Grace and Saints

Today I'm particularly thankful for two things:  My husband and GRACE.

I'm leading a discussion on a passage from Colossians in a couple of weeks that deals in part with a Biblical understanding of what a relationship looks like between a husband and wife.  In reflecting on my own relationship,  I've come to a hard and fast conclusion:

My husband is a saint.

I mean, seriously.

OK, so he's not perfect (incidentally, he vociferously denies his own sainthood, just in case you were wondering). But, if someone is going to receive a gold medal in glory for those who "Put Up With Quite a Bit From Their Wife," I, for one, am certain my husband just might have that gold hanging around his neck.   In-depth study of the Bible can be convicting (thank you, Holy Spirit and Inherent Word) and I must say that I've been deeply convicted this week.

There were several points given in one commentary* that help explain what our responsibilities are as wives, according to the passage in Colossians.  As an aside, this passage, and others like it in Scripture, has nothing to do with women being less important, insignificant, not equal, weak....must I go on?  Not. At. All.

On the contrary, God is for both husband and wife in equal amount, and He provides us with guidelines as to what our responsibilities are in marriage because our roles in this God-given relationship aren't to be taken lightly.   And thank God for the guidelines!  Because, folks, it's good and right to want to do all we can to help our relationships be the best they can be.  We work on things we care about, and for planners like me, I'm grateful to have something to work towards.  

In reality, we have responsibilities in every single relationship in our lives:  boss to employee, employee to boss, parent to child, child to parent, citizen to government - we have responsibilities in every relationship.  So, it should be no surprise that we have responsibilities in our marriages as well.

So, here are a few of the summary points of our obligations in marriage, and just a few of the simple examples of why I felt, um, a little bit convicted:

1. We're called to commit our life and all it's possibilities to another

I was talking with a friend recently about those who are "germaphobes."  She argued that she's not a germaphobe; rather, she's merely "germ aware."  Totally.  That's totally it.  I'm germ aware.  I'm aware of germ's pervasiveness...way more than I should be.

So, for example, if the possibility of the stomach bug comes anywhere remotely near my husband's body, it's "adios, honey!"and I'll see you when it's over...once the sheets are disinfected....and the walls Cloroxed...

I can hear enough through the small crack in the bottom of the door, so if things like liquid are needed (necessary) then I'll enter with my mask, gloves, and suit (kidding, kidding....kind of....) and provide the necessary electrolytes.

In other words, my interpretation:  I'll commit all of life's possibilities, as long as they don't disrupt me, my plans for the day, and my narotic "germ aware" ness.

Convicted.  


2.  We should be concerned with wanting the other person's good (not just wanting the other person to meet my needs) 

We have a tradition on birthdays.  The celebrated gets to pick any restaurant for dinner, and the two of us, along with some friends, enjoy the fact that we have a good excuse to go out and eat good food (although I must admit, my husband and I find "good excuses" to go out more often than not:  We both woke up that morning, I didn't strangle children, no one stepped on bubble gum, etc.  Cheers!)

So, on his birthday my husband picked a particular restaurant.  But it didn't have fish.  And I really wanted fish.  I rationalized: we both have to eat.  Naturally, then, we should go to a restuarant that has the food I want on my husband's birthday.  Duh.

Geez.  The stink I put up was worse than the smell of dead fish itself.  Sometimes it's hard to see past the desire for smoked salmon.

No, it's actually not.  It's simply a matter of choosing to see the other person's needs and desires, but too often we're fixated on the mirror of needs and wants in front of us.

And that's when we fight for the fish.

Convicted.  


3.  We should be concerned for the ultimate well-being of another without trying to control that person or to win praise for such sacrifice.  

I have occasional night time freak outs.  Anybody?  PALEEASE tell me that someone else has these frantic moments that seem to hit late at night.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure...

Essentially, every joy, sorrow, pain, and anxious thought hits me all at once, and it's always late at night.  I overheard my oldest describing what she sporadically hears late at night as "occasional adult temper-tantrums."

Touché', my dear, touché'.

Because basically, that's what they are.  They're adult temper-tantrums, and the output of all my words and emotions are directed straight toward my husband.  Why?  Because he's standing there.  That's why.

It doesn't matter what happened in his day because when I get going into my fits of "the world is against me," "woe is me," "has anyone even SEEN how many times I took out the trash this week," "I can't take anymore," blah, blah,  I leave very little room for concern over what has happened in his day...his week....year.... and am selfishly and desperately looking for some kind of pat on my back that says "you rock, honey."

What?  Ridiculous, really.

And every morning I become acutely aware of the absurdity of my night time need for accolades and disregard for the partner by my side.   Thank the Lord that His mercies are new every morning.

Convicted.  


4.  We should be listening to the other.  

Sometimes the most basic instruction, and in this case it's simply listening, can be the most difficult to follow.  Why?  Because we're so desperate to get our own point across that we miss everything being said.  Not listening to each other (really listening) results in fruitless and potentially damaging conversations.

Sometimes my listening skills look something like this:

Chris:  "Don't bring home anymore pets because you'll end up taking care of them yourself!  The kids will do it for a week and then you'll end up putting more on your plate."

What he was saying:  For the love.  Don't bring home another animal from PetSmart for your own sake!  

What I heard him say:  I hate animals!  Curse pets!  They should all be free and not bound in a cage!

I brought home a bearded-dragon and hamster within two months of each other.  I'm daily cleaning up poop and buying more animal food, cursing the pets each time I go near their cages.

I should've listened.

Convicted.  

It's too easy to put a relationship's problems on the other person, but until we each recognize our Biblical calling and the weaknesses that we need to work through, until we are truly convicted by our own sin, our marriages cannot thrive.

And this is why I'm deeply grateful for grace today.  Today, God's grace abounds to me, and I'm thankful that I am not on my own in this journey.  None of us are.  If you're a believer in Jesus, grace abounds and is given again and again, over and over.  And in marriage grace is needed in abundance.

Today I'm praising God for His grace and for His Mercy.

And today I personally give thanks for my saint.  I mean husband.

*The NIV Application Commentary: Colossians, Philemon by David Garland

Hamsters and Sweaters and All Our Earthly Things

My husband used my youngest in a sermon illustration on Sunday.  This isn't abnormal, especially since Lily lends herself quite well to illustrations, mostly because, well, she's Lily.  What was abnormal was that she knew about it.  Lily usually sits with friends because of our various responsibilities Sunday mornings, and she typically leaves for children's church during the sermons.  So, I was surprised when she walked up to her father immediately following the service with her finger pointing and words of reprimand rolling off her tongue.

After listening to her tantrum (i.e., "Why would you tell everyone that I might burn the house down?!" and "This is the worst day of my life..." etc, etc), my husband assured her that he wouldn't use her in sermon illustrations anymore to which she replied, "What?  Dad!  PAALEASE.  I like being in sermons."

Duh, dad.

So, when I asked Lily why she stayed in church for the sermon, she merely replied, "Mom, sometimes a person just needs a sermon."

Tis true, Lily, tis true.  And yesterday, I needed the sermon that my husband preached.  In reflecting on 1 Corinthians 7, he put up the following quote from author and professor, Gordon Fee:

"One lives in the world just as the rest - married, sorrowing, rejoicing, buying, making use of it - but none of these determines one's life...Christians do not buy to possess; that is to let the world govern the reason for buying.  Those who buy are to do so 'as if not' in terms of possessing anything." 

In other words, we don't marry to find eternal happiness.  We don't grieve without hope, and we don't rejoice without remembering who it is that gives us our joy.  And our possessions?  They don't ultimately have eternal value.

While I believe this in my heart, my excruciating, dramatic tantrum over my oldest daughter wearing my brand new sweater the other day might have suggested otherwise.  But we all act like our things have eternal value at one time or another, and kids are sometimes prime examples of this viewpoint.  Aren't they?

I bought my daughter a hamster last week.  There was no question that I walked into PetSmart with the intention of purchasing a goldfish to replace the dead and buried (like, literally buried) "Goldy," but the reality is that I walked out with a hamster.

I'm a sucker for animals.  I just am.  And this little furry ball of cuteness was too much for me to handle, and so he came home with us.  I was overjoyed, my daughter was a blissful pet-owner, my son couldn't wait to get his hands on the creature, but then there's my oldest and her father (they are one in the same).  She had no desire to look at the animal.  Like, not even look at it?  I just do not understand.   And my husband said very little; he simply expressed curiosity about who would win a fight between the hamster and our bearded dragon: Luxe vs. Smaug.  I'm not gonna lie.  I imagined that fight.

And now that my daughter has tasted what it's like to have a pet of her own, she is completely and utterly possessive of it.  There are rules:  No one can touch it without her permission; no one can go near the cage without her permission; you must only say sweet words to it (she prefers us to use higher-pitched voices), and she has already inquired about it's eternal destiny:  "Will Luxe go to heaven with me?" 

And, oh, how I get it.  As a kid, I had my own rules for my younger sisters when it came to holding my baby dolls (Alice and Mary Katherine.  Yes, I still remember their names.  And yes, that's mildly embarrassing to admit).  I posted signs on my door that said "yes," meaning a sister could come in and hold one baby of her choice for a brief time.  The sign that said "no" simply meant stay away from my baby dolls.  Duh.

Now that I'm older, it's less about the things around me (with the exception of new, winter sweaters) and more about the loved ones in my life.   I was struck with the reality that I can be as sinfully possessive of my own family as I can material possessions.  They can easily take the place of Jesus if I let them.  But they are not mine.  I don't own them, control them, and I certainly can't make them into the people I think they should be.  They ultimately belong to him.  As soon as I ache at the thought of something bad happening to any of them, I'm tenderly reminded that they do not belong to me, they belong to Jesus.

And there is so much beauty in this truth.  The beauty is seen in the hands of grace that envelop the constant battle going on in my heart over what exactly determines my life:  Is it my marriage?  My job?  My children?  My talents?  No, grace wraps it's arms around that battle, calms the conflict, and reminds me that Christ's redeeming love determines my life.  Period.

Traveling home the other day, I checked my phone messages before stepping on the plane.  The message that was left nearly took my breath away:  "Katie, your mom's about to meet Jesus." 

She continues to battle, though, and the "end" signs seemed to be related to her medications.  But I sat on the plane for 90 minutes not knowing what news would greet me upon landing and stared out at this beautiful view for the entirety of the flight:

Psalm 121 kept coming to mind:  "I lift up my eyes to the hills - where does my help come from?  My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth."  

Our help doesn't ultimately come in the form of material things, nor does it ultimately come in the people around us.  Our help comes from the Lord.  This is where we find peace; this is where we find our greatest joy.  With tears streaming down my face, I quietly rejoiced in the fact that I know Jesus.  Without Him, as much as I own on this earth, I have nothing.  But with Him, I simply have all that I need.  

Abba Father

So, lily is really into being a pastor's kid these days.  Like really into it, and honestly, I hope she keeps that level of excitement over her plot in life for a very long time.

She attended a birthday party over the weekend, and when someone recognized her from vacation bible school, Lily went into excitement mode.  Excitement mode involves lily talking very fast, not necessarily with big emotion, just fast with words that all seem to run together.  It's kind of like one long, overstated hashtag.  And her excitement wasn't over the fact that she was recognized (or that she was at a pretty awesome birthday party), but her excitement was over the reality that Bible school was held at her church...where her dad is the pastor.  So, her response went something like this:

#Iamthepastor'sCHILDatthatchurchthepastor'sCHILDandIcanshowyouanythinginthatchurchbecause
Iamthepastor'sCHILDofthatchurchandmydadisthepastorsoI'mthepastor'sCHILD

Yep.  Just about like that. The kid adores being a pastor's CHILD - she loves it, embraces it, and even brags about it.  I asked Lily what is so cool about being a pastor's kid, and here are the top three great things about being a PK according to my seven-year old:

1.  You get hideaways in the pastor's office when you're a pastor's CHILD.

Lily believes that the hideout she has created under her dad's desk is a giant perk.  There may be a time in the near future when Lily discovers that hideouts aren't necessarily unique to pastor's kids, but for now, she chalks up her hideout in the pastor's office as a plus to being a "PK," so....so do we.

If you were to check out lily's hideout, here are a few items you'd encouter:  an extra pair of socks (because, well, lily),  tissues (unused and used), cups for water (in case of an emergency), dolls (duh), stuffed animals, and...from time to time...a Bible.

This hideout is important for several reasons, according to my youngest.  First, she needs a place to go during the time of prayer held in dad's office before the worship service.   "Well, mom, I can't sit with the elders.  And why would I go out to the playground??"  Right....because why would a seven year old go out to the playground?  Come on, mom.

The hideout is also significant for certain church "clubs."  What I've noticed is that once lily befriends someone at church, and feels them out over the course of...a few minutes, she then proceeds to let them in on her secret space.  And once you see the secret space, you're in.  Like literally.  They all gather in the hideout.  In fact, on one particular Sunday during worship we noticed that Lily was missing.

I'm mildly embarrassed to admit how long it took me to notice this, but both mom and dad are on stage during worship, so, well, I'm just grateful for a church family who keeps an eye out - and who thinks to look in the hideout when pastor's children are missing.  Sure enough, lily and her friend were conducting their own private Sunday school in the hideout.  "Mom, come on, we had a Bible!"  That club meeting ended rather abruptly.

Yep.

2.  You can ask your dad all your questions about God because he's a pastor and you're a pastor's CHILD.

So, her questions can wear you out.  There are times when the questioning begins and my husband and I just look at each other.   We're both imagining doing this:

Sweet lily.  We don't bolt.  We endure.  And her dad does a much better job than I do at trying to answer each question she has.  Her questions for her pastor dad are big: 

Where is heaven, dad?  But like WHERE?  Will I look like this in heaven, dad?  Can I be a teenager in heaven, Dad?  Do all kids go to heaven, dad?  Did Jesus have a beard?  Why does God let Satan do stuff, dad?  And, of course:  Dad?  Can I have a key to the church, dad?  Just one key, dad.  

3.  When your dad is a pastor, he can do funerals for your fish when they die - like when "Goldy" died a couple of days ago and dad buried him and read from the Bible.  

And there's just not much more to say about that.  

She claims the title of pastor's kid proudly - she loves it, embraces it, and even brags about it.  And wouldn't you if you had a dad to conduct funerals for the goldfish?  

I have the privilege of speaking for a women's retreat this weekend, and the theme for the weekend is Kingdom Heirs.  I can't tell you how much God has worked on my heart while preparing for these talks.  

The beauty of what it means to be a child of God is something that I haven't reveled in enough.  But when I let the depth of that relationship encompass me, I'm overwhelmed with the implications of what it means that I can call God, the creator of the universe, my father.  He is my father; while my earthly one is gone, He is there to comfort me, love me, rejoice over me, and guide me.  I know this because I experience His faithfulness daily, which is one of the greatest benefits of being His child.  But there are other rewards as well.  

In the midst of anxiety that can at times seem paralyzing,  God makes himself known in simple places like a sunrise or sunset.  Their beauty speaks volumes to the reality of a God who cares for His creation, and if He cares for His creation with such detail, just imagine how much more He cares for His children. And the gentle words of encouragement from a friend are reminders of God's tender love in the midst of pain and difficulty.  He is never absent in the journey.  The hands that give faithfully and generously are reminders of God's provision for His children in every single way.   I breath in deeply these never ending pictures of God's grace, all of them just glimpses of the joy and glory that awaits us when we receive our inheritance in full.  

To those who are believers in Jesus: He is our KING; we are heirs of His Kingdom; we are His beloved children.  Claim the title proudly - we have reason to do so.  Love it, embrace it....brag about it.  

You are a CHILD of the King.  

Racing in Him

I'm a runner.  Ok, so I'm kind of a wanna-be-runner, and I know this because of time spent in running stores.  A few months ago I bought a new pair of running shoes, and while checking out the various options, I asked the gentlemen who was assisting to show me the best pair of running shoes he had available.  So, he walked into the next aisle, picked up a pair shoes and said, "These."  Imagine angelic light shining down on the pair of shoes because that's exactly what it was like.  They were heavenly shoes.

So, after admiring the divine shoes, he asked me how many miles I get in during the week.  I told him.  And that's when he put down the golden shoes.  The light retracted and he said, "let's look over in this aisle."

Whatever.

It's at that point that I felt the need to throw out there one of my greatest accomplishments:  "I ran a marathon once."  And I said it with no reason to say it.  Maybe a part of me was figuring he would say, "What?!?  You're amazing.  How? When?  Where?" And then run back and grab the heavenly shoes.  But, he didn't.  He just smiled.

And then it was awkward.

So, regardless of whether or not I am a "real" runner in the eyes of the lord of the running store, I sure enjoy running.  And I'm not entirely sure why.

When it's hot, it's pretty miserable.  When it's freezing, it's pretty miserable.  There's usually something between my head and feet that aches before, during, or after the run, but there's just something about it.  Maybe it's the "runner's high" that I've heard about (though when I've described this "high" to others, I've been told that I can get the same sensation from eating Jelly Beans.  I kind of believe them).

I'm pretty competitive.  Um, maybe very competitive.  Ok, if I'm going to be honest, I'm extremely and ridiculously competitive.  As much as I love seeing my youngest excited when she wins something, I just can't bring myself to let her win any of the games we play together.  Yes, I know, she's only seven.  But still.

My son told me the other day how fast he could run a mile.  Yep.  We went outside and raced...and I won.  The problem was that I barely won.  Thus far I had been able to clean up shop on Shoots and Ladders, pool games, basketball games, and Clue, so this was too close a call.  Of course, my son wanted to race again.

And that's when it happened.  He beat me.  He beat me fair and square.  So, naturally I told him we were going to do it again.  And...he beat me...again.  He embraced the win like nothing I've ever seen.  He then wanted to have a competition in about ten different physical activities.  What ensued was a fierce battle that included:  1.  Who can balance on the exercise ball the longest 2.  Who can bounce on the exercise ball the longest without touching their legs to the ground 3.  Who can do the longest plank 4. Who can do the most pull ups, etcetera, etcetera, et...ridiculous...cetera.  

When he wanted to see who could eat the most cinnamon, I drew the preverbal line (though I made sure he knew I could eat far more than he ever could).

Where he gets this competitive nature, I will never know.

His winnings are proudly displayed with the smile that appears on his face every time we walk by the pull up bar together.  "Hey, Mom, want to try just oooone.  Just one, mom. Come on. Here, I'll show you how to do ten."  

Funny, Jrod.  Just hilarious.  And then we usually do a timed sit up contest.  Mom still rules in a few areas.

He decided a couple of weeks ago that he wanted to join a cross county and track team.  When I picked him up from his first practice, I asked him how it went.  While wiping his forehead, he said:  
"It was the intensest, super hardest and most ridiculously awesome thing I've ever done in my whole, entire life."

I have no idea where he gets his drama either.

But that's it.  That's totally it.  Running is so hard, but it's so rewarding.  There's an end goal that must be achieved and meeting that end goal, while passing others and beating your last time, of course, is indescribably...awesome.

I was reading Colossians the other day in preparation for our upcoming Bible study.  Colossians 2:6 and 7 stood out to me in a profound way:

Therefore, as you received  Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.  

It's been a challenging couple of weeks caring for my mom who's been ill for several years now.  I was reminded when we saw a doctor yesterday of the rarity of her disease, and while we sat in the waiting room feeding her, I watched with deep sorrow as she could barely swallow the soft food given to her.  My mom, however, does not give up easily.  She mustered every bit of strength she could to do what needed to be done (my fierceness didn't come from no where).   But each time I lifted a bit of food to her mouth and heard her moan with frustration, I screamed inside: "Relieve her, God!"  And then this verse.

We're In Him.  Someone asked me recently if there are any medicines available to counteract the disease.  No.  There's not.  But, there's Grace.  We walk in Him through paths that are utterly confusing and painful, not beside him or behind him, but in Him.  That's the remedy.  I'm never left alone with my tears.  So, thanksgiving through tears.  Mom is never without Him in her suffering.  So, thanksgiving through the pain.

And walk. Don't forget to walk.  We're called to continue to move forward, and as a wanna-be-runner, I get it.  I get that in a race you never quit the course (especially if racing J-rod), I get that you keep moving forward even if it means spurts of walking...skipping, hopping...however you get to the end, you get there.  The gospel is there not only for conversion, it's there for us while we grow, wrestle, and move forward through this life - it's there every step of the way.  And it's grace that enables us to continue to move forward.  Like running, moving forward through a difficult journey in life can be intense and super hard, but what we're promised in the end is ridiculously awesome.  I believe that with my whole heart.

Grace enables me to lift food to mom's mouth and carry her to bed.  Grace gives her the perseverance to swallow when she can.  Grace gives her the strength to press on until the end.   And Jesus Himself will be waiting at the finish line.

But that won't be a surprise to mom.  She's been racing in Him all along.

The Miracle of Coolness

My thirteen year old told me the other day that she was sad for me.

And it's not because her crazy, busy schedule means I have a crazy, busy schedule.   And it's not because of the stresses that come with caring for an ill parent or the difficulties and demands of life in general.

My daughter is sad for me because of my Instagram feed.

Duh.

And also because I don't quite make the right choices when it comes to color...of make up and nail polish, but those are mere minors.  It was the majors that finally got to her - like my Instagram feed.

She explained that my feed is just a bunch of pictures...of other people's kids.  Uh-huh.  I know what she wanted to yell:  where's the fun, where's the excitement, what is this thing you call life, mom?!

And that's when she broke it to me:  "Mom, it's just.... like....well...you don't need to try to act cool...because you're not cool.  But that's OK, mom."  

I'm so glad she broke the difficult but necessary news to me.  And, frankly, I'm a little surprised it took her this long to figure it out.

My minivan alone could give it away.  I mean, minivan.

But beyond that, my ride has a dented and broken front bumper that also has a missing license plate on the front because of the dented bumper.  And it also has said license plate sitting on the hutch between the driver and passenger seat.  I use it for my breakfast plate in the mornings.  I figured out this system after dropping a blueberry on my seat...and sitting on it...and not knowing it.  That was fun.  And cool.  To add to the car's excitement, it also has a broken volume dial, so when a danceable song comes on the radio, I crank it....to volume level TWO.  Yup.

And yes, I just referred to my minivan as "my ride" and barely caught it.

I fully admit, my eldest, that I also don't always have the coolest responses in the world.  Like, for example, that time your new youth leaders asked for ideas of things kids your age like to do, and I suggested they take you for "an after school snack."  Oh, yes I did.

And I won't argue that not noticing I was wearing my shorts inside out when in public may be construed as a little "dorky,"  but at least they weren't backwards.  You know?

There's no doubt that yelling at your locker and calling it names while trying to hang contact paper the day before eighth grade started may not have been the coolest move on my part.  Let's just be glad that the guy who walked past wasn't one of your teachers.  He's a custodian, honey, so you only have to see him like just a few times during the week.  Just a few.   And suggesting we put the leftover black contact paper on your teachers window....

I know.

Not cool.

I remember very clearly when my own parents lost their "coolness."  Remarkably, I was right about the same age as my eldest.  They even walked uncool.  In fact, I distinctly remember seeing my mom one time walking into my seventh grade hallway.  I couldn't handle it so much that I turned and went right up the stairs on the opposite side of the hall.

But, here's the miracle, oh daughter of mine:  my parents somehow grew out of their un-coolness.  It was inexplicable, I tell you!  Nothing short of miraculous.  I actually wanted them to drive me to college and for some strange reason their ridiculous advice and crazy antidotes became....funny.

Crazy, I know.

I took my mom to get her nails done last week and brought with me my oldest and youngest daughter.  We all sat next to each other getting our toes painted.  My youngest picked out her color and when I told her I loved what she chose, she smiled big.  When I told my eldest I liked her color, she proceeded to switch colors (because picking what the uncool thinks is cool has potentially devastating affects).

Of course, due to my current failure of polish color, I had my eldest daughter assist in my color choice.  My mom can't speak anymore and has trouble communicating her emotions, but she's still my mom, and she can still disapprove.  I couldn't help but laugh at her obvious disapproval of my black toenails that I allowed my eldest to pick out for me.

Because for some reason I'm still trying to be cool.  Even though I still drive my minivan.

And I watched as my mom's toenails were painted.  She's worn the same color as long as I can remember, and when I was in Jr. High, I tried to stop her from making such demoralizing mistakes.  But, somehow, it looks lovely now.  Miracle of miracles.  My lovely momma, even as she fades.  And amazingly, I have no shame in putting my arm around her, smiling, and telling her that I love her even though she disapproves of my nails.

Someday, my sweet daughter, my polish choice will inexplicably become a good color.  I may or may not still put my shorts on the right way and may drop you off to college jamming to T-Swift at volume level two.

And yes, I just used the word, "jamming," and just admitted that I listen to Swifty (and yes, I just said that too).  Now you can die to the world.

But when you put your arm around me and smile, I will know that you experienced the same miracle I did.

The Two Words It Takes for a Mom to Get Through a One Direction Concert

There is no doubt that what parents do for their kiddos is usually under appreciated.  There just aren't enough thank you's, in my humble opinion.

Take, for example, the dinner I made the other night.  It wasn't a quick, easy one (I do plenty of those) but actually took time, planning, and for heaven's sake I was really excited about my meal.

My husband liked it.  I liked it.  No, I loved it.  It was really good.  And I freely admit we've made some really bad ones.  Here's one of those bad ones:

If you can't tell (how could you not?), that's supposed to be grilled pizza.

So, complaining about the above dinner is completely acceptable.  I did it too.  But, complaining over my time-induced and really good meatball dinner....not acceptable.  Where are the thank you's?

One kid got out of the dinner all together, and I overheard him say to his sister on the way out, "I get to eat dinner at my friend's house." And a snicker followed.  I mean, come on!  You would have thought he was getting out of an hour of torture to be free from pain and misery.  But, no.  He was just getting out of dinner.

Then there's the time my son asked what exactly it is that I do all day:  "Like, mom, do you just like teach a few lessons and then just like come home and rest?"  Yep, son.  I just teach a few kids and then come home and sleep all day.  And, I added, I eat chocolate....on the couch....whilst watching movies.  Like all day.  Bwahahaha.

Geez, son.

But, there are those rare times when the kids seem to notice the work that parent's put into daily life to help their monsters, I mean children, thrive.  For example, when putting away laundry the other day, my youngest daughter said to me:  "Thanks, mom, for putting away my clothes!"

Wait, what?  I swept her off her feet, hugged her, told her she was my favorite and could have any sweets she wanted!  OK, I didn't really do that, but I secretly wanted to.  Instead, I just smiled and said, "You're welcome," and explained how much I appreciated her thanks.

My oldest turned thirteen this year.  I wanted to do something that I knew she'd love, and I knew she loved the band One Direction.

You have to understand how unfamiliar I am with the boy band obsession.   I never got into New Kids or Backstreet Boys (shame, I know).  My first concert was Amy Grant followed by Hootie and the Blowfish and there just wasn't much in between.

But, my kid loves the band, so I bought a ticket for her and a ticket for her friend and we road tripped it to Kansas City a few weeks ago.

I was subjected to One Direction talk and song for four straight hours.  Along with the headache,  too many cups of Starbucks, and "The Story of my Life..." lyrics running through my head, I entered our hotel feeling something like this:

But, the girls were excited.  Like, so excited.  I can't adequately describe the amount of exhileration oozing from the girls while they were getting ready for their big night.  Singing, laughing, picture taking, and just a *little* bit of shrieking.   I, on the other hand, took off my shoes, pulled the sheets over my head and put in my head phones.  Ahh....Amy Grant.

Kidding.  Really, I just needed ten minutes of muffled sound.   I listened to nothing.  Just needed the headphones to muffle the sound for a few.  

Reinvigorated by my ten minute headphone time, I threw on a pair of shorts and tennis shoes and declared myself ready for the big night.

Like a Pro, I found a parking space for only thirteen bucks.  Like a novice, I didn't pay any attention to how far the parking spot was from the venue.

And since I didn't have an actual ticket for the concert, my plan was to hang out in the "Parent's Lounge."  Yes, folks, this is an actual thing.  I had no idea what to expect at said Parents Lounge, but I figured it couldn't be all that bad.  In fact, I was kind of looking forward to a few hours of quiet with a good book and my iPad.  I packed up my purse with things to keep me busy and we headed toward the venue.

So, the first thing I noticed whilst walking with many young girls and their moms (other than parking attendants, I literally didn't see a male for a good hour) was the fact that I was dressed, um, not at all like the other moms.  Fancy tank tops, skirts, jewlery, high heels....I totally missed the memo that must have been attached to the ticket that explained to newbies like me that moms actually dress up for these sorts of things.  I, on the other hand, looked like I was about to go for a run.

Whatever.

The second thing I noticed was how far our thirteen dollar parking spot actually was from the venue.  It was a twenty-five minute walk far.  About half way there, I heard a parking attendant call out: "Hey lady in the purple running shorts!"

Seriously?  Head's turned as if to say, "Who is wearing running shorts to a One Direction concert?"  Yes, thanks, parking attendant.  That would be me.

"They aren't gonna let you bring that purse into the concert."

"Oh, I'm not actually going to the concert.  I'm going to the....Parent's Lounge."

"The Parent Lounge?"  He totally laughed out loud.  "What is that?"  

After trying to convince me that he was gonna see me in the parking lot again if I tried to get in with my purse,  I thanked him for his help and kept walking, comfortably, I might add, thanks to my running shoes.  He called out as I walked away, "I'm gonna see you back this way purple shorts!"

Uh-huh.

Once I got up to the venue, I encountered a very impatient security guard.  I kind of felt empathetic toward the security guard until she started with the purse too:  "Ma'am, you can't go into the venue with that purse."   Drenched with sweat, I started to explain....again....that I'm not actually going into the venue, I'm going into the....Parent's Lounge...

"What's that?"

Seriously?  I started to wonder if I somehow made up the Parent's Lounge.  Like, did I dream that there was a way for me to not attend the concert but just sit quietly and read so as to avoid the screeches coming from hundreds of thousands of girls?  Was that a dream?

She wouldn't let me past her, so I looked at the girls and looked ahead at the swarm that was filing into the venue.  I gave them a hug (maybe that would have been better accepted if I was in heels??  Probably not.), gave them some firm directions (perhaps that wouldn't have received an exaggerated sigh if I could just get the band boy's names straight??  I think not.), and told them to have a blast.

So, I started the twenty-five minute walk back to the car.  And that's when I met high-heeled lady.  She never told me her name, but we were apparently kindred spirits since we both had to walk back to the same parking lot because we both had purses that we couldn't bring into the venue.

She talked the entire way back to the car.  I mean the entire way back to the car.  I totally would have joined in....if I could.   I tried, but I couldn't' even squeeze in a "Tell me your name?"  High heeled lady went on about concerts, One Direction, her girls and their drive from Nebraska, her favorite "1D" song (what?!), and the fact that her feet hurt (hehe).

And then I heard it:  "There you are purple shorts girl!  I knew you'd be back this way!  I told you so."  And...he laughed again.  And...I kinda wanted to punch him in the face.  Instead I just smiled and waved because any words I attempted would have interrupt high heeled lady's words.

Once we made it back to the car, I was literally drenched.   I thought I'd kill some time and cool off in the car before the walk back to the venue, but I noticed high heeled lady waiting for me to walk back with her.  For the love.

Empty handed, I walked back whilst listening to high heeled lady talk about their plans for after the concert.  Then she asked me a question.  She asked me a question, folks!  "What are your plans after the concert?"

"Oh, bed?"  That's exactly what I said.  And then it was awkward for a minute.  But only a minute because she kept talking.

And again:  "Purple shorts girl!  You don't have a purse!  You'll get in just fine now."  I was close enough this time to actually punch him in the face but again...just waved and smiled.

My high heeled friend asked me where my seats were once we got up to the venue.

"Oh, I'm not going into the concert.  Just to the...Parent's Lounge."

"What's that?"

"I'm not entirely sure."  That's exactly what I said.  But it wasn't awkward because she departed.  I gladly departed and then began, kind of desperately, searching for the "Lounge." 

I found the Parent's Lounge.  And I was excited that it actually existed, until I went inside.  The place was packed, country music was blaring, and there was not one seat available.   Every table was full and my food option was popcorn.  But that wasn't the first thing I noticed.   The first thing I noticed were all the purses.

Purses, books, computers, iPads...purses...everywhere.  It was a cruel joke.  To this day I have no idea how they all got in with their purses!   I expected the parking attendant to be there and shout out: "Gotcha purple shorts girl!"   I cooled off for a few minutes while devising a plan, left the parent's lounge and went to the ticket booth.  I mean, why not?  At this point, screeching girls and One Direction were better than what awaited in the parent's lounge....with no purse.

I texted my daughter to give her the exciting news.  I knew she'd love it.  Her own mother....choosing One Direction on her own accord (she didn't need to know the whole story).  And this is the exact text I received back:

"Mom, seriously.  You can't do that!  This is just not something that thirty year old ladies do by themselves!"

I wasn't immediately angry with her because she called me a thirty-year old.  But then I imagined myself in the venue...by myself....not knowing the songs...with ear plugs in my ears to keep from permanent damage from the screeching.  Probably not my best idea.  And besides that reality, I realized I had no credit card.  Because that would be in my purse.

So, I headed back to the car...again...was ready and waiting for my parking attendant friend who yelled out, "You sure got in your cardio for the day!"  (if only he knew how many times I imagined punching him), waved at him and made my way back to the parent's lounge - with my purse... and a polka-dot blanket.

I can guarantee you that I was the only one the Parent's Lounge sitting on the floor on a polka dot blanket.  I called the lounge quits when a guy came in barefoot and I overheard him say this:  "Yea, I got myself some kind of fungal infection and the shoes just make it worse.  Ya know?"

So, I parked myself in the grass outside the stadium and for two and a half hours listened to girls shriek.  It was great.  Lemme tell ya.

The same exhilaration the girls had getting ready for the concert followed them out of the concert....times twenty.   They had the time of their lives.  I got a second wind knowing the night was almost over (oh, the naivety) and was excited with them - until we hit the tunnel.  

So, since I walked through the tunnel to get to and from my car five times already that night, I should have anticipated the nightmare the tunnel would be post concert with thousands of highly excited girls.  We stood inching our way through the tunnel to the parking lot for almost thirty minutes.  Just at the point I thought I might die of heat and claustrophobia, this happened:  

So, I kind of imagined myself yelling, "Stop!  Everyone!!  Just be quiet and walk forward!  And for the love, stop singing One Direction songs!"  And then I imagined all their sweaty bodies turning around and attacking me.  So, I stayed quiet and took deep breaths.  And...it smelled.  Like really bad.  So, I took small breaths and imagined a big open space with a lot of breeze and Amy Grant music.  I looked at my daughter and said, "This is awful!."  And she said, "This is awesome!"  Yep.  

By the time we made it to the car, I was done.  I was over it.  It took everything in me to put that One direction CD in and pretend to be excited with my daughter who was loving everything about life.  

"Mom, I don't even know how we're going to sleep tonight!"  Dying.  I was dying.  

"And mom, can you turn down the music?  Thank you so much for all of this!  This was the best night ever!  Thank you!"  

And there it was.  I didn't want to sweep her up like I did my youngest; in fact, I kind of wanted to break that CD, but man did she put a smile back on my face.  

You're welcome kid.  Now, remember to say that the next time I cook dinner.  

Control in the Headquarters

I recently saw the movie Inside Out.  What an incredibly clever flick!  For those who haven't had the opportunity, it's essentially about a young girl named Riley who is uprooted and moves to a new city. Her emotions; Anger, Sadness, Disgust, Fear, and (her most prominent emotion) Joy, start to disagree on how to deal with the dramatic change, which causes problems up in "Headquarters," the working space for the five emotions.

Post movie, I couldn't help but wonder about the controllers in the headquarters of each of my  kiddos.  Who's primarily in control?

My middle kid tends to be controlled by Joy.  We're at the beach this week and I watched him as he sat on the sand, celebrated the wonder of the sand, praised the name of the sand, and finally covered himself from head to toe....with the sand.  Ridiculous, I tell you, how one can find joy in gathering sand down one's pants, but this is my son; the one who breaks out in song when I tell him he can have Mac and Cheese for dinner.

My oldest is generally controlled by disgust.  OK, this is so not a put down.  Really.  She's a teenage girl, for heaven's sake.  And for those who have seen the movie, you know what I mean.  And I'll say that her controlling emotion can be helpful at times.  When clothes shopping recently, for example, I got an eye roll at the "awful and terrible" shirt that I was about to try on.  And so I thanked her, profusely.  I told her I'd shout from the mountain top just HOW GRATEFUL I AM THAT SHE SAVED ME from purchasing an "awful and terrible" shirt.  And at that point she practically turned green with disgust.  But then she picked out a "better" shirt for me and all were happy campers.   Yup.  It's great having a teenage girl.

And then there is my youngest.  By her own admittance she tends to be controlled "by the red guy."  And...that guy would be anger.  I don't know why in the world she would say this.  I mean, my eldest only has a few scratch marks from when she told my youngest it was time to go to bed whilst babysitting.  And no one would think the red guy was front and center by her reaction to the command to "eat the greens."  She only lay prostrate banging fists on the ground for five minutes, certainly not ten.  Because that would just be ridiculous.  And don't be fooled by her size.  Though I can practically touch my finger to my thumb around her leg, she can pounce on her brother like nothing I've seen when he breaks out in his operatic voice over mac and cheese.   I have to admit:  I kinda want to pounce him when I hear that voice too.

Man, parenting is fun.

What's most compelling to me is the fact that I cannot control who God has made my kids to be.  I can't make them have certain reactions and emotions.  And, unfortunately, I can't make them fall asleep when I want them to (And trust me, my husband and I have tried every possible way from the day they were born to control this area of parenting.  I may or may not have told my youngest the other night that if she fell asleep in the next five minutes, I would give her M & M's with her breakfast.  Um, the M & M's failed me). As much as I want my eldest to jump through the roof when I give her a gift, that is just not who she is.  And as much as I want my son to simply say "thanks" for the mac and cheese and avoid the operatic singing, that is just not who he is.

Of course we guide them, teach them, and do what we can to help them understand the Truth, but as hard as I may try, I cannot control them.  That's God's job.  He's the potter and we are the clay.  No threat of discipline or look on my face can change the hearts of my kids.  The reality is that God is very much in control in their "headquarters," their hearts, and the more I try to do what I simply don't have the power to do, the further I leave the door open to discouragement and frustration.  And the beauty of it all is that God uses our kids to refine and transform us.  Each exhausting day filled with sleepless infants, toddler messes, confusing teens, worrisome behavior and singing over mac and cheese is refinement by God in our own hearts.

My youngest spent thirty minutes last night asking her dad a series of questions.  I was so intrigued by the interrogation between my daughter and her father that I began writing down the questions she asked.   Here they are in order:

1.  How come Adam and Eve didn't listen to God?
2.  Why doesn't God just save everyone?
3.  Why do people care more about the outside then the inside?
4.  Are you saying that hell is forever?
5.  Does God make mistakes?
6.  What if someone knows God but then doesn't love him anymore?
7.  Do people go to heaven if they give up on God?
8.  What happens if I keep on sinning?  Because, Dad, I'm just gonna keep on sinning.
9.   Can people have church in their home?
10. How come God died on a cross and not some other way?
11. Who makes us sin?
12. Who's in charge of hell?
13. Does God control me or do I control myself?
14. How long till we get home?
15. Can I have some M & M's?

So, she's seven, folks.

And may God grant patience to her Sunday school teachers.

My husband suggested she uses this for her night time reading:

She wanted to, but I advised Flat Stanley instead.

This is what's going on in my kids mind right now.  Her headquarters are working over time, trying to understand the intricacies of faith and theology.  So many questions that have less than satisfactory answers for her....for me.  It's during moments like these that I'm desperately thankful that God is in control of her little heart because I, for one, cannot articulately explain apostasy and the problem of evil in the world.  For the love, Lily Joy.

Being at the beach has made me reflect on my own parents and the blood, sweat, and (many) tears over parenting me as a child and teen.  We've come to the same vacation spot for twenty-six years and this is the first year without at least one of my parents.  And I know my mom wanted to be here with us.  I know how badly she wanted to feel the sand under her feet.  I know how much she wanted to watch the kids play in the water and hear the waves crash on the shore.  So, when I tried to calm her over the phone while she was in an agitated state, I told her to just listen to the waves.  And I sat there in the sand with my arm extended so that she could hear the crash of the waves.  With tears streaming down my face, I thanked God for my momma and her parenting.  She wasn't perfect, but she did her best.

And I'm thankful that as a momma myself that's what I'm called to do.  I can't control or create, but I can do my best and trust in God.  Because thankfully, He's in control.