Smelling the Roses and Tasting the Bread

I’ve always struggled with the ability to stop and smell the proverbial roses.   I see the flower and acknowledge the flower, but I rarely stop, smell, and take delight in it, unfortunately.  

I had a dad who would stop and smell the roses.  There was little in life that he would let pass by without taking notice.  A beautiful sunset was not merely a pretty sight, but it was worthy of reflection and introspection.  A bowl of ice cream was not just a quick sugar fix, it was something to be savored and relished.  

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.  

I may have yelled at the screen once or twice something along the lines of: "Dad, did you video any of us kids!"  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.  

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 took pleasure in them.  

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, The Things of Earth, author Joe Rigney says this:  

"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 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.  

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.   

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.  

So, we don't just "go to the concert," because that would be ridiculous (duh).  We experience 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.  

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.  

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 that 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.   

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.  

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.  

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.      

"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."  Joe Rigney

Amen.  

Beautiful, Dumbfounding Moments

There are dumbfounding moments in life.  

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.  

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.

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.

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.  

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 could be the other way.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.  

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?

Lily's cartwheels.

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.

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.

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.

And while we sat nodding in our Sunday best,  my youngest did cartwheels down the side aisle.

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.

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.

Each moment, whether excruciatingly awful or surprisingly joyful, is a gift, not a burden, filled with divine purpose.

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:

"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."  

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...

All of them.  

Weep No More

I've been listening to a song on repeat.  Sandra Mccracken's We Will Feast in the House of Zion is a beautiful and singable song that comes from her new album based on the Psalms.  The chorus goes like this:  

We will feast in the house of Zion.  We will sing with our hearts restored.  

He has done great things, we will say together

We will feast and weep no more.  

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.  

That wasn't the exciting part.  The exciting part was waiting to see who 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.    

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.  

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 not cool.    

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. 

I am currently self aware and I can, with total confidence, declare that I....was a nerd.  

It was pretty bad for a few years there.  

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.  

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.  

My tricks included what you would imagine:  spinning the bike on it's back wheel and doing a 360 after flying over a ramp.  

Nope.  

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.  

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 using only my feet.  YES.  

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.  

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.   Jelly missing.  Romeo laughing.  Bloody knee...

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.  

What happened?  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.   

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.  

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:  

One day we will feast together - 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 every 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.  

We will sing together with our hearts restored - 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.  

He has done great things we will say together - 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.  

We will feast and weep no more - 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.  

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.  

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.  

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. 

   

But there will be a day when we will feast...and weep no more.  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 will 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.  

Thank you, Sandra McCracken, for this beautiful reminder:  

We Will Feast in the House of Zion

  

Joy and Gray Hair

My 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.

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!"

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.

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.

But this does not describe my youngest.

This describes my youngest:

The table she broke apart doing nap time.   Because what else is a child to do during nap time at age two?

Duh.

And this:

"Making pizza" on her own accord whilst dressed in a blanket.  Because what else are you supposed to wear when making pizza?

Duh.

And then there is this gem:

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?"

"No, honey.  The bottom of the cart is for groceries not for little girls."

And so I'll chalk that one up under mom error.  Because apparently the bottom of carts aren't for little girls.  Geez.

And then there is this picture that I discovered after a tough day with my youngest:

Let me interpret:  "To Mom  Kit, Love Lily.  Thank you for being my friend."  And the two girls are labeled "me" and "Mom Kit."  

Yup.  

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:  

"Mom, why in the world are you waking me up?"  

"Because you have school."  Like we haven't done this since September

"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!"  

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.  

"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."    

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.  

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.  

That information resulted in a full body sprawl across the kitchen floor:  "But I'm the child of the day at school!"  

"And you will still be child of the day when you get to school."

"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!"  

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.  

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:  

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!  

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.  

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.  "But I was hiding them to wrap them up for them for gifts!"  Nice try.  And, of course, after being in trouble, she "rearranged" her art picture, posted above, and left it outside her door for me.  

The next morning conversation went like this:  "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!"  

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.  

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.   

"Oh, so it's like you have to decide on joy.  Like today...I'm going to be joyful today."  

Out of the mouths of babes.  Decide on joy.  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.  No matter what 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.   

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.  

Today, my friends, I choose joy.  In the midst of the gray hair.  

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.  

Our Daily Bread

On Trusting

Trust is important.

And I can say with pretty strong certainty that when I was younger, my sisters did not trust me.  But let me be clear, this dis-trust didn't begin on day one of their younger sister existence; rather, it's something that grew over time.  I'm not entirely sure why?

Perhaps it had something to do with the parties I would promise them....if they went up to the kitchen and made me a snack with some lemonade.

If you do it, I'll give you the biggest party ever.  And it will be in my room. The fact that it was in my room was significant because, of course, my little twerps,  I mean sisters, were banned from my room.

And so, they'd do it.  Bless them.  They'd actually do it.  Oh, the naivety!  You'd think after the fifth or sixth time that they'd find a sign posted on my door claiming that the party was canceled due to: rain, a sick owner, too many deflated balloons, baby dolls needing my help, that they'd stop fetching treats for me.  Eventually, though, my little servants caught on, and I actually had to get a snack for myself.  The nerve.  

Or, maybe their lack of trust had to do with our special beauty parlor times:   "I'll make you so beautiful!"  I'd tell them.  And then I'd turn them into clowns with funny make up, or I'd cut off one of their long pigtails.

Yes, that happened.  I cut the pig tail off at the top of my sister's head.  It was pretty awful (ly funny). I just remember my mom screaming, and I also remember trying to tell her, "It was only one mom!" It was bad, no doubt, but I secretly wish my parents would have taken a picture.  How is there no evidence that this ever happened?  Yes, beauty parlor ended abruptly and my sister's never trusted me with make up again.  Like, ever.

But really, I think the lack of trust happened when we played school.  I was usually the teacher and gave them plenty of assignments to keep them busy on the Saturday mornings when we'd go over to play at our school/church while my dad worked upstairs.

There are times when I wonder how it was that dad so readily unlocked any door in the school that the three of us misfits asked him to unlock?  What was he thinking?

But then, I remember how long we would play school.  I was a strict teacher and my students were not allowed to go anywhere unless I dismissed them.  For heaven's sake, dad got in so many hours of quiet study time while my mom had quiet time at home....on a Saturday.  Yes, folks, this is why he so readily opened every door.  We had full access to the classrooms, the gym closet, and, of course, the school office.   Parents will trade just about any amount of possible calamity for even a brief time of silence.  Am I right?  

So, the office was a significant door for dad to open because when I wasn't the teacher, I was the principal.  And sometimes I was both; those were the best days.  As the teacher I would threaten my sisters with the principal's office if they misbehaved. The problem for my youngest sister is that she has a conscience the size of Texas.

And her conscience would show up at pretend school!

"Be quiet, Erin.  The teacher's talking."  Yep, Bek, the teacher was talking (sometimes I wonder why they didn't just count to three and take me down.  They probably could have),

And then, on one particular day, Bekah raised her hand:

"Um, Mrs. (don't remember my teacher name; probably something like 'Mrs. Awesome'), what actually happens when someone gets sent to the principal's office?"

I loved the question.  And so we took a field trip down to the principal's office so I could educate my young pupils.  Once we entered the office, I pointed to a door that was locked.  It was a door that we had asked dad several times to open,  It was almost like we could hear the creepy Halloween music each time he said, "No."

So, I pointed slowly and dramatically to the door and told my believing younger sister that kids who were sent to the principal's office went into that room and had to sit in an electric chair.  And then they were electrocuted.

I have never tried to defend myself when certain words are used to describe my childhood self: trouble maker, strong-willed, juvenile delinquent (that one was given to me at age three by my dear grandmother), and the list goes on.  And let me assure you, there is pay back when the Good Lord gives us children of our own.

The stories I told my sister's were never a problem, I didn't think, until one particular school day.

On this particular day, our entire school was practicing for a Christmas musical.  Johnny (I have no idea who the poor soul really was) started acting up, and so the principal came in, grabbed his shoulder and said, "You're coming with me."

All I remember is complete silence except for one little voice in the back screaming hysterically: "No, no, no!  You can't take Johnny!  You can't electrocute him!  He'll die!"  I was waiting for the whole school to start chanting, "Let Johnny live!  Let Johnny live!" but then I realized we were in reality. And in reality, there were no electric chairs in the principal's office.  Unfortunately, I had to let my little sister into this reality, and unfortunately, I lost her trust for a long....long time.

As I've grown and matured, and yes that is slowly but surely happening (although I still laugh to myself when I think about Erin with one pigtail), I've come to understand how important it is to trust someone.  I think this is a harder concept for some than others; especially those who struggle with what I call "post traumatic older sister syndrome."

In reality, I've struggled with trust through my life.  It's been especially difficult for me to trust what I can't see, feel, and touch.   Throughout Jr. High especially, I struggled with understanding how it is that I'm supposed to trust in a God that I can't see.

My son's teacher emailed us a few days ago to let us know that he's asking for proof of Jesus' existence.  I know that he's not questioning his faith, he just has a lot of questions.  And I get it!  I felt the same way when I was his age; I wanted something....anything.... that I could grab onto in order to know that He is real and true.  Although, I have to admit that my son is proving to be a much smarter kid than I ever was.  While I was wishing I could merely see Jesus, he's asking for the DNA evidence from the Shroud of Turin (I have to admit I haven't a clue what and where one would go about finding this Shroud).

I told my son just a few days ago that we won't always find every answer we're looking for.  We won't always find the exact scientific evidence that we need to say to unbelieving friend, "See!
He's real!"  With tears in my eyes, I said to him, Jrod, at some point you just have to trust Jesus.  You have to have faith that He is there and that He loves you.

The words were so simple as they rolled off my tongue, but they were so profound to my own doubting heart in that moment.   And this is what living in Grace is all about, isn't it?  I doubt, and yet Jesus does not forsake me because of it.  I question, and yet Jesus does not turn His back to me.  I get angry, and yet He never leaves my side.

In preparation for a difficult week ahead, which includes moving my frail mom to a care center, a dear friend sent me this from the Story Book Bible for children:

How it happened they didn't know, but they knew God's power had struck their hearts ablaze - and Jesus himself was coming to live inside them.  

They had seen Jesus go away, but now he was closer than he had ever been - inside their hearts.  And this time nothing could ever separate them.  Jesus would always be there.  With them.  Loving them. Whispering the promise that would get rid of the poison and the terrible lie and sickness in their hearts.  God's wonderful promise to them:  'You are my child.  And I love you.'

I wept over these words written for children.  My stubborn and doubtful heart needed a child-like reminder that Jesus is near.  And I remember this is true.  His whisper was in my ear when I dropped off my oldest at her first day of kindergarten:  She is mine, and I love her.  

His whisper was evident when I kissed my dad good-bye:  You will see him again.  And I know it will be loud enough for me to embrace when we give my mom the news that we will be transferring her to the room where she will spend the rest of her days here on this earth:  I love her and I care her more than you ever could.  

I cry out more often than not, I believe, help my unbelief!  And it's then that I know Jesus is real.  He's the only one who can whisper the promises that rid me of the terrible lies and remind me that He is closer than I could ever imagine.  He's in my heart.  And so, I can trust.

Listen

Since caring for my mom, who at 62 has a rare degenerative brain disease, I’ve had many friends walk along side me who have been through similar circumstances.   I’m so grateful for those friends – their wisdom, gentle counsel and just plain understanding.  

It’s an interesting thing to “parent” a parent.  I’m pretty sure that if my mom could put the thoughts together, she’d laugh and remind me of when I was sixteen and so desperately wanted our roles to be reversed.  As difficult as my mom is at taking directions, I was worse.  I was far worse.  

I’ll never forget driving my sister, Erin, on one particular morning.  I was running late (some things will never change) to wherever it was we were going, so I had planned to eat my breakfast in the car.  

Erin had been buckled up in the car a good ten minutes early (and still other things never change) until I finally got myself together.  After loading up the car, I ran back in for my:  grape juice, orange juice, and peanut butter and jelly doused English Muffins.   Thinking I could successfully eat all of that while driving was my first mistake.  

My second mistake was the response that came after my mom said to me on my way out the door:  “You’re not going to eat that while you’re driving…. are you.”  It was more of a statement than a question.  

My response was, “whatever.”  Not smart.  Not smart at all.  

After several minutes of chastising, it was decided that the breakfast would be allowed  to stay in the car but only if my sister held the English Muffins until we arrived at our destination.  

Again, the word “whatever.”  I didn’t learn quickly.  

Finally, we pulled away and within seconds I told my sister to hand me the plate of muffins.  

You are so disobedient!  We’re all going to die!  Mom said to not eat it!  I’m supposed to hold it!  Do you even know God?  

OK, so I don’t remember exactly what my sister said, but it was something along these general lines.  

Tuning her out, I started into the English muffins, which were smothered with grape jelly.  I remember that because I spilled some on my shirt.  So, while driving, I set the plate down and attempted to clean off my shirt.  Also, while driving, the plate slipped off my lap.  And so, within a mile of our house, I leaned down to pick up my plate and turned the wheel just in time to hit a truck head on in the other lane.  

We spun several times, almost flipping over, and it took several minutes for me to register the following things:  

1.  My sister, who was sitting next to me, was punching me in the arm.  

2.  Both of us were covered in Grape Juice and Orange Juice

3.  There was Grape Jelly on the front windshield

4.  The affected truck driver was banging on my window

For twenty-four hours my parents rejoiced in the reality that my need to eat my English Muffins took no ones life.  But, it didn’t take long for the parental speech that I so deserved (and became very familiar with) which always began with the words:  “You need to listen to me…”

I see it in my own pre-teen daughter who isn’t as defiant as me (this is one of many reasons I believe in God’s mercy and grace…. although there is a child under my oldest who is teaching me plenty about justice) but is easily embarrassed by my instructions.  I 

learned this when I made the mistake of joining her at her Jr. High School to show her a helpful way to set up her locker in order to fit what she needed.  

Um, major mistake.  Major.  But then several weeks later when she told me she couldn’t fit everything in her locker, I said, “You need to listen to me…” My laugh may or may not have been slightly diabolical.  

Something happens as we age.  It happens almost miraculously.  Our parent’s advice is no longer a hindrance or an embarrassment, but it’s a necessity.  A welcomed and cherished necessity to life’s growing difficulties as we mature.  

I had to give my mom some medicine the other night.  She refused it at first, so I tried a little joking around.  I told her it was my famous cocktail.  While that usually works, mom refused it telling me, “No.”  So, I resorted to a firmer and more direct approach:  “Mom, you need to take this and I’m not leaving until you do.”  Like a stubborn child, she literally put it to her lips then put it down again.  So, I made myself comfortable on the bed and told her I’d sleep with her if she didn’t drink it all.   The medicine was gone within a minute.  

I’ve been taking directions from the neurologist that I feel less than equipped to implement; I’ve been giving advice to my step father on many issues that I’m still trying to figure out myself and have had to give mom instructions that I would have never imagined would come from my mouth:  be gentle; wait for me to get you up; let me help you with your pants. 

I find myself wanting my mom and dad and their advice.  I want their instruction and their wisdom.  And I long for their comfort.  

God has gently and mercifully met me in my weakness.  He’s sought me in these areas where my faith lacks.  I’ve sought wisdom and assurance from so many around me, but at times nothing makes a difference except for the peace of God, which passes all understanding. I have to be willing to listen to Him.  

His peace passes all understanding.  So, there is no logical explanation for why when we tell my mom we’re going to pray, she calms from an incredibly agitated state.  

There’s no medical explanation for a young woman, whose blog I follow, who is near death’s door to claim with confidence and assurance the peace of God.  

It’s when we listen to Jesus that we can relinquish our fears of what could happen to our kids, what could become of our finances, and what might become of our own health.  It’s when we listen that we find His peace.  

But too often I forget to be still and to listen, not unlike my stubborn sixteen year-old self.  I forget to be still, and I forget to open my arms to His comfort and understanding. 

But in the strangest moments, I’m reminded. 

After changing mom and threatening her with my never-ending presence in order to get her to take the medicine, we sat and prayed with my stepfather.  And in the calmness and peacefulness of that moment, while she held my hand, I was reminded once again to just 

listen.  

                                          

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.