i>s I sat listening to their ten year predictions, I realized with everything in me that there will be so much joy in their future. But there will also be much sorrow, profound happiness, and a lot of hurt. I wish I could pave a path of ease and predictability. I wish I could make it so that my girl's biggest concern in life will be where to find the best hot chocolate. But I can't. </div>
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And frankly, I shouldn't want to. The greatest growth in my own life happened when I was confronted with situations that made me uncomfortable, the Lord drew me closer to himself through pain and brokenness, and my eyes were opened in profound ways while serving people in other countries, taking me out of the only comfort I had ever known as a teenager. As difficult as I'm sure it was for my own parents, I'm eternally grateful to them for allowing me to experience, fall, trudge, and hurt. </div>
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I visited my grandparents last week at their retirement home in Quarryville, PA. It was a sweet couple of days with them, in spite of the difficult journey that God has called them to walk these last several weeks and months. I had a few moments with just my grandfather and as he talked, I kept thinking how he exuded faith and trust in God. </div>
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He's led a wonderful life, but it certainly hasn't been without difficulty. And in the moments we spoke, he mentioned the frustration of not being able to walk on his own due to a heart condition, and he grieved his daughter, my mother, who lives hundreds of miles away in a similar care center because of a debilitating disease, but he also talked about how he prays for us daily, how he relishes in the opportunity to bring all his family before the throne of God. He has been, and continues to be, a man who continually points me to Jesus, who seeks the Truth, and who trusts His Savior in all circumstances. This has always been His highest calling. </div>
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And he reminded me of that calling. My parenting reality becomes blurred when I lose perspective on my calling both as a mom and as a believer in Jesus. </div>
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Scotty Smith wrote this beautiful prayer, reflecting on our responsibility to steward our children: </div>
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<i>Since our children and grandchildren are <b>your </b>inheritance, God, help us to parent as humble stewards, not as anxious owners—whether they are infants or adults. Show us how to parent, and grandparent, in ways that best reveal the unsearchable riches of Christ. </i></div>
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I'm not called to parent perfectly - there's no such thing. The perfect mom, dad, or grandparent does not exist....no matter what social media portrays through pretentious pictures and phrases. I'm not called to live for my children, as tempting as that can be, nor should I be chained to fear over what may or may not happen to them. I <i>am</i> called to live for the glory of God with my whole heart and seek to parent in light of this, my highest calling...</div>
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...and a very welcomed reality check. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-54315540031562182492015-12-24T19:49:00.004-08:002015-12-26T09:59:48.709-08:00Christmas Through the TearsTears are not absent during the holidays. In fact, I've talked with enough friends and family in the last few days to know that tears are likely prevalent during Christmas. There's no doubt a lot of joy and happiness during this time, praise the Lord for the smiles and laughter, but there may also be sadness. And praise the Lord for tears. Tears over the loss of what used to be, an ache from the longing of a child absent in the family circle, grief from the loss of a father or mother who was here last Christmas but is gone today, or an illness that seems to have taken precedence over every important thing in life. <br />
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And then there are the everyday tears that don't seem to stay away just because it's Christmas. Tears were shed on the way home from church on Christmas Eve because my youngest was reprimanded for kicking her older sister. Tears. And lots of them. Because "<i>everyone in the entire world thinks I'm annoying. Every single person in this entire earth!</i>" I'm glad she's not over-dramatic. </div>
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And then the tears while watching The Nativity with the family the night before Christmas. The tears were not due to the amazing reality of the incarnation. No. The tears were due to the killing of a cow. "<i>Why would they kill a cow, dad? Why a cow? What did the cow do to them?" </i>And so we press pause to explain Old Testament animal sacrifice to our seven year old. And then she completely understood. Not at all. <br />
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But for some reason, in the midst of the longing and sadness, there is a sense in which swallowing the tears is the <i>right </i>thing to do on Christmas. It's Christmas, for heaven's sake. We should all be happy and smiles, right? Bottle up the tears and let them flow any other day....just not on Christmas. </div>
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But we live in a broken world. And I'm incredibly grateful that we can celebrate the beauty of the incarnation through the tears. I'm grateful that Jesus came into this world so that He can understand and identify with our longing and pain. I'm thankful that Jesus showed us His own tears and that His birth was announced not to the kings of the earth, but to humble shepherds. And I'm thankful that the birth of our Savior took place in a stable and not a palace. I'm sure it smelled; I'm quite certain it was <i>not </i>all that silent, and his bed wasn't perfectly prepared ahead of time, but instead he lay in a trough. It's the smelly, noisy, not tidied-up kind of place that I can relate with. Jesus made himself man for you and for me. </div>
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All this is what we see <i>through </i>the tears. </div>
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I sat in front of my Christmas tree this morning and let the tears flow. I miss my dad and the days when family members from all over would meet together and spend hours eating, opening presents, and celebrating together our Savior's birth. I miss the meals my mom would cook and the baths my kids would take at their grandma's house, and I even miss the days when I would rebuke mom for giving my kids ten too many pieces of M &M's. </div>
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But I see much through the tears. I see a day beyond when we will actually <i>see </i>the King of Kings, and not through unclear and hazy eyes because there will no longer be crying, a promise so deserving of our Hallelujahs. And through the tears I see Christmas. I see my Savior and the Splendor of the incarnation.</div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">For to </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">us</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">a</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">child</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">is</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">born</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">, to </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">us</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">a</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> son </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">is</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> given; </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">a</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">nd the government shall be upon his shoulder, </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">a</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">nd his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.</span></i></div>
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The implications of Jesus taking on humanity is as deeply felt as the tears on my face. This is Grace. This is Joy unspeakable. This is the true meaning of Christmas. </div>
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There will be joy tomorrow, and I'm sure there will be a lot of happy munchkins tearing through the packages, but for some there may be tears. There's no need to bottle them just because it's Christmas. See Christmas <i>through t</i>he tears; it's a beautiful sight to behold. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-29363534683210232412015-12-20T14:39:00.001-08:002015-12-22T09:50:59.043-08:00Christmas Letter 2015<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBSXRia_Pk_xswth5rucnl-QeVQx85MWdDKpVHEfWYRGVAUYcvbIsTKTGpHwcKH-WGbX47PEkw17r40G7-Hus9eDdxffU8YmPDy1b8jkARXDwmdMSzdPTzZaLKgkcRjelPlnwWeYxD3kE/s1600/IMG_1926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBSXRia_Pk_xswth5rucnl-QeVQx85MWdDKpVHEfWYRGVAUYcvbIsTKTGpHwcKH-WGbX47PEkw17r40G7-Hus9eDdxffU8YmPDy1b8jkARXDwmdMSzdPTzZaLKgkcRjelPlnwWeYxD3kE/s200/IMG_1926.JPG" width="150" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; font-size: 13.0pt;">New Unabridged 2015 Polski Dictionary<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; font-size: 13.0pt;">Fully Revised and Updated<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">out</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">·</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">land</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">·</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">ish </span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">(</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">out-<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">lan</span>-dish)</span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> adjective</span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-themecolor: text1;">freakishly or
grotesquely strange or odd; bizarre</span><span style="color: #535353; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">. 2. what Chris thought of Katie’s
idea to bring home a bearded dragon as a pet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">flab</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">-er-gast</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">\</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">ˈ</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">fla-b</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">ə</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">r-</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">ˌ</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">gast\</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"> ), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">verb</i></span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">. 1. </span><span style="color: #1a2935; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">to overwhelm with shock, surprise, or wonder. 2. Chris’ reaction
when Katie brought home a hamster after returning two pet rats only months
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MvXijHn-9CWOeuPDuUYC0n9yyiZyl1qUD8kRD_5jsGIJz2d2Rqf2Z3Xq-vUp52i_Vw6wMYZhRzHkrxi8zhi9tFYjenBAlRLyZ1TmF8nWlUIEcQCRZme3W_E8jZMn8gxy9EBJ02vE9q8/s1600/IMG_1599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MvXijHn-9CWOeuPDuUYC0n9yyiZyl1qUD8kRD_5jsGIJz2d2Rqf2Z3Xq-vUp52i_Vw6wMYZhRzHkrxi8zhi9tFYjenBAlRLyZ1TmF8nWlUIEcQCRZme3W_E8jZMn8gxy9EBJ02vE9q8/s200/IMG_1599.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Li-ly [ </span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">prin-<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ses</span>], <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">noun</i></span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"> 1. a 7 year old girl in first
grade who loves arts and crafts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a child who asks more questions than her
parents thought was humanly possible (see also: Dumb-found). 3. a young girl
who enjoys make-believe 4. someone who has recently started piano and is showing
great talent in this new venture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5.
an emotional child who requested that her father perform a funeral service for
her dead goldfish. 5. a one-of-a-kind girl taking after….well….we’re not
entirely sure…and who loves her pet hamster, Luxe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Dumb-found [ </span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">duhm</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">-found], <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">verb</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-themecolor: text1;">to make
speechless with amazement; astonish.</span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
way the entire family feels by some of lily’s questions:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How
come Adam and Eve didn’t listen to God; Has God ever made a mistake; What
happens if I keep on sinning; Who makes me sin; Do I have to sit next to my
brother in heaven </i>(just to name a few)<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>3. The expression on Katie’s face when
she saw Chris’ Systematic Theology book as reading material by Lily’s bed this
summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2gPzv3zx5LgqJWAMdyJDRhuXgFXOEEB_UsVrKeCW2QeSRZZmLj8ZUKPZoalvhBS45ptAbDOucBv7BXqIp0QNpiQlnOaU9Wy6csUsw2w11iUtLF2xayPcGLexd2B69Ra_rkSAhpXdGdE/s1600/IMG_0247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2gPzv3zx5LgqJWAMdyJDRhuXgFXOEEB_UsVrKeCW2QeSRZZmLj8ZUKPZoalvhBS45ptAbDOucBv7BXqIp0QNpiQlnOaU9Wy6csUsw2w11iUtLF2xayPcGLexd2B69Ra_rkSAhpXdGdE/s200/IMG_0247.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Chris-to-pher (Chris), </span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">[<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">kris</span>-t<i>uh</i>-fer], </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">noun</span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1. a person who has been reading
thousands of pages for his Doctor of Ministry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2. a pastor who is leading a growing church in
Kirkwood, MO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3. a busy dad who drives
the kids to school nearly every morning and performs funerals for fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4. a Homiletics instructor who teaches preaching
and listens to three student sermons each Wednesday afternoon. 5. a pretty
happy U2 fan who enjoyed rocking out at two concerts this summer. 6. an awesome
dad who would be perfectly happy with no pets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Ka-th-leen (Katie), </span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">[kath-<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">leen</span>],</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">noun</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">
</span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1. a
busy mom who actually doesn’t mind shuttling the kiddos to and fro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone
who enjoyed speaking for a women’s retreat in Ann Arbor, Michigan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
runner who achieved a personal record for a half marathon this fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
caretaker for her faithful and determined mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5. a pianist who teaches multiple students
and played in a Bach concert with two beautiful violinists<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
writer who enjoys blogging almost more than she enjoys having multiple pets
around the house <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Over-joy</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">[oh-ver-<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">joi</span>]</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">verb</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-themecolor: text1;">to cause to feel
great </span><a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/joy"><span style="color: black; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-themecolor: text1; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">joy</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-themecolor: text1;"> or delight; elate</span><span style="color: #3065b1; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;">.</span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2. the emotion Katie felt when playing the
concert in January.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the way two out of three children felt when
they brought home new pets this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the way Max the dog feels when
an older sibling rescues him from Lily’s dress-up sessions.</span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">El-la (teen a ger), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">noun</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">
</span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">1. a thirteen
year old girl who is exceedingly passionate. 2. a teenager who loves rainy days
and hopes to live in Seattle someday (because it’s rainy and they drink a lot
of coffee).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3. a talented girl who has
taken up contemporary dance and is excelling in this new activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4. an athlete who continues to show her tough
side on the basketball court and soccer field. 5. a teen who is sought after by
young moms at church for her “baby whispering” abilities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>6. a thirteen year girl old who loves (loves,
loves, loves) One Direction, Taylor Swift, and all things Pop music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>7. a young woman who is learning guitar and
played in her first recital this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>8. a kid who takes after her father in many
ways and who would prefer to never have a pet. Ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Huh (hu<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">), interj</i></span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">. 1. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-themecolor: text1;">used to express
surprise, disbelief, or confusion.</span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">
2. Chris and Katie’s reaction when they realized Jrod’s team of computer
programmers, of which Jrod was the youngest contestant ever, won a competition
during a weekend event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3. Chris, Katie,
and Jrod’s reaction when they realized Jrod’s share of the prize for said event
was six thousand dollars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4. Katie’s
reaction when Jrod said he wanted to use his money to purchase his friends
extra candy and soda over the summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrahPsjGAfYEHkrh-N6QQp4BsmmwAiuGSs1YLdWv_wdnBze_bf_MdYPSyIbsxYADcjOZjGJXgM2sXjhCccUIHdssJv6siZPwPWH06bCYXyDIs5Lnw4QjuLIosz_O3_GHrhKQkDyjPoqto/s1600/IMG_0739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrahPsjGAfYEHkrh-N6QQp4BsmmwAiuGSs1YLdWv_wdnBze_bf_MdYPSyIbsxYADcjOZjGJXgM2sXjhCccUIHdssJv6siZPwPWH06bCYXyDIs5Lnw4QjuLIosz_O3_GHrhKQkDyjPoqto/s200/IMG_0739.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Jon-a-than (Jrod),</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana;"> [<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">goof</span>-bawl], </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">noun</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">
</span></i><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1. an 11 year old boy full of an enormous
amount of energy and life. 2. a pre-teen more comfortable conversing with
adults than kids his own age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a kid who left soccer to take up
running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a boy who is fiercely competitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5. an athlete who finally (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally) </i>beat his mom in a 5K race, much
to his mother’s demise. 6. an eleven year old who plays violin beautifully and
has enjoyed playing in church, school, and recitals. 7. an eleven year old who
learns computer programming every Saturday and has plans to take over the world
with his abilities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>8. a young man who
had a blast at his first U2 concert with his dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>9. a boy who is his mother personified and
who loves his pet bearded dragon named Smaug. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Joy-ful <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">\</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">ˈ</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">j</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">ȯ</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">i-f</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "times new roman";">ə</span><span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">l\), adjective</span><span style="font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1. experiencing, causing, or showing great
joy. 2. how we feel when we think of our Savior’s birth and the promise of the
gospel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3. the emotion we have when we
think of all of our friends and family around the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">Merry Christmas and
love to all!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: green; font-family: "abadi mt condensed light";">The Polskis<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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P.S. We were AWESOME at selfies this year. Just awesome. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-73089598536562284232015-12-10T17:38:00.001-08:002015-12-10T17:38:28.604-08:00Birthday Reflections: Barbies and Joy Man, oh, man. I <i>feel </i>like I should be about twenty-five. Maybe twenty-six, but since today is my birthday, and I <i>feel</i> like I'm in my mid-twenties, then I shall declare today my twenty-sixth birthday. Why not. It certainly sounds better than sixty-two, which is how old my daughter guessed I was. <br />
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I've been doing a lot of reflecting today, on this twenty-sixth birthday of mine, and mostly on Joy. <br />
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When I was younger, birthday's were a BIG deal in my house. There were sweets, presents galore, and always a big party with the girls in my class. I remember bounce places, indoor pools, Little Caesar's pizza, and one party at home (and I'm pretty sure that was the last one at home). In the exact words of my <i>seven </i>year old daughter, "I miss the days of my youth." <br />
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And after every party my parents would ask, "Are you happy?" <br />
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Of course I was happy. I loved parties, I loved the attention, and I loved, loved, loved presents. And so, it was all fun and games...and smiles and laughs...until one year, the one present I was <i>dying </i>for was not received. <br />
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Gasp. <br />
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I know. Who would withhold a Barbie from a sevenish-year old (regardless of the fact that she had seventeen other Barbie dolls)? Oh, the cruelty.<br />
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I found a picture online of the Barbie I had been dreaming to call <i>mine</i>. I remember it well because alas, I got it for Christmas fifteen days later. Spoiled. Rotten. <br />
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But through the tears on December 10th, sometime in the eighties, I remember my dad sitting next to me on my bed explaining, with as many kind words as he could muster, how absurd it was to cry over one toy when I had so many others. He told me, perhaps out of frustration, that I had to make a <i>choice </i>to be joyful about what I had been given. </div>
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In my moment of ridiculous drama, I'm pretty sure that dad's words sounded something like, "blah blah, stop crying, blah, blah, be joyful." But that conversation stuck with me. And what my dad proceeded to teach me over the course of the next several years, whether he knew it or not, was the importance of <i>choosing </i>joy. </div>
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And this memory struck a chord with me today while I spent most of the day helping my mom and step-father. </div>
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I have been given all the joy from my heavenly father. In fact, in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed that we would be given the full measure of <i>His</i> joy. We have it, we possess it, but we've got to chose it. </div>
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And this joy isn't the same thing as happiness. Not at all. </div>
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I wasn't happy today when I watched my mom scream out in terrible pain. I wasn't happy when an old friend of Dads looked over my shoulder at mom and almost gasped. I wasn't happy when she grabbed my hand as tightly as she could when we told her it was my birthday, and I wasn't happy when she started weeping uncontrollably. I had a deep sadness in those moments, and in my mom's small room today, happiness would have been an unfitting and absurd emotion. </div>
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But there is still joy. </div>
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It's the same joy that Job found when he cried out in faith after loosing everything but his life: "The Lord gives and the Lord taketh away. <i>Blessed be the name of the Lord." </i>And it's the same joy that Mary found in the midst of fear at the news that she was carrying the Savior: <i>"My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior." </i>These emotions have nothing to do with happiness but everything to do with joy that comes from God alone. </div>
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This gift of joy is unspeakable. It isn't depleted when we're faced with losing loved ones, and it doesn't dwindle when our sadness intensifies. Instead, this joy transforms and transcends tears, heartaches, and trouble. </div>
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Joy. I choose it, I embrace it, and I'm grateful of it. Even now, sitting here reflecting on the hope I have no matter what He gives or takes, no matter how hard or easy the day is, and no matter what tomorrow brings, I weep with tears of Joy. </div>
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It really wasn't a <i>happy </i>birthday, per say. But it was a joyful one, and I couldn't ask for a greater gift. </div>
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Joyful birthday to me. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-52933246843445180842015-11-29T15:12:00.002-08:002015-11-29T17:37:34.959-08:00Stories to Sing Life is full of stories to tell. Sometimes I think about my stories like songs that I've learned throughout the years. Some stories are written in a minor key and sung slowly and methodically. Others are filled with major chords and are sung faster with much joy and anticipation. <br />
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Some stories are so fabulously awkward that they just have to be revisited. Like the time that I approached a dear woman who had recently been through bladder surgery. I knew she had surgery, but at the time I had no idea what kind. So, when she quietly confided that she was doing well other than a few accidents, I innocently (and stupidly) assumed....<i>car </i>accidents. And, folks, I responded: <br />
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"Oh, I've had several. There's no need to be down about it as long as you're OK." <br />
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With a twist of her head, the sweet and patient woman responded: "You've had several?" <br />
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"I have. In fact, between you and me, I just had a small one last week. I know they're not fun, but you're not alone." <br />
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And that was that. The "accidents" were never spoken about again. It was fabulously awkward and I didn't even know it. <br />
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My side of the story makes me cringe to this day. I'm an idiot. And her side of the story? Well, you have to wonder if she doesn't watch every time I walk out of the room while nudging her husband and whispering "maybe she's had another accident." <br />
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Geez. <br />
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And then there are the stories of remembrance. The other day I was sweeping out my garage and was hit with a very sweet memory of my grandfather. I called the kids outside so they could share in my memory, and I explained with tears in my eyes how Grandpa "B" would spend time meticulously cleaning out our garage every time he'd come to visit. I was flooded with memories of my thoughtful and cheerful grandpa who would always make sure that we had a clean garage, and though he's now physically hindered from doing much of anything, he still has the same cheerful attitude.<br />
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Of course, then, I led my kids into an emotionally charged speech about selflessness and the importance of doing things for others. I was envisioning a scene from Braveheart when in reality I was urging my kids in the middle of the garage. And with my broom. <br />
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I'm pretty certain that if my kids remember those few moments in the years to come, they may remember two things: Mom loved her grandpa and mom is crazy. <br />
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And I'm always amazed by the stories of rememberance about my dad. I love hearing them. These stories are so precious to me and to my family. The stories of how he loved Advent, treasured music, visited them in their home, attended a Cardinal's game with their family, loved on their kids, and even led them to the Lord. Each story is a strand that puts together a beautifully woven picture of a man who was deeply loved. <br />
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And yet, I have my own, different stories about my dad. Stories that include hard but important talks about life, arguments over whether or not I could wear a certain dress to church, hugs when he dropped me off at college, reprimands about careless accidents, and a few awkward talks over boys. These are <i>my </i>precious stories to tell. <br />
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There will always be significant moments in life we're determined to remember. We were privileged to be a part of the wedding of some dear friends a few weeks ago. I remember on my own wedding day having a friend urge me to "take it all in." I spent time embracing it all by focusing on parts of the day that I didn't want to ever slip away. And so I shared similar advice with this beautiful bride: There will be certain moments you won't want to ever forget. Say out loud that you'll remember them, and I guarantee that you will. <br />
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And those moments will one day make up her wedding day stories. <br />
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We spent part of Thanksgiving with my mom at her assisted living facility. For a few precious moments, we sat around a large table with my sister and her family and we sang for mom. We sang Christmas songs that declared the story of Jesus. Mom sat quietly in her wheel chair, and I wasn't entirely sure what she thought about the singing until I looked at her face and noticed the tears streaming down. With a huge lump in my throat, I looked down and wondered what she might one day tell about this moment. <br />
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Because she can't communicate, I often think about the questions I'll ask her in heaven one day. Among the various questions, I look forward to hearing what she thought of those Thanksgiving day moments. Perhaps the tears were from a deep love for her family, or maybe they were tears of frustration because of her inability to sing along and cradle her grand-babies while singing Away in a Manger. Maybe she was thinking of holidays past when her house was filled with the sounds of kids and grandkids singing, talking, and playing. Or maybe the tears were due to our inability to harmonize. My husband and I tried while singing around the table, and we failed miserably. I'm guessing Mom's tears flowed for many of these reasons. But that is her story to one day tell. And I can't wait to hear it. <br />
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I have my own story about those moments. With my head down, I thanked God for a family that loves God and declares his glories unabashedly in the middle of a retirement home. I will always remember those tears around that table, and I will never forget mom's youngest grankiddos tenderly hugging her and saying, "love you, Ya-Ya." <br />
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As Anne Lamott has said about story-telling: "<i>All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions." </i></div>
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Every story and different rendition holds significance because they are shared with someone. And the story of the incarnation is no different. Each gospel story sings the same glorious song about the truth of the story of Jesus, but each is told with different detail and different emphasis.</div>
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It's the greatest story ever told. The story of God who became man and entered earth as a baby to redeem people like you and me, people who are desperately in need of a Savior. It's a story of a Redeemer who died in a painful and humiliating way because He loves me with a love that I don't always fully understand but daily try to embrace with gratitude and thanksgiving. </div>
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This is my story. It's an unlikely story but it's one that has changed me. It's a story that moves me to tears when I think about the daily implications of it; it's a story of mercy, grace, and unconditional love, thanks be to God. </div>
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It's a story that compels me. </div>
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It's a story filled with all sorts of major and minor keys. </div>
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And it's a story that I hope to never stop singing.</div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-48528324560912802282015-11-11T16:46:00.002-08:002015-11-12T02:58:47.573-08:00The CupWhen I was younger, I was afraid that a giant strawberry might come into my room at night and attack me. I remember on one particular night screaming out about the strawberry. I mean, wouldn't <i>you?</i>! My dad came in, blurry-eyed I'm sure, and he offered me a cup of water. I drank that water right down and behold: that cup was a fruit killer. Seriously. Well done, dad. <br />
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But the big strawberry fear just never went away. Lest you judge too quickly, this peculiar fear <i>must </i>have come from something my parents let me watch on T.V. Therefore, my abnormalities are not due to my own strange mind. Right? <i>Right? </i>Somehow, I'm sure that my fear of giant fruit had to be their fault. Somehow. <br />
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OK, <i>maybe </i>it's just my quirky, God-given imagination that led me to believe fruit could end my life. But in reality I was quite afraid of this non-existant berry. I mean, I was terrified enough that I had trouble sleeping some nights. In fact, as I sit here and write I can actually picture the strawberry that eventually made its way into my thoughts and dreams. It was big. Like really big, folks. It took up most of my bedroom and wasn't ripe and cheery; instead, it was a little mushy on top. So as a youngster I feared going to bed at night because of the mushy, oversized strawberry that was waiting to attack. I mean, wouldn't <i>you</i>?!<br />
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I considered all the various ways I could fight back when the the fruit decided to make an appearance, but really nothing was going to work. <i>Nothing! </i>As a young, defeated fruit fearer, I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to call for dad and have him fight the strawberry for me. Or just have him bring me a cup of water. One or the other. <br />
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And so there's that. <br />
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Thankfully, I have somewhat relinquished my fear of giant strawberries, but not so fortunately my fear of oversized objects has remained.<br />
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I have no rational way to explain this fear, so here is a picture to help me expound: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8x4-hpQsAfrzTk1NY7AAgFm997L5QbcoxTWU76bDSbXlLoWpQ0KXOTH5TgNP_FwWQ6V54-zoi1car_SAqmWcPPDVLaDTHHFqbFhDJ0ZPPBsf3Ubvi9tncf2cIXlgc3p03DXJMZnssaU/s1600/oversized.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8x4-hpQsAfrzTk1NY7AAgFm997L5QbcoxTWU76bDSbXlLoWpQ0KXOTH5TgNP_FwWQ6V54-zoi1car_SAqmWcPPDVLaDTHHFqbFhDJ0ZPPBsf3Ubvi9tncf2cIXlgc3p03DXJMZnssaU/s320/oversized.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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For clarification purposes, if I was the person on that jet ski, I would die. In fact, having this picture on the blog makes my heart skip a few beats, but I shall sacrifice for the sake of my readers just so they can be clear on the illogicality of my fear. At least I did not post a picture of a strawberry (although, if the strawberry was oversized....) </div>
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I've only met one other person in my life who has this same fear. I've never experienced such a connection before. Our discovery of this similarity went something like this: </div>
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Me: "<i>Well, I have kind of a weird fear." </i></div>
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Friend: <i>"Oh, I have a weird fear too." </i></div>
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Me: "<i>Probably not as weird as mine. See I'm afraid of oversized...."</i></div>
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Friend: <i>"...objects! Like really, huge..." </i></div>
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Me: "<i>....things!" </i></div>
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Friend: <i>"Super big whales!" </i></div>
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Both: <i>"Ah!" </i></div>
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Me: <i>"Huge buildings and boats and....strawberries!" </i></div>
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OK, so maybe the strawberry thing put me into a different category, but the commanlity was uncanny. I'm pretty sure I heard the Michael W. Smith song playing somewhere in the background of our conversation: "<i>And friends are friends forever when you share such dumb fears..." </i>Or something like that. </div>
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With my odd fears, I shouldn't have found it strange that my youngest child moved her baby dolls out of her bedroom the other night "<i>because, mom, they might come alive and attack me</i>." </div>
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Duh. </div>
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But I did find it strange, and mostly because seeing this in the hallway in the morning was just, plain creepy. Poor kid. The preverbal apple just doesn't fall far from the tree. </div>
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Everyone has fears and anxieties. Perhaps they're not quite as odd as ours, but we've all got them. And actually, it's not the "oversized" fears that seem to aggravate day in and day out; rather, it's the smaller fears that tug regularly and are felt deep within. It's these small fears that tend to grow uncontrollably and can sound at times like drumming in the ears, though we can appear calm and collected from the outside. </div>
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It's those fears that I hate the most: <i>What if my mom is hurting and we don't know because she can't communicate with us anymore? What if that bump on my kid is more than just a bump? What if I get cancer like so many in my family? What if we make the wrong decision about moving, finances, or our kids schooling? What if, what if, what if. </i></div>
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So many "what if's" and so many future possibilities that are simply not my current realities. St. Augustine is quoted time and time again: "<i>Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee," </i>and yet I seem to intuitively rephrase the quote to say something along the lines of: "My heart is restless until someone tells me 'it'll be OK,' or until Netflix or a good book temporarily calms my anxieties." How unfortunate that I regularly rewrite Augustine's quote because it just doesn't work. </div>
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Psalm 16:5 says: </div>
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<b>"Lord, you have assigned me my portion </b></div>
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<b><i>and my cup</i>; you have made my lot secure." </b></div>
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Our shallow cup of fears should be drained with acceptance, since the deep cup that Jesus has given us will never be emptied of His grace, mercy, forgiveness, unconditional love, and the truth that Jesus alone maintains our lot. Drink deeply of this cup and let the truth of what is in it settle the "what ifs" that so quickly and fiercely invade. </div>
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Through God's Word, I'm reminded daily that to reach for the unknown is to welcome in anxiety. To sort through all the possibilities of what could, should, might....simply opens the door to the temptation to idolize my own fears as they so easily cloud my view of a perfect, Sovereign Savior. </div>
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Every difficulty that I currently face could have been cause for deep anxiety had I named them as "what if's" in years past. And yet in the mire of today's stresses, the Spirit supplies the <i>strength</i> and <i>peace</i> needed to trudge forward knowing that nothing is out of the control of the Almighty. </div>
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It's strange, that cup of water that as a child seemed to ever so quickly kill off large and overwhelming fears. </div>
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But there <i>is</i> a cup that calms our fears. Drink deeply. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-60045238589734543812015-10-26T17:10:00.000-07:002015-10-27T16:33:02.249-07:00Grace and SaintsToday I'm particularly thankful for two things: My husband and GRACE. <br />
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I'm leading a discussion on a passage from Colossians in a couple of weeks that deals in part with a Biblical understanding of what a relationship looks like between a husband and wife. In reflecting on my own relationship, I've come to a hard and fast conclusion: <br />
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My husband is a saint. <br />
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I mean, seriously. <br />
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OK, so he's not perfect (incidentally, he vociferously denies his own sainthood, just in case you were wondering). But, if someone is going to receive a gold medal in glory for those who "Put Up With Quite a Bit From Their Wife," I, for one, am certain my husband just might have that gold hanging around his neck. In-depth study of the Bible can be convicting (thank you, Holy Spirit and Inherent Word) and I must say that I've been deeply convicted this week. <br />
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There were several points given in one commentary* that help explain what our responsibilities are as wives, according to the passage in Colossians. As an aside, this passage, and others like it in Scripture, has nothing to do with women being less important, insignificant, not equal, weak....must I go on? Not. At. All.<br />
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On the contrary, God is <i>for</i> both husband and wife in equal amount, <i>and</i> He provides us with guidelines as to what our responsibilities are in marriage because our roles in this God-given relationship aren't to be taken lightly. And thank God for the guidelines! Because, folks, it's good and right to <i>want </i>to do all we can to help our relationships be the best they can be. We work on things we care about, and for planners like me, I'm grateful to have something to work <i>towards. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>In reality,<i> we have responsibilities in every single relationship in our lives: </i> boss to employee, employee to boss, parent to child, child to parent, citizen to government - we have responsibilities in every relationship. So, it should be no surprise that we have responsibilities in our marriages as well. <br />
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So, here are a few of the summary points of our obligations in marriage, and just a few of the simple examples of why I felt, um, a <i>little bit </i>convicted: <br />
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<i>1. We're called to commit our life and all it's possibilities to another</i><br />
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I was talking with a friend recently about those who are "germaphobes." She argued that she's not a germaphobe; rather, she's merely "germ aware." Totally. That's totally it. I'm germ aware. I'm aware of germ's pervasiveness...<i>way </i>more than I should be. <br />
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So, for example, if the possibility of the stomach bug comes anywhere remotely near my husband's body, it's "adios, honey!"and I'll see you when it's over...once the sheets are disinfected....and the walls Cloroxed...<br />
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I can hear enough through the small crack in the bottom of the door, so if things like liquid are needed (necessary) then I'll enter with my mask, gloves, and suit (kidding, kidding....kind of....) and provide the necessary electrolytes. <br />
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<i>In other words</i>, my interpretation: I'll commit all of life's possibilities, as long as they don't disrupt me, my plans for the day, and my narotic "germ aware" ness. <br />
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<i>Convicted. </i><br />
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<i>2. We should be concerned with wanting the other person's good (not just wanting the other person to meet my needs) </i><br />
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We have a tradition on birthdays. The celebrated gets to pick any restaurant for dinner, and the two of us, along with some friends, enjoy the fact that we have a good excuse to go out and eat good food (although I must admit, my husband and I find "good excuses" to go out more often than not: We both woke up that morning, I didn't strangle children, no one stepped on bubble gum, etc. Cheers!) <br />
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So, on his birthday my husband picked a particular restaurant. But it didn't have fish. And I really wanted fish. I rationalized: we both have to eat. Naturally, then, we should go to a restuarant that has the food <i>I </i>want on my <i>husband's </i>birthday. Duh.<br />
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Geez. The stink I put up was worse than the smell of dead fish itself. Sometimes it's hard to see past the desire for smoked salmon. <br />
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No, it's actually not. It's simply a matter of choosing to see the other person's needs and desires, but too often we're fixated on the mirror of needs and wants in front of us. <br />
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And that's when we fight for the fish. <br />
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<i>Convicted. </i><br />
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<i>3. We should be concerned for the ultimate well-being of another without trying to control that person or to win praise for such sacrifice. </i><br />
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I have occasional night time freak outs. Anybody? PALEEASE tell me that someone else has these frantic moments that seem to hit late at night. For those of you who have never had the pleasure...<br />
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Essentially, every joy, sorrow, pain, and anxious thought hits me all at once, and it's always late at night. I overheard my oldest describing what she sporadically hears late at night as "occasional adult temper-tantrums." <br />
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Touché', my dear, touché'. <br />
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Because basically, that's what they are. They're adult temper-tantrums, and the output of all my words and emotions are directed straight toward my husband. Why? Because he's standing there. That's why. <br />
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It doesn't matter what happened in his day because when I get going into my fits of "the world is against me," "woe is me," "has anyone even SEEN how many times I took out the trash this week," "I can't take anymore," blah, blah, I leave very little room for concern over what has happened in his day...his week....year.... and am selfishly and desperately looking for some kind of pat on my back that says "you rock, honey." <br />
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What? Ridiculous, really. <br />
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And every morning I become acutely aware of the absurdity of my night time need for accolades and disregard for the partner by my side. Thank the Lord that His mercies are new every morning. <br />
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<i>Convicted. </i><br />
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<i>4. We should be listening to the other. </i><br />
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Sometimes the most basic instruction, and in this case it's simply <i>listening</i>, can be the most difficult to follow. Why? Because we're so desperate to get our own point across that we miss everything being said. Not listening to each other (really listening) results in fruitless and potentially damaging conversations. <br />
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Sometimes my listening skills look something like this: <br />
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Chris: "Don't bring home anymore pets because you'll end up taking care of them yourself! The kids will do it for a week and then you'll end up putting more on your plate." <br />
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What he was saying: For the love. Don't bring home another animal from PetSmart <i>for your own sake! </i><br />
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What I heard him say: I hate animals! Curse pets! They should all be free and not bound in a cage!<br />
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I brought home a bearded-dragon and hamster within two months of each other. I'm daily cleaning up poop and buying more animal food, cursing the pets each time I go near their cages. <br />
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I should've listened.<br />
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<i>Convicted. </i><br />
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It's too easy to put a relationship's problems on the other person, but until we <i>each</i> recognize our Biblical calling and the weaknesses that we need to work through, until we are truly <i>convicted </i>by our own sin<i>, </i>our marriages cannot thrive. <br />
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And this is why I'm deeply grateful for grace today. Today, God's grace abounds to me, and I'm thankful that I am not on my own in this journey. None of us are. If you're a believer in Jesus, grace abounds and is given again and again, over and over. And in marriage grace is needed in abundance. <br />
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Today I'm praising God for His grace and for His Mercy. <br />
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And today I personally give thanks for my saint. I mean husband.<br />
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<i>*<u>The NIV Application Commentary: Colossians, Philemon</u> by David Garland</i><br />
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-91433630363977417142015-10-12T18:42:00.003-07:002015-10-12T18:42:44.748-07:00Hamsters and Sweaters and All Our Earthly ThingsMy husband used my youngest in a sermon illustration on Sunday. This isn't abnormal, especially since Lily lends herself quite well to illustrations, mostly because, well, she's Lily. What <i>was </i>abnormal was that she knew about it. Lily usually sits with friends because of our various responsibilities Sunday mornings, and she typically leaves for children's church during the sermons. So, I was surprised when she walked up to her father immediately following the service with her finger pointing and words of reprimand rolling off her tongue. <br />
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After listening to her tantrum (i.e., "Why would you tell everyone that I might burn the house down?!" and "This is the worst day of my life..." etc, etc), my husband assured her that he wouldn't use her in sermon illustrations anymore to which she replied, "What? Dad! <i>PAALEASE. </i>I like being in sermons." <br />
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Duh, dad. <br />
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So, when I asked Lily why she stayed in church for the sermon, she merely replied, "Mom, sometimes a person just needs a sermon." <br />
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Tis true, Lily, tis true. And yesterday, I needed the sermon that my husband preached. In reflecting on 1 Corinthians 7, he put up the following quote from author and professor, Gordon Fee: <br />
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"<i>One lives in the world just as the rest - married, sorrowing, rejoicing, buying, making use of it - but none of these determines one's life...Christians do not buy to possess; that is to let the world govern the reason for buying. Those who buy are to do so 'as if not' in terms of possessing anything." </i><br />
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In other words, we don't marry to find eternal happiness. We don't grieve without hope, and we don't rejoice without remembering who it is that gives us our joy. And our possessions? They don't ultimately have eternal value. <br />
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While I believe this in my heart, my excruciating, dramatic tantrum over my oldest daughter wearing my brand new sweater the other day <i>might </i>have suggested otherwise. But we all act like our things have eternal value at one time or another, and kids are sometimes prime examples of this viewpoint. Aren't they? <br />
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I bought my daughter a hamster last week. There was no question that I walked into PetSmart with the intention of purchasing a goldfish to replace the dead and buried (like, literally buried) "Goldy," but the reality is that I walked out with a hamster. <br />
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I'm a sucker for animals. I just am. And this little furry ball of cuteness was too much for me to handle, and so he came home with us. I was overjoyed, my daughter was a blissful pet-owner, my son couldn't wait to get his hands on the creature, but then there's my oldest and her father (they are one in the same). She had no desire to look at the animal. Like, not even <i>look </i>at it? I just do not understand. And my husband said very little; he simply expressed curiosity about who would win a fight between the hamster and our bearded dragon: Luxe vs. Smaug. I'm not gonna lie. I imagined that fight.<br />
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And now that my daughter has tasted what it's like to have a pet of her <i>own, </i>she is completely and utterly possessive of it. There are rules: No one can touch it without her permission; no one can go near the cage without her permission; you must only say sweet words to it (she prefers us to use higher-pitched voices), and she has already inquired about it's eternal destiny: <i>"Will Luxe go to heaven with me?" </i><br />
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And, oh, how I get it. As a kid, I had my own rules for my younger sisters when it came to holding my baby dolls (Alice and Mary Katherine. Yes, I still remember their names. And yes, that's mildly embarrassing to admit). I posted signs on my door that said "yes," meaning a sister could come in and hold <i>one </i>baby of her choice for a <i>brief </i>time. The sign that said "no" simply meant stay away from my baby dolls. Duh. <br />
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Now that I'm older, it's less about the <i>things </i>around me (with the exception of new, winter sweaters) and more about the loved ones in my life. I was struck with the reality that I can be as sinfully possessive of my own family as I can material possessions. They can easily take the place of Jesus if I let them. But they are not mine. I don't own them, control them, and I certainly can't make them into the people I think they should be. They ultimately belong to him. As soon as I ache at the thought of something bad happening to any of them, I'm tenderly reminded that they do not <i>belong </i>to me, they belong to Jesus. <br />
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And there is so much beauty in this truth. The beauty is seen in the hands of grace that envelop the constant battle going on in my heart over what exactly determines my life: Is it my marriage? My job? My children? My talents? No, grace wraps it's arms around that battle, calms the conflict, and reminds me that Christ's redeeming love determines my life. Period. <br />
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Traveling home the other day, I checked my phone messages before stepping on the plane. The message that was left nearly took my breath away: "<i>Katie, your mom's about to meet Jesus." </i><br />
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She continues to battle, though, and the "end" signs seemed to be related to her medications. But I sat on the plane for 90 minutes not knowing what news would greet me upon landing and stared out at this beautiful view for the entirety of the flight:<br />
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Psalm 121 kept coming to mind: <i>"I lift up my eyes to the hills - where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth." </i></div>
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Our help doesn't ultimately come in the form of material things, nor does it ultimately come in the people around us. Our help comes from the Lord. This is where we find peace; this is where we find our greatest joy. With tears streaming down my face, I quietly rejoiced in the fact that I know Jesus. Without Him, as much as I own on this earth, I have nothing. But with Him, I simply have all that I need. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-33821827214839804982015-09-29T14:04:00.001-07:002015-09-29T18:03:05.113-07:00Abba Father So, lily is really into being a pastor's kid these days. Like <i>really </i>into it, and honestly, I hope she keeps that level of excitement over her plot in life for a very long time. <br />
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She attended a birthday party over the weekend, and when someone recognized her from vacation bible school, Lily went into excitement mode. Excitement mode involves lily talking very fast, not necessarily with big emotion, just fast with words that all seem to run together. It's kind of like one long, overstated hashtag. And her excitement wasn't over the fact that she was recognized (or that she was at a pretty awesome birthday party), but her excitement was over the reality that Bible school was held at her church...where her dad is the pastor. So, her response went something like this: <br />
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#Iamthepastor'sCHILDatthatchurchthepastor'sCHILDandIcanshowyouanythinginthatchurchbecause<br />
Iamthepastor'sCHILDofthatchurchandmydadisthepastorsoI'mthepastor'sCHILD<br />
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Yep. Just about like that. The kid adores being a pastor's CHILD - she loves it, embraces it, and even brags about it. I asked Lily what is so cool about being a pastor's kid, and here are the top three great things about being a PK according to my seven-year old: <br />
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1. You get hideaways in the pastor's office when you're a pastor's CHILD. <br />
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Lily believes that the hideout she has created under her dad's desk is a giant perk. There may be a time in the near future when Lily discovers that hideouts aren't necessarily unique to pastor's kids, but for now, she chalks up her hideout in the pastor's office as a plus to being a "PK," so....so do we.<br />
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If you were to check out lily's hideout, here are a few items you'd encouter: an extra pair of socks (because, well, lily), tissues (unused and used), cups for water (in case of an emergency), dolls (duh), stuffed animals, and...from time to time...a Bible. <br />
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This hideout is important for several reasons, according to my youngest. First, she needs a place to go during the time of prayer held in dad's office before the worship service. "Well, mom, I can't sit with the elders. And why would I go out to the playground??" Right....because why would a seven year old go out to the playground? Come on, mom. <br />
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The hideout is also significant for certain church "clubs." What I've noticed is that once lily befriends someone at church, and feels them out over the course of...a few minutes, she then proceeds to let them in on her secret space. And once you see the secret space, you're in. Like literally. They all gather in the hideout. In fact, on one particular Sunday during worship we noticed that Lily was missing. <br />
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I'm mildly embarrassed to admit how long it took me to notice this, but both mom and dad are on stage during worship, so, well, I'm just grateful for a church family who keeps an eye out - and who thinks to look in the hideout when pastor's children are missing. Sure enough, lily and her friend were conducting their own private Sunday school in the hideout. "Mom, come on, we had a Bible!" That club meeting ended rather abruptly. <br />
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Yep. <br />
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2. You can ask your dad all your questions about God because he's a pastor and you're a pastor's CHILD. <br />
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So, her questions can wear you out. There are times when the questioning begins and my husband and I just look at each other. We're both imagining doing this:<br />
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Sweet lily. We don't bolt. We endure. And her dad does a much better job than I do at trying to answer each question she has. Her questions for her pastor dad are big: </div>
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<i>Where is heaven, dad? But like WHERE? Will I look like this in heaven, dad? Can I be a teenager in heaven, Dad? Do all kids go to heaven, dad? Did Jesus have a beard? Why does God let Satan do stuff, dad? </i>And, of course: <i>Dad? Can I have a key to the church, dad? Just one key, dad. </i></div>
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3. When your dad is a pastor, he can do funerals for your fish when they die - like when "Goldy" died a couple of days ago and dad buried him and read from the Bible. </div>
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And there's just not much more to say about that. </div>
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She claims the title of pastor's kid proudly - she loves it, embraces it, and even brags about it. And wouldn't you if you had a dad to conduct funerals for the goldfish? </div>
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I have the privilege of speaking for a women's retreat this weekend, and the theme for the weekend is <i>Kingdom Heirs. </i>I can't tell you how much God has worked on my heart while preparing for these talks. </div>
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The beauty of what it means to be a child of God is something that I haven't reveled in enough. But when I let the depth of that relationship encompass me, I'm overwhelmed with the implications of what it means that I can call God, the creator of the universe, my father. He is my father; while my earthly one is gone, He is there to comfort me, love me, rejoice over me, and guide me. I know this because I experience His faithfulness daily, which is one of the greatest benefits of being His child. But there are other rewards as well. </div>
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In the midst of anxiety that can at times seem paralyzing, God makes himself known in simple places like a sunrise or sunset. Their beauty speaks volumes to the reality of a God who cares for His creation, and if He cares for His creation with such detail, just imagine how much more He cares for His children. And the gentle words of encouragement from a friend are reminders of God's tender love in the midst of pain and difficulty. He is never absent in the journey. The hands that give faithfully and generously are reminders of God's provision for His children in every single way. I breath in deeply these never ending pictures of God's grace, all of them just glimpses of the joy and glory that awaits us when we receive our inheritance in full. </div>
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To those who are believers in Jesus: He is our KING; we are heirs of His Kingdom; we are His beloved children. Claim the title proudly - we have reason to do so. Love it, embrace it....brag about it. </div>
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You are a CHILD of the King. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-64917639186871369282015-09-03T12:07:00.000-07:002015-09-03T12:07:03.895-07:00Racing in HimI'm a runner. Ok, so I'm kind of a wanna-be-runner, and I know this because of time spent in running stores. A few months ago I bought a new pair of running shoes, and while checking out the various options, I asked the gentlemen who was assisting to show me the best pair of running shoes he had available. So, he walked into the next aisle, picked up a pair shoes and said, "<i>These</i>." Imagine angelic light shining down on the pair of shoes because that's exactly what it was like. They were heavenly shoes. <br />
<br />
So, after admiring the divine shoes, he asked me how many miles I get in during the week. I told him. And that's when he put down the golden shoes. The light retracted and he said, "let's look over in <i>this </i>aisle." <br />
<br />
Whatever. <br />
<br />
It's at that point that I felt the need to throw out there one of my greatest accomplishments: "I ran a marathon once." And I said it with no reason to say it. Maybe a part of me was figuring he would say, "<i>What?!? You're amazing. How? When? Where</i>?" And then run back and grab the heavenly shoes. But, he didn't. He just smiled. <br />
<br />
And then it was awkward. <br />
<br />
So, regardless of whether or not I am a "real<i>" </i>runner in the eyes of the lord of the running store, I sure enjoy running. And I'm not entirely sure why. <br />
<br />
When it's hot, it's pretty miserable. When it's freezing, it's pretty miserable. There's usually something between my head and feet that aches before, during, or after the run, but there's just something about it. Maybe it's the "runner's high" that I've heard about (though when I've described this "high" to others, I've been told that I can get the same sensation from eating Jelly Beans. I kind of believe them). <br />
<br />
I'm pretty competitive. Um, maybe very competitive. Ok, if I'm going to be honest, I'm extremely and ridiculously competitive. As much as I love seeing my youngest excited when she wins something, I just can't bring myself to let her win any of the games we play together. Yes, I know, she's only seven. But still. <br />
<br />
My son told me the other day how fast he could run a mile. Yep. We went outside and raced...and I won. The problem was that I barely won. Thus far I had been able to clean up shop on Shoots and Ladders, pool games, basketball games, and Clue, so this was too close a call. Of course, my son wanted to race again. <br />
<br />
And that's when it happened. He beat me. He beat me fair and square. So, naturally I told him we were going to do it again. And...he beat me...again. He embraced the win like nothing I've ever seen. He then wanted to have a competition in about ten different physical activities. What ensued was a fierce battle that included: 1. Who can balance on the exercise ball the longest 2. Who can bounce on the exercise ball the longest without touching their legs to the ground 3. Who can do the longest plank 4. Who can do the most pull ups, etcetera, etcetera, et...ridiculous...cetera. <br />
<br />
When he wanted to see who could eat the most cinnamon, I drew the preverbal line (though I made sure he knew I could eat far more than he ever could). <br />
<br />
Where he gets this competitive nature, I will never know. <br />
<br />
His winnings are proudly displayed with the smile that appears on his face every time we walk by the pull up bar together. "<i>Hey, Mom, want to try just oooone. Just one, mom. Come on. Here, I'll show you how to do ten." </i><br />
<br />
Funny, Jrod. Just hilarious. And then we usually do a timed sit up contest. Mom still rules in a few areas. <br />
<br />
He decided a couple of weeks ago that he wanted to join a cross county and track team. When I picked him up from his first practice, I asked him how it went. While wiping his forehead, he said: <br />
"<i>It was the intensest, super hardest and most ridiculously awesome thing I've ever done in my whole, entire life.</i>" <br />
<br />
I have no idea where he gets his drama either. <br />
<br />
But that's it. That's totally it. Running<i> is</i> so hard, but it's so rewarding. There's an end goal that must be achieved and meeting that end goal, while passing others and beating your last time, of course, is indescribably...awesome. <br />
<br />
I was reading Colossians the other day in preparation for our upcoming Bible study. Colossians 2:6 and 7 stood out to me in a profound way: <br />
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<i>Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving. </i></div>
<i><br /></i>
It's been a challenging couple of weeks caring for my mom who's been ill for several years now. I was reminded when we saw a doctor yesterday of the rarity of her disease, and while we sat in the waiting room feeding her, I watched with deep sorrow as she could barely swallow the soft food given to her. My mom, however, does not give up easily. She mustered every bit of strength she could to do what needed to be done (my fierceness didn't come from no where). But each time I lifted a bit of food to her mouth and heard her moan with frustration, I screamed inside: "<i>Relieve her, God!" </i>And then this verse. <br />
<br />
We're <i>In Him. </i>Someone asked me recently if there are any medicines available to counteract the disease. No. There's not. But, there's Grace. We walk <i>in Him</i> through paths that are utterly confusing and painful, not beside him or behind him, but <i>in Him</i>. That's the remedy. I'm never left alone with my tears. So, thanksgiving through tears. Mom is never without Him in her suffering. So, thanksgiving through the pain. <br />
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And <i>walk. </i>Don't forget to walk. We're called to continue to move forward, and as a wanna-be-runner, I get it. I get that in a race you never quit the course (especially if racing J-rod), I get that you keep moving forward even if it means spurts of walking...skipping, hopping...however you get to the end, you get there. The gospel is there not only for conversion, it's there for us while we grow, wrestle, and move forward through this life - it's there every step of the way. And it's grace that enables us to continue to move forward. Like running, moving forward through a difficult journey in life can be intense and super hard, but what we're promised in the end is ridiculously awesome. I believe that with my whole heart. <br />
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Grace enables me to lift food to mom's mouth and carry her to bed. Grace gives her the perseverance to swallow when she can. Grace gives her the strength to press on until the end. And Jesus Himself will be waiting at the finish line. <br />
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But that won't be a surprise to mom. She's been racing in Him all along. <br />
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-85113207911114600562015-08-24T11:29:00.001-07:002015-08-24T11:37:30.564-07:00The Miracle of Coolness My thirteen year old told me the other day that she was sad for me. <br />
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And it's not because her crazy, busy schedule means I have a crazy, busy schedule. And it's not because of the stresses that come with caring for an ill parent or the difficulties and demands of life in general. <br />
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My daughter is sad for me because of my Instagram feed. <br />
<br />
Duh. <br />
<br />
And also because I don't quite make the right choices when it comes to color...of make up and nail polish, but those are mere minors. It was the majors that finally got to her - like my Instagram feed. <br />
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She explained that my feed is just a bunch of pictures...of other people's kids. Uh-huh. I know what she wanted to yell: where's the fun, where's the excitement, what is this thing you call life, mom?! <br />
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And that's when she broke it to me: "<i>Mom, it's just.... like....well...you don't need to try to act cool</i><i>...because you're not cool. But that's OK, mom." </i><br />
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I'm so glad she broke the difficult but necessary news to me. And, frankly, I'm a little surprised it took her this long to figure it out. <br />
<br />
My minivan alone could give it away. I mean, minivan. <br />
<br />
But beyond that, my ride has a dented and broken front bumper that also has a missing license plate on the front because of the dented bumper. And it also has said license plate sitting on the hutch between the driver and passenger seat. I use it for my breakfast plate in the mornings. I figured out this system after dropping a blueberry on my seat...and sitting on it...and not knowing it. That was fun. And cool. To add to the car's excitement, it also has a broken volume dial, so when a danceable song comes on the radio, I crank it....to volume level TWO. Yup. <br />
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And yes, I just referred to my minivan as "my ride" and barely caught it. <br />
<br />
I fully admit, my eldest, that I also don't always have the coolest responses in the world. Like, for example, that time your new youth leaders asked for ideas of things kids your age like to do, and I suggested they take you for "an after school snack." Oh, yes I did. <br />
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And I won't argue that not noticing I was wearing my shorts inside out when in public <i>may </i>be construed as a little "dorky," but at least they weren't backwards. You know? <br />
<br />
There's no doubt that yelling at your locker and calling it names while trying to hang contact paper the day before eighth grade started may not have been the coolest move on my part. Let's just be glad that the guy who walked past wasn't one of your teachers. He's a custodian, honey, so you only have to see him like just a few times during the week. Just a few. And suggesting we put the leftover black contact paper on your teachers window....<br />
<br />
I know. <br />
<br />
Not cool. <br />
<br />
I remember very clearly when my own parents lost their "coolness." Remarkably, I was right about the same age as my eldest. They even walked uncool. In fact, I distinctly remember seeing my mom one time walking into my seventh grade hallway. I couldn't handle it so much that I turned and went right up the stairs on the opposite side of the hall. <br />
<br />
But, here's the miracle, oh daughter of mine: my parents somehow grew out of their un-coolness. It was inexplicable, I tell you! Nothing short of miraculous. I actually <i>wanted </i>them to drive me to college and for some strange reason their ridiculous advice and crazy antidotes became....funny. <br />
<br />
Crazy, I know. <br />
<br />
I took my mom to get her nails done last week and brought with me my oldest and youngest daughter. We all sat next to each other getting our toes painted. My youngest picked out her color and when I told her I loved what she chose, she smiled big. When I told my eldest I liked her color, she proceeded to switch colors (because picking what the uncool thinks is cool has potentially devastating affects). <br />
<br />
Of course, due to my current failure of polish color, I had my eldest daughter assist in my color choice. My mom can't speak anymore and has trouble communicating her emotions, but she's still my mom, and she can still disapprove. I couldn't help but laugh at her obvious disapproval of my black toenails that I allowed my eldest to pick out for me. <br />
<br />
Because for some reason I'm still trying to be cool. Even though I still drive my minivan. <br />
<br />
And I watched as my mom's toenails were painted. She's worn the same color as long as I can remember, and when I was in Jr. High, I tried to stop her from making such demoralizing mistakes. But, somehow, it looks lovely now. Miracle of miracles. My lovely momma, even as she fades. And amazingly, I have no shame in putting my arm around her, smiling, and telling her that I love her even though she disapproves of my nails. <br />
<br />
Someday, my sweet daughter, my polish choice will inexplicably become a good color. I may or may not still put my shorts on the right way and may drop you off to college jamming to T-Swift at volume level two. <br />
<br />
And yes, I just used the word, "jamming," and just admitted that I listen to Swifty (and yes, I just said that too). Now you can die to the world. <br />
<br />
But when you put your arm around me and smile, I will know that you experienced the same miracle I did. <br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-35210436895534896492015-08-05T18:41:00.000-07:002015-08-05T19:06:33.427-07:00The Two Words It Takes for a Mom to Get Through a One Direction Concert There is no doubt that what parents do for their kiddos is usually under appreciated. There just aren't enough thank you's, in my humble opinion. <br />
<br />
Take, for example, the dinner I made the other night. It wasn't a quick, easy one (I do plenty of those) but actually took time, planning, and for heaven's sake I was really excited about my meal. <br />
<br />
My husband liked it. I liked it. No, I loved it. It was really good. And I freely admit we've made some really bad ones. Here's one of those bad ones: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwsS_zbC6RmzuvEB097-LNMWwLX8X3NfTXrqLNXCCCcSSCv9UZxElJH8lgxm3DRmsWc4k_bHrHGhTeKCC2Knv7PxlpVG9VQr2xg_ayhyKP3OTNx_HI3p-qhQiIIL7Ne7GJkBlqYqcNvk/s1600/11828665_10152884103181736_99355709539190487_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwsS_zbC6RmzuvEB097-LNMWwLX8X3NfTXrqLNXCCCcSSCv9UZxElJH8lgxm3DRmsWc4k_bHrHGhTeKCC2Knv7PxlpVG9VQr2xg_ayhyKP3OTNx_HI3p-qhQiIIL7Ne7GJkBlqYqcNvk/s320/11828665_10152884103181736_99355709539190487_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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If you can't tell (how could you not?), that's supposed to be grilled pizza. <br />
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So, complaining about the above dinner is completely acceptable. I did it too. But, complaining over my time-induced and really good meatball dinner....not acceptable. Where are the thank you's? <br />
<br />
One kid got out of the dinner all together, and I overheard him say to his sister on the way out, "I get to eat dinner at my <i>friend's </i>house." And a snicker followed. I mean, come on! You would have thought he was getting out of an hour of torture to be free from pain and misery. But, no. He was just getting out of dinner. <br />
<br />
Then there's the time my son asked what exactly it is that I <i>do </i>all day<i>: "Like, mom, do you just like teach a few lessons and then just like come home and rest?" </i> Yep, son. I just teach a few kids and then come home and sleep all day. And, I added, I eat chocolate....on the <i>couch....</i>whilst watching movies. Like all day. Bwahahaha. <br />
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Geez, son. <br />
<br />
But, there are those rare times when the kids seem to notice the work that parent's put into daily life to help their monsters, I mean children, thrive. For example, when putting away laundry the other day, my youngest daughter said to me: "Thanks, mom, for putting away my clothes!" <br />
<br />
Wait, what? I swept her off her feet, hugged her, told her she was my favorite and could have any sweets she wanted! OK, I didn't really do that, but I secretly wanted to. Instead, I just smiled and said, "You're welcome<i>,"</i> and explained how much I appreciated her thanks. <br />
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My oldest turned thirteen this year. I wanted to do something that I knew she'd love, and I knew she loved the band One Direction. <br />
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You have to understand how unfamiliar I am with the boy band obsession. I never got into New Kids or Backstreet Boys (shame, I know). My first concert was Amy Grant followed by Hootie and the Blowfish and there just wasn't much in between. <br />
<br />
But, my kid loves the band, so I bought a ticket for her and a ticket for her friend and we road tripped it to Kansas City a few weeks ago. <br />
<br />
I was subjected to One Direction talk and song for four straight hours. Along with the headache, too many cups of Starbucks, and "The Story of my Life..." lyrics running through my head, I entered our hotel feeling something like this: <br />
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But, the girls were excited. Like, so excited. I can't adequately describe the amount of exhileration oozing from the girls while they were getting ready for their big night. Singing, laughing, picture taking, and just a *little* bit of shrieking. I, on the other hand, took off my shoes, pulled the sheets over my head and put in my head phones. Ahh....Amy Grant. <br />
<br />
Kidding. Really, I just needed ten minutes of muffled sound. I listened to nothing. Just needed the headphones to muffle the sound for a few. <br />
<br />
Reinvigorated by my ten minute headphone time, I threw on a pair of shorts and tennis shoes and declared myself ready for the big night. <br />
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Like a Pro, I found a parking space for only thirteen bucks. Like a novice, I didn't pay any attention to how far the parking spot was from the venue. <br />
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And since I didn't have an actual ticket for the concert, my plan was to hang out in the "Parent's Lounge." Yes, folks, this is an actual thing. I had no idea what to expect at said Parents Lounge, but I figured it couldn't be all that bad. In fact, I was kind of looking forward to a few hours of quiet with a good book and my iPad. I packed up my purse with things to keep me busy and we headed toward the venue. <br />
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So, the first thing I noticed whilst walking with many young girls and their moms (other than parking attendants, I literally didn't see a male for a good hour) was the fact that I was dressed, um, not at all like the other moms. Fancy tank tops, skirts, jewlery, high heels....I totally missed the memo that must have been attached to the ticket that explained to newbies like me that moms actually dress up for these sorts of things. I, on the other hand, looked like I was about to go for a run. <br />
<br />
Whatever. <br />
<br />
The second thing I noticed was how <i>far</i> our thirteen dollar parking spot actually was from the venue. It was a twenty-five minute walk far. About half way there, I heard a parking attendant call out: "Hey lady in the purple running shorts!" <br />
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Seriously? Head's turned as if to say, "Who is wearing running shorts to a <i>One Direction </i>concert?" Yes, thanks, parking attendant. That would be me. <br />
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"They aren't gonna let you bring that purse into the concert."<br />
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"Oh, I'm not actually going to the concert. I'm going to the....<i>Parent's Lounge</i>."<br />
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"The Parent Lounge?" He totally laughed out loud. "What is <i>that?" </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
After trying to convince me that he was gonna see me in the parking lot again if I tried to get in with my purse, I thanked him for his help and kept walking, comfortably, I might add, thanks to my running shoes. He called out as I walked away, "I'm gonna see you back this way purple shorts!" <br />
<br />
Uh-huh. <br />
<br />
Once I got up to the venue, I encountered a very impatient security guard. I kind of felt empathetic toward the security guard until she started with the purse too: "Ma'am, you can't go into the venue with that purse." Drenched with sweat, I started to explain....again....that I'm not actually going <i>into </i>the venue, I'm going into the....<i>Parent's Lounge...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"What's that?" <br />
<br />
Seriously? I started to wonder if I somehow made up the Parent's Lounge. Like, did I dream that there was a way for me to not attend the concert but just sit quietly and read so as to avoid the screeches coming from hundreds of thousands of girls? Was that a dream? <br />
<br />
She wouldn't let me past her, so I looked at the girls and looked ahead at the swarm that was filing into the venue. I gave them a hug (maybe that would have been better accepted if I was in heels?? Probably not.), gave them some firm directions (perhaps that wouldn't have received an exaggerated sigh if I could just get the band boy's names straight?? I think not.), and told them to have a blast. <br />
<br />
So, I started the twenty-five minute walk <i>back </i>to the car. And that's when I met high-heeled lady. She never told me her name, but we were apparently kindred spirits since we both had to walk back to the same parking lot because we both had purses that we couldn't bring into the venue. <br />
<br />
She talked the entire way back to the car. I mean the <i>entire way back to the car. </i>I totally would have joined in....if I could. I tried, but I couldn't' even squeeze in a "Tell me your name?" High heeled lady went on about concerts, One Direction, her girls and their drive from Nebraska, her favorite "1D" song (what?!), and the fact that her feet hurt (hehe). <br />
<br />
And then I heard it: "There you are purple shorts girl! I knew you'd be back this way! I told you so." And...he laughed again. And...I kinda wanted to punch him in the face. Instead I just smiled and waved because any words I attempted would have interrupt high heeled lady's words. <br />
<br />
Once we made it back to the car, I was literally drenched. I thought I'd kill some time and cool off in the car before the walk back to the venue, but I noticed high heeled lady waiting for me to walk back with her. For the love. <br />
<br />
Empty handed, I walked back whilst listening to high heeled lady talk about their plans for after the concert. Then she asked me a question. She asked me a question, folks! "What are your plans after the concert?" <br />
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"Oh, bed?" That's exactly what I said. And then it was awkward for a minute. But only a minute because she kept talking. <br />
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And again: "Purple shorts girl! You don't have a purse! You'll get in just fine now." I was close enough this time to actually punch him in the face but again...just waved and smiled. <br />
<br />
My high heeled friend asked me where my seats were once we got up to the venue. <br />
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"Oh, I'm not going into the concert. Just to the...<i>Parent's Lounge</i>."<br />
<br />
"What's that?" <br />
<br />
"I'm not entirely sure." That's exactly what I said. But it wasn't awkward because she departed. I gladly departed and then began, kind of desperately, searching for the "Lounge<i>." </i><br />
<br />
I found the Parent's Lounge. And I was excited that it actually existed, until I went inside. The place was packed, country music was blaring, and there was not one seat available. Every table was full and my food option was popcorn. But that wasn't the first thing I noticed. The first thing I noticed were all the purses.<br />
<br />
Purses, books, computers, iPads...purses...everywhere. It was a cruel joke. To this day I have no idea how they all got in with their purses! I expected the parking attendant to be there and shout out: "Gotcha purple shorts girl!" I cooled off for a few minutes while devising a plan, left the parent's lounge and went to the ticket booth. I mean, why not? At this point, screeching girls and One Direction were better than what awaited in the parent's lounge....with no purse. <br />
<br />
I texted my daughter to give her the exciting news. I knew she'd love it. Her own mother....choosing One Direction on her own accord (she didn't need to know the whole story). And this is the exact text I received back: <br />
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<i>"Mom, seriously. You can't do that! This is just not something that thirty year old ladies do by themselves!"</i><br />
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I wasn't immediately angry with her because she called me a thirty-year old. But then I imagined myself in the venue...by myself....not knowing the songs...with ear plugs in my ears to keep from permanent damage from the screeching. Probably not my best idea. And besides that reality, I realized I had no credit card. Because that would be in my purse. <br />
<br />
So, I headed back to the car...again...was ready and waiting for my parking attendant friend who yelled out, "You sure got in your cardio for the day!" (if only he knew how many times I imagined punching him), waved at him and made my way back to the parent's lounge - with my purse... and a polka-dot blanket. <br />
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I can guarantee you that I was the only one the Parent's Lounge sitting on the floor on a polka dot blanket. I called the lounge quits when a guy came in barefoot and I overheard him say this: "Yea, I got myself some kind of fungal infection and the shoes just make it worse. Ya know?" <br />
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So, I parked myself in the grass outside the stadium and for two and a half hours listened to girls shriek. It was great. Lemme tell ya. <br />
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The same exhilaration the girls had getting ready for the concert followed them out of the concert....times twenty. They had the time of their lives. I got a second wind knowing the night was almost over (oh, the naivety) and was excited with them - until we hit the tunnel. </div>
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So, since I walked through the tunnel to get to and from my car f<i>ive times </i>already that night, I should have anticipated the nightmare the tunnel would be post concert with thousands of highly excited girls. We stood inching our way through the tunnel to the parking lot for almost thirty minutes. Just at the point I thought I might die of heat and claustrophobia, this happened: </div>
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So, I kind of imagined myself yelling, "Stop! Everyone!! Just be quiet and walk forward! And for the love, stop singing One Direction songs!" And then I imagined all their sweaty bodies turning around and attacking me. So, I stayed quiet and took deep breaths. And...it smelled. Like really bad. So, I took small breaths and imagined a big open space with a lot of breeze and Amy Grant music. I looked at my daughter and said, "This is awful!." And she said, "This is awesome!" Yep. </div>
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By the time we made it to the car, I was done. I was over it. It took everything in me to put that One direction CD in and pretend to be excited with my daughter who was loving everything about life. </div>
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"Mom, I don't even know how we're going to sleep tonight!" Dying. I was dying. </div>
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"And mom, can you turn down the music? Thank you so much for all of this! This was the best night ever! Thank you!" </div>
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And there it was. I didn't want to sweep her up like I did my youngest; in fact, I kind of wanted to break that CD, but man did she put a smile back on my face. </div>
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You're welcome kid. Now, remember to say that the next time I cook dinner. </div>
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-56929550625979757072015-07-22T09:49:00.001-07:002015-07-22T10:09:41.973-07:00Control in the Headquarters I recently saw the movie <i>Inside Out. </i>What an incredibly clever flick! For those who haven't had the opportunity, it's essentially about a young girl named Riley who is uprooted and moves to a new city. Her emotions; Anger, Sadness, Disgust, Fear, and (her most prominent emotion) Joy, start to disagree on how to deal with the dramatic change, which causes problems up in "Headquarters," the working space for the five emotions.<br />
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Post movie, I couldn't help but wonder about the controllers in the headquarters of each of my kiddos. Who's primarily in control? <br />
<br />
My middle kid tends to be controlled by Joy. We're at the beach this week and I watched him as he sat on the sand, celebrated the wonder of the sand, praised the name of the sand, and finally covered himself from head to toe....with the sand. Ridiculous, I tell you, how one can find joy in gathering sand down one's pants, but this is my son; the one who breaks out in song when I tell him he can have Mac and Cheese for dinner. <br />
<br />
My oldest is generally controlled by disgust. OK, this is so not a put down. Really. She's a teenage girl, for heaven's sake. And for those who have seen the movie, you know what I mean. And I'll say that her controlling emotion can be helpful at times. When clothes shopping recently, for example, I got an eye roll at the "awful and terrible" shirt that I was about to try on. And so I thanked her, profusely. I told her I'd shout from the mountain top just HOW GRATEFUL I AM THAT SHE SAVED ME from purchasing an "awful and terrible" shirt. And at that point she practically turned green with disgust. But then she picked out a "better" shirt for me and all were happy campers. Yup. It's great having a teenage girl. <br />
<br />
And then there is my youngest. By her own admittance she tends to be controlled "by the red guy." And...that guy would be anger. I don't know why in the world she would say this. I mean, my eldest only has a few scratch marks from when she told my youngest it was time to go to bed whilst babysitting. And no one would think the red guy was front and center by her reaction to the command to "eat the greens." She only lay prostrate banging fists on the ground for five minutes, certainly not ten. Because that would just be ridiculous. And don't be fooled by her size. Though I can practically touch my finger to my thumb around her leg, she can pounce on her brother like nothing I've seen when he breaks out in his operatic voice over mac and cheese. I have to admit: I kinda want to pounce him when I hear that voice too. <br />
<br />
Man, parenting is fun. <br />
<br />
What's most compelling to me is the fact that I cannot control who God has made my kids to be. I can't make them have certain reactions and emotions. And, unfortunately, I can't make them fall asleep when I want them to (And trust me, my husband and I have tried every possible way from the day they were born to control this area of parenting. I may or may not have told my youngest the other night that if she fell asleep in the next five minutes, I would give her M & M's with her breakfast. Um, the M & M's failed me). As much as I want my eldest to jump through the roof when I give her a gift, that is just not who she is. And as much as I want my son to simply say "thanks" for the mac and cheese and avoid the operatic singing, that is just not who he is. <br />
<br />
Of course we guide them, teach them, and do what we can to help them understand the Truth, but as hard as I may try, I cannot control them. That's God's job. He's the potter and we are the clay. No threat of discipline or look on my face can change the hearts of my kids. The reality is that God is very much in control in their "headquarters," their hearts, and the more I try to do what I simply don't have the power to do, the further I leave the door open to discouragement and frustration. And the beauty of it all is that God uses our kids to refine and transform us. Each exhausting day filled with sleepless infants, toddler messes, confusing teens, worrisome behavior and singing over mac and cheese is refinement by God in our own hearts. <br />
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My youngest spent thirty minutes last night asking her dad a series of questions. I was so intrigued by the interrogation between my daughter and her father that I began writing down the questions she asked. Here they are in order: <br />
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1. How come Adam and Eve didn't listen to God?<br />
2. Why doesn't God just save everyone?<br />
3. Why do people care more about the outside then the inside? <br />
4. Are you saying that hell is forever?<br />
5. Does God make mistakes?<br />
6. What if someone knows God but then doesn't love him anymore?<br />
7. Do people go to heaven if they give up on God? <br />
8. What happens if I keep on sinning? Because, Dad, I'm just gonna keep on sinning. <br />
9. Can people have church in their home? <br />
10. How come God died on a cross and not some other way?<br />
11. Who makes us sin?<br />
12. Who's in charge of hell?<br />
13. Does God control me or do I control myself? <br />
14. How long till we get home? <br />
15. Can I have some M & M's?<br />
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So, she's seven, folks. <br />
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And may God grant patience to her Sunday school teachers. <br />
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My husband suggested she uses this for her night time reading: <br />
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She wanted to, but I advised Flat Stanley instead. <br />
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This is what's going on in my kids mind right now. Her headquarters are working over time, trying to understand the intricacies of faith and theology. So many questions that have less than satisfactory answers for her....for me. It's during moments like these that I'm desperately thankful that God is in control of her little heart because I, for one, cannot articulately explain apostasy and the problem of evil in the world. For the love, Lily Joy. <br />
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Being at the beach has made me reflect on my own parents and the blood, sweat, and (many) tears over parenting me as a child and teen. We've come to the same vacation spot for twenty-six years and this is the first year without at least one of my parents. And I know my mom wanted to be here with us. I know how badly she wanted to feel the sand under her feet. I know how much she wanted to watch the kids play in the water and hear the waves crash on the shore. So, when I tried to calm her over the phone while she was in an agitated state, I told her to just listen to the waves. And I sat there in the sand with my arm extended so that she could hear the crash of the waves. With tears streaming down my face, I thanked God for my momma and her parenting. She wasn't perfect, but she did her best. <br />
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And I'm thankful that as a momma myself that's what I'm called to do. I can't control or create, but I can do my best and trust in God. Because thankfully, He's in control. <br />
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-27070279941726874692015-07-09T19:06:00.001-07:002015-07-09T19:06:56.602-07:00Smelling the Roses and Tasting the Bread<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always struggled with the ability to stop and smell the
proverbial roses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see the flower and
acknowledge the flower, but I rarely stop, smell, and take delight in it, unfortunately. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had a dad who would stop and smell the roses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was little in life that he would let
pass by without taking notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A beautiful sunset was not
merely a pretty sight, but it was worthy of reflection and introspection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bowl of ice cream was not just a quick sugar fix, it was something to be savored and relished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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A few weeks ago I was watching some old home videos. What amazed me was not my eighties bangs, which was quite a sight let me tell you, but the amount of time Dad spent videoing things like the yard at our vacation house, the beach sand (not exaggerating; he literally videotaped the sand), and the various birds that he was watching at the time. And the videos were mostly beautiful. </div>
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I may have yelled at the screen once or twice something along the lines of: "<i>Dad, did you video any of us kids!" </i>I was a little excited when I popped in my sister's graduation party video. In the first thirty seconds I saw two much younger (and kind of cute) sisters, some ugly bangs, and then.....the cat. And he stayed on the cat for a ridiculously long time. There were background voices of me as I greeted friends and family into the house, but on the screen was...the cat. For the love. </div>
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But Dad loved it all - his work, his kids, his church, sunsets, and even that dumb cat. And he didn't just love these things, he <i>took pleasure</i> in them. </div>
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Of late, I've been learning what it means to delight in the things that we have on this earth. After all, God created them! In his book, <i>The Things of Earth, author J</i>oe Rigney says this: </div>
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"<i>God surveys the world of matter and time, of trees and their branches, of seas and their waves, of signs and seasons, days and years, and he has one reaction: exceedingly good. Over-the-top good. Exclamation-point good. Spike-the-football-and-end-zone-dance good. It's finite. It's temporal. It's limited. And it's very, very good." </i></div>
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I love this. And God loved what he created. Yes, our world is fallen and in need of redemption, and it's not forever, but it's still good. Our world, as my husband puts it, is a glorious ruin. And I believe we can enjoy God in enjoying this glorious place we've been given. To enjoy our earthly pleasures without him is idolatry, but to enjoy them as drawing nearer to God through them is beauty. </div>
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My husband and I took a trip to Chicago last week. There are two things I loved about this quick getaway: food (um, Girl and the Goat. I still lay in bed and think about that bread...amongst my other deep and spiritual thoughts, of course. But that bread... ), and I loved watching my husband experience Bono. </div>
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I have to admit that his excitement about this band is contagious. And when I say excitement I mean this: He has met them several times and on one occasion had a rather deep conversation with Bono. He's been to over twenty-five concerts, he knows every word to every song they've ever written (and can also tell you the meaning behind most if not all of them), he listens to them on a daily basis, has seen their house, successfully turned an entire generation of his youth group into U2 junkies back in the day, and, at one time in his life, he knew Bono's waist size. I can't even.....I mean I just don't even....but, thankfully, he no longer knows such things. </div>
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So, we don't just "go to the concert," because that would be ridiculous (duh). We <i>experience </i>the concert, and the experience does not merely begin when you enter the stadium. No! No, no, no. The experience begins several weeks prior to the concert. And so, as you can imagine, it's difficult when one lives with such a follower to not get sucked into the excitement. </div>
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We did not meet Bono on this particular visit, though we tried. I mean, the kind of trying that included standing outside of Bono's hotel for a couple of hours. After fifteen years of marriage, this kind of activity has become quite normal and expected. Though when I tell people that we spent several hours of our getaway waiting outside Bono's hotel, I'm quickly reminded that this is not necessarily normal. Mere facial expressions confirm this for me. </div>
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But this is what we do. And while we didn't get to greet Bono, we did get to meet his body guard (yes, my husband spotted him walking around Chicago. And yes, my husband actually recognized him. And yes, we almost followed him. But t<i>hat</i> would just be ridiculous). The exhilaration my husband has when we walk...or run...or skip and jump (I'm kind of not kidding) into the stadium is just awesome. Here he is chatting about the ins and outs of U2 with one of the attendants before the concert because even with seats we were there almost three hours early. Of course. Poor guy was mostly interested. </div>
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But what I love most is how he experiences the concert. He sings at the top of his lungs and talks later about what it will be like in the new heavens and new earth when every believer who has ever walked the face of the earth will sing to Jesus with all their might. He relishes in the creativity of the band and loves to watch the story of their concert unfold. He sees the beauty in the bands vulnerability and belief in God. And he feels the pleasure of God as he simply takes delight in having fun. You can see it on his face. </div>
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And you could substitute every emotion described above and that's how I felt eating at the Girl and the Goat. I'm just putting that out there. That bread. </div>
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I'm learning to relish in the goodness of this earth. I'm learning to take more pleasure in the beauty around me. And I'm learning slowly but surely to put down the to-do list every once in a while and delight in what is right in front of me. And that can and should happen in daily life, not just on getaways. Sometimes I work merely because I'm supposed to work that day. I run the kids around merely because they need to get from point A to point B, and sometimes that's all there is to it for me. But I'm drawn closer to Jesus when I become aware of the beauty to behold even in the mundane. There are small voices in my back seat to give thanks for. There are students with interesting stories to tell. And every so often there's a rose or two that's deserving of attention. And I'm starting to see that the fuller my life is, the more beauty there is to behold. I just have to see it, smell it, hear it, and sometimes even taste it. </div>
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<i>"We have been given eyes that we might see God displaying his beauty in the world, ears that we might hear God singing his grace in the world, a nose that we might smell the sweet aroma of God's life in the world, a tongue that we might taste God's splendor in the world, lips that we might tell of God's triumphs in the world, hands that we might lift them in worship of God and service to others, feet that we might venture out into God's world and extend his dominion to the ends of the earth. We have been given minds and hearts that think and reason and feel and will that we might enjoy them and empty them in the greatest of causes." </i>Joe Rigney</div>
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Amen. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-91704638396676804662015-06-10T17:51:00.000-07:002015-06-10T17:55:36.735-07:00Beautiful, Dumbfounding Moments There are dumbfounding moments in life. <br />
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Like the time I experienced the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland -I was astonished and speechless. The natural beauty is simply breathtaking. Standing on those rocks and taking in the magnificence around me is a moment I will never forget. <br />
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Or the time when Lily dressed for church in the burka that my husband brought back from the Middle East. Dumfounded, I tell you, that we didn't notice until we turned into the parking lot. That was a moment. <br />
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And then there was the moment that my son read an original poem to his class (and their parents, I should add), which poetically stated the bad smell in the mornings...of his mother. Yep. That was an awkward moment. <br />
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Moments like these have been unforgettable, some inspiring a belly laugh and others producing a tear. What I've been learning of late is that each of these moments have purpose. Jesus is not absent in any of them. No matter how great or insignificant a moment seems, the remarkable reality is that they all have significance. <br />
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I brought my youngest along to visit my mom at the care center a few days ago. So, this usually goes one of two ways: either it's a great success and everyone departs with grins, or my daughter gets restless and starts doing cartwheels in the small room, hits her mom with her legs, and knocks over the humidifier. I'm just saying that <i>could </i>be the other way. <br />
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But, I took the chance because my joyful and sometimes ridiculously crazy kid loves her Ya Ya. Lily spent the first twenty minutes bossing my mom around. Like a mini nurse she was demanding my mom stay in bed, keep her legs under the covers, and, of course, it was important that Ya Ya did not doze off while she told her stories, which became increasingly dramatic with every minute we were there. <br />
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When the nurse came in for mom's shower time, I had to laugh at my mom's quick pace in getting to the bathroom - perhaps she needed a break from my youngest? I mean, I totally get it. Sometimes you just need a few minutes of distraction from the number of words no matter how much you love her. <br />
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Lily was keeping us entertained with cartwheels while mom showered. Each time her legs flipped over they came closer to hitting the bed...and the dresser, the humidifier, the tray, and her mother. But we were interrupted when the nurse called for help. <br />
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Mom had fallen, so I immediately helped her up and assisted with the shower. While mom calmed, my own emotion frantically rolled over me. As I tenderly helped bath her, my youngest yelled from outside the bathroom, "I'll be here in the hallway doing cartwheels for you YaYa! Then everybody will stop screaming their head off! Cartwheels help everybody stop crying because you can't cry and be upside down at the same time!" <br />
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I had no context for this moment. Literally holding my mom up while my daughter did cartwheels in the hallway to keep her from crying - this was a moment of pure, raw emotion that simultaneously inspired a belly laugh like I hadn't done in a long time. It was a moment I will never forget. <br />
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Jesus was not absent in that moment. It was not random that I had my lily with me in a moment when I'm sure my mom felt desperately vulnerable. <br />
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I was thinking of this moment with my mom while we sat at a computer programming competition, watching my son be a part of a team that found themselves in the finals, potentially winning a total of $30,000 for their weekend's work. And what would make me think of my mom while at a Glolbalhack competition? <br />
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Lily's cartwheels. <br />
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My husband and I were expecting to merely pick up my son from his weekend of learning about computer programming through a competition that he became a part of at the last minute, thanks to a more than generous man who wanted to teach him. But instead we sat in our Sunday best with several hundred other people, not in their Sunday best, watching our son and his team, "Jrod the Prodigy," present as one of the finalists. <br />
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I'll let you guess whether or not we stuck out in that sea of computer whizzes. I'm pretty sure my husband was the only one wearing white pants and a purple bow-tie in the sea of weekend programmers, and I'm pretty sure I didn't spot another woman in a polka-dot sundress.<br />
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But I sat there nodding my head during the presentations, acting as if I understood the various questions being asked to each team. I mean, come on. With each head nod I said to myself, "Stop it!" But for some reason my head kept nodding. Maybe it was some visceral way to try and fit in. With my polka-dot sundress. <br />
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And while we sat nodding in our Sunday best, my youngest did cartwheels down the side aisle. <br />
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And when they announced that "Jrod the Prodigy" were the winners of Glolbalhack IV, we were dumbfounded. We had no context for this - our son winning money for a computer programming competition while our daughter continued with her cartwheels barely missing photographers and successfully hitting her father with her legs. No context. Dumbfounded. It was a moment that we will not forget. <br />
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And Jesus wasn't absent in the moment. It wasn't random and it wasn't by accident that the Sunday before he had a conversation with an incredibly generous friend who happened to be a computer programmer.<br />
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Each moment, whether excruciatingly awful or surprisingly joyful, is a gift, not a burden, filled with divine purpose. <br />
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Not long ago I had the privilege of sitting with a nurse as he cared for a woman who is essentially in a vegetative state. She opened her mouth to eat, but her eyes remained shut and she sat completely and utterly unresponsive. I felt sorry for this nurse until he said this: <br />
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<i>"Some people may think she doesn't have purpose anymore. But she has purpose. The moments that I have to feed her help me. And I know she knows I'm here." </i><br />
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These beautiful, dumfounding moments make up this life that we've been given. We're all given these kinds of moments. Sometimes we just have to see them, know who's in them, and be grateful for them...<br />
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All of them. </div>
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-4824844175477181012015-05-13T08:32:00.003-07:002016-01-25T11:16:54.741-08:00Weep No MoreI've been listening to a song on repeat. Sandra Mccracken's <i>We Will Feast in the House of Zion </i>is a beautiful and singable song that comes from her new album based on the Psalms. The chorus goes like this: <br />
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<i>We will feast in the house of Zion. We will sing with our hearts restored. </i></div>
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<i>He has done great things, we will say together</i></div>
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<i>We will feast and weep no more. </i></div>
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When I was ten years old, we moved into a new house. At the time it was a brand new subdivision and our house was only the third to be built. For the first couple of years we'd watch as one house after another was built from the ground up. </div>
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That wasn't the exciting part. The exciting part was waiting to see <i>who </i>was going to move into the house once is was completed. There were a few retired couples and across the way a family with a baby, but I will never forget when a particular family moved in a few houses up from us. They had kids around my age. To be precise, the family had one cute boy around my age. </div>
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I discovered this fact when riding my bike around the neighborhood on one particular day. My Romeo was outside shooting baskets and I coolly and maturely began...riding circles in front of him. </div>
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When I think back on my maneuvers to look "cool," I actually, physically twinge. Like, what in the world was I thinking? Riding in circles? For the love of all things <i>not </i>cool. </div>
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But it got worse. After riding circles in front of their house, I decided that whatever I was wearing at the time was not good enough. Though I don't recall what I had initially been wearing, I remember exactly what I changed into: hot pink shorts with a pair of jelly sandals that I thought were pretty sweet. </div>
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I am currently self aware and I can, with total confidence, declare that I....was a nerd. </div>
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It was pretty bad for a few years there. </div>
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Once I had on my new and improved outfit, I mounted the bike to do what any girl interested in a boy would do. I began riding circles again while he shot baskets. And it was clear pretty quickly that Romeo wasn't too interested in watching me or my bike circles, which was disturbingly confusing since I had on my jelly sandals. </div>
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So, I devised a plan (and I am currently twinging revisiting this plan). I decided that I was going to ride up and down the street in front of him, and every time I rode past him I'd do a "trick" on my bike. </div>
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My tricks included what you would imagine: spinning the bike on it's back wheel and doing a 360 after flying over a ramp. </div>
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My tricks consisted of things like: sticking one leg out whilst still peddling with the other foot and lifting one arm to wave while still holding onto the bars with the other hand. I know, I know. Pretty cool stuff, especially in my hot pink shorts and jellies. </div>
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Romeo was still not giving me the attention I was craving, so I rode to the top of the hill and decided to impress him with the ultimate trick. I was going to lift both hands in the air when I passed him and ride<i> </i>using <i>only</i> my feet. YES. </div>
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I got to the top of the hill and released myself, riding as fast as I possibly could. Just before I reached Romeo's house, I lifted both hands in the air and I think (unfortunately) I let out some kind of yell. He finally turned, and just in time to see my bike hit a rock. I failed to see the massive rock in the middle of the street because my eyes were locked on Romeo, and so I flipped right over the front of my bike. </div>
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I'm not sure how long I was laying on the pavement before I noticed Romeo laughing. I'm pretty sure that I realized one of my jellies was missing first. I finally sat up and the searing pain in my right knee, which was covered in blood, finally began to register. <i>Jelly missing. Romeo laughing. Bloody knee...</i></div>
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I began crying relentlessly. My bike stayed where it was and I hobbled back to the house wearing one, lonely jelly and a bruised ego. </div>
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<i>What happened? </i>I'll never forget my mom looking at me when I came into the kitchen. I mean, let's be honest, I wasn't about to divulge my plan to woo Romeo, so I simply told her, with babbling words and through ugly tears, that I fell off my bike. And I lost my jelly. </div>
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She put her arms around me and didn't ask anymore. I was glad because while I felt as though I could describe my bike tricks with magnificent details, I wasn't sure I would be able to relive the laughing Romeo. So, she just let me cry. And I cried hard for several minutes with my face pressed against her chest. In the midst of my little storm, I found respite and peace in my mom's arms. </div>
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I'm caught up with tears every time I hear the chorus of Sandra's song. After some reflecting, so much of my emotion comes from the reality of what this song reminds us is to come: </div>
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<i>One day we will feast together</i> - The heavenly feasting alone gets me excited (I even get giddy about what I'm going to eat for breakfast in the morning). But beyond the food...brothers and sisters in Christ from <i>every</i> nation will sit together and feast. I will share a cup with those I have loved this side of heaven and as well with those whom I have struggled to love. We will feast together and without bitterness or envy toward one another. Our relationships will be restored and we will enjoy, with sincere and utter happiness, sitting around a table together. I weep over this reality because from an earthly perspective I can only call it miraculous. </div>
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<i>We will sing together with our hearts restored</i> - Can you imagine it? Worship focused only on Jesus. Worship that is pure with no distractions. Singing boldly and unashamedly to the one who has saved me. The beauty and anticipation of this day brings tears of joy to my eyes. </div>
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<i>He has done great things we will say together</i> - And I cannot WAIT for this. There will be a day when we will be able to share with those who have gone before us, and with those whom we have never met, the great things that God has done - the ways in which He has comforted us in pain and the ways in which he lifted us up when our spirits were broken. There are so many stories about the things God has done that I look forward to hearing. </div>
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<i>We will feast and weep no more</i> - I long for this day with tears in my eyes because in a broken world, tears come readily. But one day they will be gone forever. I can't even imagine it. Come quickly Lord Jesus. </div>
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A couple of evenings ago, my dear mom spent her first night alone in her room. Now that she is in a care center, my step father sleeps elsewhere and her nurses are no longer in the room with her throughout the night. It has been years and years since she has slept alone. I knew she may be anxious on this night, so I had been praying relentlessly that God would grant her a sense of peace and calm. And it seemed things were OK when I finally fell asleep that first night. </div>
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But then my phone rang late. It was my mom. She can't speak clearly anymore, so she just cried. She wept on the other end of the phone in the same kind of way I did when I stood in the kitchen, bruised and bloodied, with my face buried in her chest. </div>
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I began crying as well. What else was there to do? I wished I could reach through the phone and touch her shoulders and let her know that it was going to be OK, but I couldn't. So, I just quietly cried and listened while she wept loudly out of fear and confusion until she finally quieted down and gave into sleep. The peace didn't come in the untangled way I had prayed for, without pain or difficulty, but life is usually messy like that. It's in the tangled web of sin and sorrow when Grace is found in abundance. Sometimes it's only in the storm of grief that we can recognize calming peace. </div>
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<i>But there will be a day when we will feast...and weep no more</i>. I pray daily that these words and the truth behind them will not sit idly in my heart, but that my spirit would know it, believe it, and live by it every single day. There <i>will </i>be a day when tears are no more. And until then I can press my face against my Father's chest and find respite and peace in His arms. </div>
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Thank you, Sandra McCracken, for this beautiful reminder: </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226868168303002519.post-86604563818871507192015-05-05T09:55:00.000-07:002016-05-08T16:58:52.009-07:00Joy and Gray HairMy youngest daughter, Lily, is almost seven years old. My youngest daughter has the middle name Joy. My youngest daughter has given me my first gray hairs.<br />
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There was a mild panic in my bathroom when I spotted the gray hair. There were many possible ways of dealing with the situation, like quoting Proverbs 16:31 to myself: "Gray hair is a crown of splendor..." But I chose a less spiritually inclined response: I stomped my foot and yelled, "Lily!"<br />
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God has blessed us with a unique kiddo in my youngest, but I know there had to have been a snicker when He blessed me with a child who would give me as much of a run for my money as I did for my own parents.<br />
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I've heard there is such a thing as a laid back third child; that kid, much like my youngest sister was, who is content to listen to their older brothers and sisters talk rather than fight to speak over them. That kid who you just don't know is even there unless you call out their name. I've heard these kinds exist.<br />
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But this does not describe my youngest.<br />
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This describes my youngest:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7D8q_pvH15xzrn7muxQvt4IpYKEBk9DALDs4c8p9RuVTgQ_FyI-alJWDD7bR_aYifHzrvubCVvJtnTzpUx1JrZ_nb35NABQm8rVoz73wDkMlfsMTdC3UVKYQ5wpUgHdeFGyA3RKp33kw/s1600/lily's%2Broom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7D8q_pvH15xzrn7muxQvt4IpYKEBk9DALDs4c8p9RuVTgQ_FyI-alJWDD7bR_aYifHzrvubCVvJtnTzpUx1JrZ_nb35NABQm8rVoz73wDkMlfsMTdC3UVKYQ5wpUgHdeFGyA3RKp33kw/s320/lily's%2Broom.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The table she broke apart doing nap time. Because what else is a child to do during nap time at age two? <br />
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Duh.<br />
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And this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6mWJJ1PtXcgByd1CkhZafPxf8JH6UGjhzlGMrIeUHwYcDnsz3hFSn7-NKz_iL9TI8OX6Oq7m8DmFmzTBFuYOSp_3-yeQR6BIbWraktdfkuYghjj7xyC3Ji7eQJzahy_8jesSvSU7U-k/s1600/lily+cooking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6mWJJ1PtXcgByd1CkhZafPxf8JH6UGjhzlGMrIeUHwYcDnsz3hFSn7-NKz_iL9TI8OX6Oq7m8DmFmzTBFuYOSp_3-yeQR6BIbWraktdfkuYghjj7xyC3Ji7eQJzahy_8jesSvSU7U-k/s320/lily+cooking.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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"Making pizza" on her own accord whilst dressed in a blanket. Because what else are you supposed to wear when making pizza? <br />
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Duh.<br />
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And then there is this gem:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRYB6tLTCNCHpjpR_Vdfwq1a3UZynW0Jt-Q3ekJf0txZ3TsU1EASs5ZCbUoYWO_hA06NAdjJcm4KXOdSKTN1j8Bb3M-il-qK8sq04-l8t7z-3KfpHf57eQcjfzd6U1iy6R5s5hhRLIFU/s1600/lily+at+costco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRYB6tLTCNCHpjpR_Vdfwq1a3UZynW0Jt-Q3ekJf0txZ3TsU1EASs5ZCbUoYWO_hA06NAdjJcm4KXOdSKTN1j8Bb3M-il-qK8sq04-l8t7z-3KfpHf57eQcjfzd6U1iy6R5s5hhRLIFU/s320/lily+at+costco.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I snapped this picture right before I over heard a conversation between another mother and her young daughter: "Mom, can I go under the cart like that girl?"<br />
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"No, honey. The bottom of the cart is for groceries not for little girls."<br />
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And so I'll chalk that one up under mom error. Because apparently the bottom of carts aren't for little girls. Geez.<br />
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And then there is this picture that I discovered after a tough day with my youngest:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizl55IYXJvogI-pBIc5GroSo3O2cGENA9OYHI615CiKxNEWnM8dY5hBkXLPSsgS0mhUW9blCfEg-jW04myS8_SqodsIjRmrj1vFgZ23wFOIC5IS2rFdwAjbPMQLbqYhQ-WPt3cNyUgXFc/s1600/lily's%2Bpicture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizl55IYXJvogI-pBIc5GroSo3O2cGENA9OYHI615CiKxNEWnM8dY5hBkXLPSsgS0mhUW9blCfEg-jW04myS8_SqodsIjRmrj1vFgZ23wFOIC5IS2rFdwAjbPMQLbqYhQ-WPt3cNyUgXFc/s320/lily's%2Bpicture.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Let me interpret: "<i>To <strike>Mom </strike> Kit, Love Lily. Thank you for being my friend." And the two girls are labeled "me" and "<strike>Mom</strike> Kit." </i></div>
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Yup. </div>
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It's the incessant questions. I try to be patient with them, but when they start as soon as I wake her up in the morning, I know it's going to be a rough one: </div>
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<i>"Mom, why in the world are you waking me up?" </i> </div>
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<i>"Because you have school."</i> Like we haven't done this since September</div>
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<i>"It's just like...WHY. I mean WHY do I have to go to school. I mean they just make me work, work, work, and that's all I do is work!" </i></div>
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So, I'm sure there is a mature way to deal with this sort of morning conversation, but I'm still working on maturing, and so I simply told lily she had five minutes to get dressed for school, and if she didn't get dressed in five minutes, she would stay home with me and I would SHOW her what work really looks like. </div>
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<i>"It's just that I don't get WHY I have to go to school. It's just that I don't get it. At all." </i></div>
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Seriously? And she was still in bed whilst talking. She has a bunk bed, so I can't just pull her out (I've considered all the different ways this is possible and have concluded that all my various tactics would seriously injure one of us). Therefore, she remained in bed. </div>
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And, of course, we were late getting out the door for school. Somehow on the mornings my husband drives, he manages to get them all in the car and out the door with plenty of time to spare. This is not one of my spiritual gifts. So, while I know I share in the fault, on this particular morning I reminded my youngest that because she did not get out of bed, we were now going to be late. </div>
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That information resulted in a full body sprawl across the kitchen floor: "<i>But I'm the child of the day at school!" </i></div>
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"<i>And you will still be child of the day when you get to school</i>."</div>
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<i>"But I'm never going to get there now because you're driving and then I'll never be child of the day again because I'm going to be late. Always when you drive we're late!" </i></div>
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Oh my word. The drama could have won an Oscar. I let the commentary on my driving roll and peeled her off the floor. Our late drive was a non stop commentary from our youngest alone, and we're in the car a good hour on school mornings. And I kid you not when I say she filled each minute with words. </div>
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I have no idea what all she said; survival calls for me to tune some of it out. I do know she about did in my two oldest, along with their mother, and I do recall a particular line of questions (complaints) regarding the smoothie I drink: </div>
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<i>Mom, I just don't get why you drink those gross things. It's like eating grass or dirt or something. MOM! They are so gross that they make me want to puke. MOM! I mean every time I see that smoothie, I just want to puke. Mom, if I puke in the car, what would you have to do? Like would we get a new car? MOM! Can I puke in the car so we can get a new car? But what if I puked on my clothes, then what would I wear to school? MOM! I mean what would I wear? I don't even know if I puked on my shoes. Then I wouldn't even have shoes. MOM! But, then would I have to go to school? MOM! They don't let kids go to school when they don't have shoes. MOM! I mean, do they? What about kids in those other countries? You know the ones with EBOLA? MOM! Do they have to wear shoes? Do kids with EBOLA puke too? I just hate that smoothie so much. MOM! </i></div>
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To say I was undone when I dropped her off would be an understatement. I called my husband at work after listening to an afternoon commentary on the way home from school on what songs are good and what songs are bad and why we can't just sing Taylor Swift in church sometimes. I told him she had successfully used up my capacity to listen to words. I had no words left to hear from anyone. Not my oldest, not my son, and not my poor husband. I just needed him to understand that if words were directed my way that evening, I would not hear any of them. Lily had used up my ability to process words. </div>
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He got it. But Lily didn't get it. The night unfolded in a less than peaceful way after I found doll hair under her dresser as well as several other treasures from her brother and sister's room. <i>"But I was hiding them to wrap them up for them for gifts!" </i>Nice try. And, of course, after being in trouble, she "rearranged" her art picture, posted above, and left it outside her door for me. </div>
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The next morning conversation went like this: "<i>Mom, today is going to be a good day, right mom? Mom, you were in such a sour mood last night. Like the sourest I've ever seen. But I think you're better today, right mom? MOM!" </i></div>
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It just takes me a few minutes to answer right away in the morning. It's a firewall of questions that just take me a minute. </div>
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But eventually Lily and I had a talk. We talked about her middle name: Joy. I told her that she is a delight to me, and even when we have really bad days together, she's still a Joy. Just like her middle name. </div>
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<i>"Oh, so it's like you have to decide on joy. Like today...I'm going to be joyful today." </i></div>
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Out of the mouths of babes. <i> Decide on joy</i>. I think she's right. I think there's a lot of rather difficult days here on earth, but man, oh, man, there is no doubt that if we are in Christ, we can choose joy no matter what the circumstance. <i>No matter what </i>the circumstance: A kid who won't listen, a rambunctious toddler, a pile of bills, or even a terminal illness. Lily's right: I can decide on joy. It doesn't make the difficult go away, but it certainly changes my perspective. And sometimes it's all about perspective. </div>
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Lily ran through the common area (ran) in the care center where my mom lives yesterday. It was like watching a video game where the goal is for the a kid to make it to the room without running into wheel chairs - but unfortunately it was real life. She jumped right on the hospital like chair and began using the remote to lift herself up and down. And then the chair literally catapulted her out. And then it was the chair's fault and thus began the commentary on why Ya Ya needs to get a new chair and why everything was wrong with everything. And thus the new gray hair. It has been a long time coming. </div>
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Today, my friends, I choose joy. In the midst of the gray hair. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-oj79ZTXoAIkRvXhbQ9zcvAtLc_qSeQpy_Q9GBk2oeyiMLoKeCWbUm8yeGMRHmNQzoFYJ1F8Y7k-z0Hha0Vb-xKsbkVZumk5qpg3Q8b4h8lZ_MDZ2zLDWdCtrNpywIEOIZxPw9KeauQ/s1600/lily+funny+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-oj79ZTXoAIkRvXhbQ9zcvAtLc_qSeQpy_Q9GBk2oeyiMLoKeCWbUm8yeGMRHmNQzoFYJ1F8Y7k-z0Hha0Vb-xKsbkVZumk5qpg3Q8b4h8lZ_MDZ2zLDWdCtrNpywIEOIZxPw9KeauQ/s320/lily+funny+face.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Lord, You have chosen me and redeemed me, crowned me with love and compassion. I can do nothing less than overflow with joy at Your great love for me, for those I love, and for the world. </i></div>
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<i>Our Daily Bread</i></div>
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<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03426100544810433737noreply@blogger.com0