Dreaming Big and Seeing the Small

My kids like to dream big.

My oldest would like a vacation, but most definitely not in the USA.  Forget the beach. She wants to travel to London (of course, this has nothing to do with her like of...obsession over....the British band One Direction).

My son wants to be a professional soccer player, and if that doesn't work out, he'll try for the president.

And why not?

And my youngest wants to be a piano playing artist...who can fly.

I appreciate their big dreams and desires maybe because it feels so familiar to hear them.  I grew up with a dad who tended to think "big."

I remember walking around the property that would eventually be the home for our church family. He walked briskly and with a huge smile on his face:  "This, this, is a place where God will do great work.  I believe it."  The property seemed way too big for our group of believers.

Our church planting group was 300 people, and on the first SundayGod saw fit to bring nearly 800.
 
And there were times when Dad's dreaming seemed crazy, but we went with it.  My Dad used to do a short devotional broadcast-ed on KMOX radio on Christmas mornings at the Buck's house, a well known St. Louis family of broadcasters.  After a couple of years of doing this, Dad suggested my sisters and I attended with him.

Were we invited? Not per say, but that's OK!   And, why don't we also ask Stan Musial  if he would play the harmonica while we sang.  A quartet with Stan Musial on the radio.  He thought his idea was fabulous.

And we laughed.  Mostly because.....well, who does that?  Who approaches Stan the Man for a little musical performance?  My dad.  Think big.  Think singing with one of the most famous Hall of Fame Cardinal players of all time.  Why not?

The song is not recorded because my dad was too excited to video tape it.  He put his camera down and clapped along.  But here is a little glimpse of what happens when we joined with dad in dreaming big:

Dreaming big is ingrained in my soul.  But there was something else important I learned from my big- dreaming dad:  It's essential to see and enjoy the little things in life.

Ice cream wasn't just ice cream to my dad.  It was a heavenly treat that was to be savored and enjoyed on a nightly basis.  Playing cards on a quiet night on the deck and playing for the win (and only for the win) brought him as much enjoyment as meeting Stan the Man.  And finding the perfect parking spot for a perfect getaway on the 4th of July was almost as exhilarating as the fireworks themselves.

More recently I have come to savor the small blessings that are ever present.  These small blessings may be unrecognizable to those around me, and might be easily missed if I'm not careful to experience them for what they truly are.  But when my youngest writes me a card asking me if I'm ready for valentines (in other words, is the candy stashed appropriately), I take a few minutes to relish in her innocence. Because through her eyes, I can be reminded of how far reaching love can actually be.

And when she draws a picture of the paralyzed man whom Jesus healed and it comes complete with the man's own hot tub and swimming pool, I'm not dreaming of the day it will show up in an art gallery, but I'm savoring her creative (and sometimes ridiculous) imagination.  Because in it there is so much laughter for us all.

I love the rare moments when instead of fighting, my son and my youngest daughter wrestle and laugh, even when one is nearing a trip to the ER.  It's the incessant description from my son of the intricacies of Minecraft, as well as the look on my oldest's face (there may or may not be tears) when One Direction is on TV, that remind me of how precious this life is that God has given me.  

These little things don't make life easier and they certainly don't erase the difficult, but they are glimpses, perhaps even more so than the big, fulfilled dreams in my life, of the beauty that surrounds me. 

Last week, while in her apartment, my mom took my hand to walk back to her bed.  Barely able to walk anymore, she held on to my hand so tightly that it started to hurt.  But I will never forget those thirty seconds.  To an outsider, it was a moment that was as insignificant as walking from one room to another.  But to me, it was a beautiful, little moment.  My mom, whom I trusted when I was little to protect me from thunder, now trusted my stability to not let her fall.  

This is life.  This is beauty.  This is grace.  And it is so often found in these small moments.  

No longer able to bathe or take care of herself, I watch my step father cater to her every need without complaint or frustration.  It is the living out of "in sickness and in health" like I've never seen before. No one else may notice his Parkinson-ridden hands cutting her food so she can swallow, but I take in those moments and watch.  Because this small gesture is a picture of true and committed love.

My six year old asked me last week why we can't "reconnect YaYa's brain and just make it all better?" I don't have answers for her, and I probably never will, but her question led to a sweet but short conversation about God's love, even when things are bad, which is why we should keep loving, even when it's tough.

So on Sunday when I watched my daughter embrace her grandma in a wheel chair instead of shying away from her quickly changing earthly body, I knew the importance of that hug - for both of them.
This small hug was a reminder to me of God's unconditional and unrelenting love.

Dream big, my sweet kiddos.  Dream far and big.  But don't miss the little beauties around you.  It's in these small blessings that we often see Jesus.  And there can be nothing greater than that.  

Jesus Loves Me, This I Know

We had a rule in the house growing up.  Well, we had a lot of rules, but there is one in particular that had a long term impact on my life:  If I wanted to play a sport, I had to play a musical instrument.

As an elementary student, I aspired to great things in life.  I never dreamed about becoming the president.  And really, I never even dreamed about performing my regularly made-up dance routines to Amy Grant in front of millions. Instead, I aspired to be the "mother" during recess when the third-grade girls would play house.

They always gave me the role of "sister."  I hated being the sister.  Granted, it was better than the poor girl who received the role of dog (although she seemed to enjoy this role a little too much), but it wasn't the mom.  There was one girl in particular who was always mom and early on I had my plans to take over her role.

I'm not entirely vindictive.  I didn't hire a hit man or anything, but I decided that I was going to plead my case in front of all the third grade girls as to why I should be mom.  I remember standing in front of my mirror at home practicing my speech, as if everything in my young life hindered on those carefully chosen words.  I don't remember one of my reasons, but I do remember how passionately I felt about this need for change.

The next recess I was a nervous wreck.  I knew standing up to the current "mother" would be a David and Goliath type scenario, but I was ready for the battle.  As the regular parts were being divvied out, I took my stand, made my speech, and the current mother responded:

"Whatever."

She became the dog, the dog became the sister, and I became, in all of it's glory, the mother of the game.  It was glorious, and frankly I couldn't believe it actually happened.  

I remained mother for a short time.  The other girls complained I made them do too many chores that weren't "normal."  For example, I made my "kids" practice their pretend instruments and, of course, they were required to make up songs for me that they had to sing on a regular basis.  If they wanted to make them up in a group, that was Okay too.   What was so abnormal about that?  Spoiled kids.

It's true that from a young age, music has been an important part of my life, whether I wanted it to be or not.  I started playing piano in first grade, though the I was very apprehensive the night before my first lesson.  I remember laying in bed and thinking about a woman who came to chapel and played Three Blind Mice in such a remarkable way that as much as I really didn't want to start playing,  I figured if I could play Three Blind Mice as good as that lady someday, it might just all be worth it.   

Once I hit Jr. High, however, I was ready to be finished with piano.  I argued with my parents that it was important I focused on basketball.  I actually told them in 7th grade I needed to focus on basketball.  Thankfully my aspirations morphed from my third grade desires to take over role-playing into the desire to be a college athlete.  The problem was that this particular dream was as far stretched as they go.  It's quite possible that I spent more time on the floor of the court than I did actually running the ball down the court, due to my long, lanky and very clumsy legs.

But the rule was:  no piano, no basketball.  So, I kept playing...both.

Amazingly, I made the varsity basketball team as a freshman, securing my dreams of playing basketball in college, or so I thought.  The problem for me was reality.  I rarely lived in it.  The reality was that our team maybe won one game.  The reality was that I was 5'10 as a freshman and the coaches more than likely put me on the team with high hopes that I would block shots under the basket.  The reality was that I fell over more than I did block.  The reality was that I probably looked like Olive Oil attempting to block a bunch of Pop-Eyes.

But I kept improving because I wanted to improve.  I couldn't say the same for my piano playing, which necessarily continued.  There was a time that I was actually embarrassed to tell people that I could play piano.  One could not wear a jersey AND be musical.  Duh.

As I got older, though, my opportunities to play piano publicly became more and more frequent, as did the weekend competitions and recitals, but given the opportunity, I would have quit.

My freshman year in college, I had a remarkably painful experience.  I had planned to try out for the college basketball team.  I knew I'd sit on the bench for at least the first year, but the idea of being on the team excited me. Soon after making this decision, however, I blew out my knee and was told I would not play again competitively.

So, after all the years of complaining and fighting and assuring my parents that I would make them proud as an athlete, I became a music major. My decision came more from what I knew I could do rather than what I found pleasure in.  However, for the first couple of months, my world was opened in a new way to the beauty of all different kinds of music.  I accompanied soloists, some were easier to be with than others (there are some real divas in the music world), and played almost every day finding a new passion that I had not experienced before with this instrument.  

But I had to take several weeks off of school for two different knee surgeries.  When I returned, I faced the prospect of getting from class to class...on crutches...for at least two months.  I was incredibly down and incredibly irresponsible.  I didn't show up for my music classes and many times left my soloists without an accompanist.  Instead, I'd sit in my room pouting, reciting over and over the "whoa-is-me's."  I was pretty pathetic.

I received a phone call from my music professor, toward the end my freshman year, informing me that I had lost my music scholarship and would no longer be required to play for the college .  I did, however, have to play one last time in chapel.  The call came on a Monday and chapel was on Friday.

I reluctantly showed up to chapel and sat on the bench playing the intro to the college hymn.  We sang through one verse when the speaker stopped me and the entire student body and proclaimed, "Let's sing that at a more...singable....speed."  And I started over, sweating with embarrassment.

I hobbled out of the auditorium on my crutches and sat in the back of the chapel crying.  I looked out the windows at the beautiful view of the mountains and said out loud, "God, I will never play piano again."   I couldn't play competitive sports and I was finished with the music.

And I stuck to that promise for almost ten years.  I turned down weddings and other events and only reluctantly played once or twice at our church in Georgia when the accompanist was out of town.

When we moved back to St. Louis in 2007, there was a need for a pianist at the church where my husband was called to be the pastor.  I wanted to help, mostly because I knew the church needed someone to play piano, but I was so rusty.  Over the next several years, though, my fingers began warming up and muscle memory slowly returned.  Even with terrible hymn intros that fell into minor keys and back into major ones, I began to have a renewed passion for playing and slowly fell in love again with the instrument and the times of personal worship that I experienced while playing.

Several months ago, two violinist-friends approached me about doing a concert with them.  When I first sat down at my piano with Bach staring back at me (we hadn't been friends since high school), two things went through my mind:  this is impossible and I promised God I would never play again.

I literally got on my knees in front of the piano and asked God to help me learn this music only if He wanted me to play it.

This past weekend, I sat on the stage fifteen minutes before the concert.  I was trying to play it cool, but my nerves were manic. I thought my head might fall off.  I literally felt like I needed to steady it, but I realized how foolish I might look holding my neck, so I put my hands down and tried to relax.

I began talking with a friend, and our conversation steered away from music for a few minutes as we began talking about our desire for the salvation of particular friends and family who did not know the Lord.  She made the comment that it's easy to just stop praying because at times their change of heart seems almost unrealistic. It seems impossible.   I understood her sentiment.

As I sat on the bench with Bach in front of me, playing for sweet family and friends, I was so overcome with the reality of what God can do.  I was playing in a concert with two incredibly talented violinists, for heaven's sake!  God took an ungrateful piano student who became a depressed college student, swearing off music for the rest of my life, and brought me to a piano bench in a small chapel many years later, soaking up each and every note of Bach and Schubert that the Lord allowed my fingers to play.  A mere hour before, I empathized with a friend over my own neglect to pray for impossibilities, and yet I stood by the piano having completed what I thought would be impossible.  

I sat in my car after the concert and wept.  I wept out of gratitude to the Lord, knowing full well that I don't deserve so many of the blessings he has given me.  I wept over my sick mother who sat with a smile on her face the whole concert and whose fragile hug afterward said what her words could not: I'm proud of you.  And I wept over my weak faith as I resonated with my friend's lack of desire to ask God for that which seems impossible.  I have relationships that seem too broken to go before the cross, unbelievers who seem too disinterested for me to keep praying for their salvation, and a mother whose incurable disease is so painful to watch that at times I give up on begging God for mercy in her life.

And yet, God is a God that does the impossible.  He is a God who heals and restores broken relationships, He is a God who brings the most unexpected into a right relationship with Himself, and He is a God that provides peace and shows mercy to His beloved children.  I identify so closely with the father who cried out to Jesus, "I believe; help my unbelief!"  

He is a God who made my rusty fingers work, even after promising Him I would never do so again, so that on one particular night I might be lifted up in worship and humbled by my lack of faith.

We ended our concert playing Jesus Loves Me.  There was no rehearsing this; we just worshiped. The simplicity of these words expressed musically were more profound to me in those few moments than they have been in a long, long time.

Jesus loves me this I know

For the bible tells me so

Little ones to Him belong

They are weak but He is strong

Yes, Jesus loves me. 

Yes, Jesus loves me. 

Yes, Jesus loves me,

The Bible tells me so.  

(The impossible becoming a reality for me)

(My defensive stance never got much better than this.  Perhaps the torn knee was merciful)

 

Christmas Letter

Merry Christmas Friends and Family!

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

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

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

The Questions: 

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

Our answers about each other…                                                   

Jrod’s (10) answers for Dad…

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

2.  If dad had 3 hours of fun time, he would totally nap. 

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

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

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

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

Lily’s (6) answers for Mom…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom’s answers for Ella (12)…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad’s answers for Jrod…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ella’s answers for Lily…

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kid's answers about themselves…

Ella: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jrod: 

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

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

3.  When I’m finished with my school work for the day, I like playing Minecraft.    

       

4.  My favorite meal that mom cooks is baked beans and Barbeque ribs. (He’s referring to the already marinated, pre-packaged ribs.  Heat and serve.)    

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

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

Lily: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With Love,

The Polski’s

   

Christmas Reminders

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touche' son.  Touche.' 

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

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

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

  

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

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

(Christmas 2008)

On Suffering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roman's 8:37 through 38 reminds us: 

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I forgot my iPad." 

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

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

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

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

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

And again, I tapped my shoes together. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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








 

On Being a "PK"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His role in the church never denied me access. 

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

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

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

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

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

His calling to the church was a joyful responsibility.

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

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

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

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

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

And even at a young age, I caught it. 

His ministry to the church often included his family. 

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

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

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

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

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

In his diary, my dad wrote these words: 

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

Praise God for your prayers, dad. 

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