A Marathon and a Suit: Lessons in Committment

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

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

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

 

 

After my first "long" run, I realized there's really no such thing as the above image.  Give me a break.  Ten miles was a huge milestone and I physically wore every inch of pain that I felt during the run.  And even if I wanted to pretend the above were true, my kid's honest reaction every time I walked in the door from a long run shook me quickly back to my reality:  "Ooh, mom, you're so sweaty!"  Or the more common, "Mom, you look really bad."  Or my all time favorite, "Mom, can you please not come near me." 

 

 

But, I was committed.  Very, very committed.  I stuck to that schedule thanks to two runner friends (who, incidentally, probably looked a little more like the above picture).  And even though there were some Saturday's when I thought my legs weren't going to go more than four miles, I always felt a sense of accomplishment when I hit the pavement and could check off another long run on my training schedule.  No matter how painful or ugly the run....I was committed. 

 

The Expo the day before the race pumped me up.  I was even beginning to see my face on the girl in the picture.  The excitement and momentum was a real boost, building anticipation for the longest run of my life. 

 

 



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

"You're doing the full?" 

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

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

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

But I was committed. 

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

He agreed.  And my son was committed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

The Tooth Fairy

My kids never believed in Santa Claus. 

We never told them that he wasn't real....but I suppose we never really told them he was either.  Just this last Christmas I was having a conversation in the car with my five year old: 

"Mom, we need to tell a lot of people about Jesus." 

"Yes, we do, Lily.  You can tell your friends who may not know about Jesus."

"I will because he's real.  I'll tell them about hell too." 

Well, we had a few minutes of discussion on a tactful way to go about eternal damnation.  And then, with the same resolve she felt in telling her friends about Jesus, she said:  

"And Mom, I need to make sure to tell my friends that Santa isn't real either." 

And then I totally confused her.  So I summarized:  Tell your friends that Jesus is real.  Do not tell your friends that Santa is not. 

The poor kid.  There's so much to try and get straight when you're five. 

While my kids have never been believers in the jolly fat man, they've always been firm believers in the tooth fairy.  This is purely the result of our parenting.  We've always gone a little too far when it came to the tooth fairy: handwritten notes in fancy writing on fancy paper, gifts (like birthday present type gifts), pictures of the tooth fairy's house, pictures of her friends, scavenger hunts to and from the tooth fairy, and correspondence that would last for weeks between our child and the "tooth fairy."  O.K., we have gone way too far. 

It all started very innocently.  My oldest daughter lost her tooth one night right before bed.  She was so excited about putting it under her pillow and I'll never forget her toothless smile when she exclaimed, "I wonder how much money the tooth fairy gives for your first tooth." 

My husband and I looked at each other completely dismayed.  My husband began assuring my daughter that the tooth fairy would definitely give her some money, but that sometimes money comes in the form of something called a check....

I totally interrupted his explanation pulling him out of the room and turning off the lights for my dreamy daughter who was trying so hard to stay awake for the special visit. 

He was right, though.  We had no cash in the house - not even a dime.  And then I had a brilliant idea:  it was her birthday in a week and I had a few presents hidden for the big occasion.  "We'll just put one of the gifts under her pillow and write a note explaining that she's a special girl so she gets a gift instead of money." 

It was the stupidest idea I've ever had.  We didn't consider multiple teeth, nor did we consider multiple children.  Ideally, we would have started with a quarter and gone up from there, but instead with started with a new baby doll....and a note.  We had to go up from there.  Subsequently, each lost tooth from my daughter, and then of course from my son, resulted in a gift, a fancy note, and all that followed in between.  My husband and I began dreading the loss of teeth.

 

 



I will never forget the day when our babysitter and friend let the cat out of the bag for our older two.  She assumed they were too old to believe in a tooth fairy, and so when one of them lost a tooth, my friend said very matter of fact:  "So, what are your parents going to put under your pillow?" 

I'm told that my kids looked like deer in the headlights.  My friend came to me apologetically, feeling awful that she broke the news to them.  She was sorry that the kids no longer believed in a winged fairy that sprinkled them with magic dust, sorry that they no longer believed there was a magical forest where they lived, and sorry that they no longer accepted a reality of winged fairy's that watched over each and every tooth. 

I was over joyed.  The truth was out!  And I didn't have to break the news.  I wanted to do a happy dance knowing that I no longer had to do late night runs to Walmart to get a present; my husband was totally willing to join me in the happy dance.  He no longer had to write fancy notes on fancy stationary.  We were free!  We were free to say to our kids, "Great.  You lost a tooth.  We'll give you a buck."  

But then we had one more child.  Lily found out recently that she had to have a tooth pulled by her dentist.  This was going to be her first "lost" tooth.  Her emotions about the event ranged from fear, due the fact that her brother ever so caringly explained that she'd get a shot in her mouth that would make her mouth feel really weird,  to excitement, due to the fact that she loves her dentist and couldn't wait to go to his office, to joy, due to the fact that the tooth fairy was going to visit her when the tooth came out. 

The tooth fairy.  Shoot.  I told my kids not to say anything about what the tooth fairy brought to them in the past.  If they wanted to mention the more recent dollars they've received, they could mention away. 

For a good week, Lily told every person she saw about the tooth pulling.  And I mean she told everyone.  The check out guy at Trader Joes knew the date of the pulling, her friends at church knew what was going to happen, and her teacher....her poor teacher....informed me she heard about what was becoming the infamous "pulling" every day of the week. 

Lily was very detailed with her explanation as well.  She didn't make it quick, explaining all about the tooth behind the tooth that was going to be pulled, showing off the affected tooth, and then describing the process of the shot and funny feeling as if this had happened to her numerous times before.

She actually wanted me to make a paper chain so she could count down the days.  I told her we'd count sleeps instead.  The night before, Lily starred up at her ceiling with a big smile on her face.  It was odd.  Very, very odd.  You would have thought we were going to Disney World the next day.  But no, we were going to the dentist to get a tooth pulled. 

She woke up the morning of the pulling as if she had been dreaming about it all night: "Mom, is today the day?  Today is the day!"  She chose her favorite dress to wear for her dentist.   She was set. 

I made sure we had cash in the house.  We were set. 

When we arrived at the dentist office, the descriptions from Lily continued.  She explained the details to the dental assistant, she showed the tooth to the hygienist and then waited with great anticipation to get to the chair. 

Once we finally made it into the room, Lily sat in the chair, reclined, shut her eyes as tight as she could, opened her mouth so wide that she started to shake, and then.....she cried. 

At this point there were no needles, no dental tools, just the realization that the greatly anticipated tooth pulling time was finally here, and I'm sure she wondered if it was going to be every bit as painful as her dear brother described that it would be.  As I watched my daughter in the chair, I got a glimpse into my own emotional instability:  within seconds, my child was crying, then laughing, then crying, and then smiling, weeping, and then laughing again. 

Once the quick procedure was over, Lily took her boxed up tooth and walked to the car with a sense of pride.  I pulled out of the driveway and began telling Lily how proud I was of her.  Aside from the inherited emotional instability, she did pretty well in a situation that was probably a little scary for a five year old.  It was then that she brought her up: 

"Mom, can I take my tooth out of the box and hold it.  If I don't hold it then the tooth fairy might not know that it's actually mine." 

I took a last minute detour.  Without giving it much though, I turned into target.  I sat for a minute considering my future in the tooth fairy business, knowing the reality of what my future could hold with each and every little tooth that my little girl brought to me. 

That night, Lily, much like her older sister, said she was going to try to stay awake to see the tooth fairy.  After she was asleep, I pulled out the wrapped gift of Frozen, and my husband got out the fancy stationary and started with his fancy writing.  We both sighed knowing full well the suckers that we truly are. 

We were strangely excited to sneak in and slip the gift and note under Lily's pillow.  And if the excitement of late night runs to Walmart and fancy notes on fancy paper runs out for us, I can always call my friend...

Happy first tooth fairy visit, little lily.  Enjoy each and every one. 

Expressions

Showing emotion is hard for some people.  Not all people.  My two youngest have no problem expressing their emotions....at all. 

"Mom, the drink I just had is the best drink I've ever had in my whole, entire life.  It like makes me want to die it's so good.  Just so good that you could never believe it," is the kind of thing I might hear from my son on a somewhat regular basis. 

And my youngest wants to let us know about everything she is feeling; all day long she lets us know about what she's feeling.  The other night, right before bed, she expressed this:  "Mom, I'm so cold.  But then when I put the covers on me I'm so hot.  So I'm like too hot and too cold and also my finger hurts. Like so bad.  But not as bad as my hand because my hand is so dry.  Can I get some lotion?  The smelly kind of lotion ?  Because that lotion makes me feel really good." 

So I gave her the smelly lotion and then she started bawling.  "That smelly lotion is all over my sheets and it makes me feel like I'm going to have bad dreams."  Because a little rose petal lotion on bed sheets would make one have bad dreams.  Obviously. 

And then there is my oldest.  Being more introverted, and more like her father, she's a little more even keeled when it comes to her emotions.  There aren't a lot of ups and downs (yet), and she tends to analyze before expressing the way she feels about something.

But this isn't always the case.  My oldest, also like her father, gets into things intensely.  Whether it's a book, a music group, or a sport, for a time she will be intensely focused on that one interest.  

To our demise as parents, we have slowly watched our oldest become intensely excited about the boy band One Direction.  For those who know my husband and his intense like of U2 (I'm telling you, my daughter and husband are two peas in a pod), this has been a little upsetting. 

He came home the other day to my oldest and her friend watching a One Direction movie.  The conversation went something like this: 

"Girls, why don't we turn on U2 videos instead?"   I'm not entirely sure what he was thinking the outcome of that question would be. 

"Um, no dad." This is what I was assuming the outcome to the question would be. 

Once the sharp pain of U2 rejection wore off, he continued:

"So, why do you like this boy group so much?"  Notice his deliberate choice of words. 

"Because they're a cool band, and they're really good." 

"They're not a band, and they're not really good." 

And that went over well with the girls.  I told him to try the U2 question again and see where that would get him. 

But, like the softy's we are, this past week we bought two tickets to the One Direction Concert.  Of course this came after first trying to sway her to save her money for the upcoming U2 tour.  We failed and two One Direction concert tickets were purchased - one for my daughter and the second for one of her parents.  Which parent will be decided upon at a later date.  Although I must admit, I'd love to see my husband go to a boy band concert.  So far, his best argument against this possibility is that the squealing hurts his ears.  He's going to have to do better than that. 

When the tickets were actually purchased, my daughter did not try to withhold one ounce of the emotion she was feeling.  There was screaming, dancing, texting, and maybe even a tear or two.  And we loved watching the emotions flow from her.  Even it is was because of Harry Styles. 

Because of some treatment she's been going through, I haven't been able to talk with my sister in quite a while.  While this has been difficult, I have been able to write her - actual hand written letters.  I've loved writing to her.  I look forward to her weekly letter and I look forward to sitting down and letting her know what's going on.  And from time to time, expressing my emotions to her through words rather than over the phone can actually be therapeutic.

I tend to be more like my younger two with my emotions, wearing a lot on my sleeve.  And yes, my husband is a patient man.  But I also enjoy expressing what I'm thinking and feeling through writing.  This reality has become very poignant for me as I've watched my mom slowly lose her ability to speak and write. 

I sense her agitation when she is trying to tell a story or when she wants to express her love to her grandkids.  It's not easy.  In fact, it's extremely difficult for her.  Her own body hinders her ability to communicate and express herself.  And there will come a time before too long when that speech will be gone completely as her body continues to weaken.  To watch her struggle in trying to express herself tears at my heart in a way I can't really express.  And while this is seemingly very difficult to relate with, I can empathize in a small way with her frustration in communicating what she wants to express. 

Even if we're not physically hindered, everyone has been hit with some news, some kind of heart breaking reality, that takes the breath right out of us.  It's in those moments when clear expression is as difficult as it can be to breath.  When my sister told me she had breast cancer, she called and said three words:  "I've got it."  I really didn't know what to say or how to feel.  With a loss of words, my body responded by shaking. 

When my dad passed into glory, it was difficult to know just how to express what I was feeling.  I could no longer pray for his healing, so I just wept. 

It's because of these kinds of situations that the verses from Romans 8 have been particularly significant to me through the last several years:  "Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness.  For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groaning's too deep for words." 

Can you see the hope that this passage gives?   No matter how hard it may be to convey our emotions, thoughts, and confusions, the spirit takes care of it for us.   And he does this with "groaning's too deep for words."  We may not know what to ask or even how to ask it, but the spirit does.  Our present suffering expressed through groans are taken by the Spirit and formed into a beautiful offering of requests to God, woven together in perfect harmony with His will.  It's an act that is mercifully beautiful. 

And I know that our all powerful God weeps with us when we can't bear to hold in our tears. He rejoices with us when we can't contain our excitement.  And when we can express nothing at all, He sends His spirit to do it for us. 

    

This World IS My Home....For Now!

Lily and I recently got into a bit of an argument.

She's learning different hymns at school this year, which I'm grateful for, and she overheard me talking on the phone to a friend about the various hymns that the kids are learning.

She yelled something from the top of the stairs.  I couldn't understand her, and so I ignored her, and continued talking on the phone.

She persisted.  And so I talked louder.  (My poor children).

I finally hung up and pounded up the stairs only to find Lily sitting at the top with her arms folded.

"You keep calling them all HIMS.  Some of those songs are HERS!"

Oh.  Well, I'm a logical person and so I continued with what I thought was a logical explanation:

"Lily, I know it sounds like I'm saying HIMS, but I'm actually saying HYMNS.  With a Y and N.  It's different."

"Your spelling HIMS wrong."

"Lily, Hymns are Hymns....what you sing...not HIMS....like the boys."

I'd make a terrible lawyer.  And she wasn't buying it at all.  So, I settled and suggested that she tell me which hymns are HIMS and which are HERS.

And she did.  She made a list of the girl ones and a list of the boy ones (I wonder if the HIM hymns were her least favorite).  I'm still trying to figure out the distinction.

Over the next couple of weeks, I found myself singing different hymns (hers) with Lily.  One of the hymns that came to mind is an old one that I remember my Grandparents singing.  It's called In the Sweet By and By.  The Chorus goes like this:

In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

The hymn is about the beauty and wonder that we have to look forward to in heaven.  Where we'll one day meet other believers in Christ.  Where we'll one day be reunited with loved ones - on that beautiful shore.

While we listened to a version of this hymn in the car, Lily, after telling me that this particular hymn was a her, said to me:  "I can't wait until heaven."

Man, the smile on my face was huge.  And so we started talking about what heaven will be like.  She's particularly excited about eating all the mac and cheese she wants.   Jesus...mac and cheese...and flying - so much to look forward to.

On the way home later that evening, I was looking at the beautiful trees and their changing colors and was reminded of something important:  as awesome as it is to look forward to our heavenly home, this is our home for now.  And it's OK to be thankful for and embrace this home. 

I suppose in some sense that conviction goes against what Christians often say about this life - that this is "not our home."  But here's why I embrace with joy and confidence this life here on earth: 

There is, without a doubt, great pain and suffering in life. But for those of us who are believers, we experience this pain in a way unlike the rest of the world.  Each reality of brokenness, suffering, doubt and fear, brings us closer to Jesus.  Yes, the pain makes me long for heaven, as it should, but as much as it makes me look up, the suffering has also made me look around.

I was recently watching home videos from when I was a child.  Although I was "too cool for school" in most of the videos (or so says my younger sister; she's cool herself with phrases like that), there are plenty of memories captured of my sisters, my mom and dad, and the crazy life we lived ( I think my dad video taped our dogs, cats, and iguana way more than us kids).

I shed plenty of sad tears while watching the videos.  I miss my dad and and am sad that my mom continues to deteriorate.  I question why my sister, who was so vibrant and full of life, has had to face the hardship of cancer and other illnesses.

But when I look around, I can embrace the experience of friends and family being the hands and feet of Jesus through those who have cared for us in the past and continue to care for us today - sometimes in unfathomable ways.  It's during trials that I see ever more clearly the grace and mercy of Jesus.

There is also, without a doubt, great joy on this earth.  While these joyous times make me excited for eternity, I love embracing the raw happiness that this life often brings: 

Like the time when lily told her teacher that she got some bongs last night (after getting her hair cut and getting bangs).  And, she offered, my mom used to have bongs too.

I love that lily asks for Jesus Loves Me to be sung every single night before bed.  I especially love that most nights my husband and I attempt to harmonize it - just to change things up.  We've also attempted singing it ultra slow and super fast.  Just because there's only so many times a person can sing Jesus loves me.  But the harmonizing is my favorite.  And then we laugh in the middle of the song because we sound horrendous.  And yes, even after singing this song to Lily hundreds of times together, we laugh at our harmonizing.  Ever single night.  We need to get out more. 

Hebrews 13:14 says, "For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come." 

There is nothing in this world worth clinging to, because heaven awaits us in the end.  And yet, the verses that follow instruct us on how to conduct ourselves here on this earth - offering praises to God, not neglecting to do good and share with others and obeying our leaders.

While heaven awaits us, our life here on earth is worthy of our embrace.  Not our grip, but our embrace.

I hope to embrace the trials as I continue to find peace in God's sovereignty, but I also hope to embrace the joys in this life for all they are worth.  Including arguments with Lily over hymns and hers. 

https://soundcloud.com/pagecxvi/04-in-the-sweet-by-and-by

Praise in the Storm

Suffering happens.  We can try to pray it away, keep it at bay, or do everything we can to protect ourselves from it, but suffering happens....to everyone.  And, frankly, the seasons of suffering that God brings are a good thing. As much of a paradox as it seems, we're called to praise Him in the midst of suffering. 

Even in knowing these truths, as a parent my instinct is to do whatever I can to protect my kids from suffering.  And what a natural instinct it is!  Just the other day, my son asked a couple of kids who were playing outside if he could join them in their game.  He hadn't done this before and confided in me that although he really wanted to meet them,  he was a little nervous.

I told him he had nothing to lose. And come on.  He's my kid - the greatest kid ever! Who would reject him?  Definitely went too far with that boost of confidence.

I watched the whole thing go down:  "I'm Jrod.  I think you guys would really like me, so can I play with you?" 

They laughed....at him.  And then they all went inside.  And that's just about the time when my momma bear alter ego kicked in (this ones hard to control - you know what I'm talking about, moms).  My heart controlled my whole body and I went running toward the house.

Thankfully rationality kicked in and I considered what in the world I was going to do once I got there.  Kick down the door?  I imagined it, don't get me wrong, but really.  So, I stopped running as my son walked toward me, head down.

"They don't want to play with me mom; they went inside."

I immediately told him that this happens to everyone.  It happened to me in sixth grade. Whether the poor kid wanted to hear the story or not, and he really didn't, I traveled back to sixth grade recess:

 I was chosen last....last!....for a kickball game.  And even then, the punky little captain (my memory; probably a really sweet kid), said only begrudgingly that she'd take me.

As I was reminiscing with my boy, something profound occurred to me:  I remember that scenario like it was yesterday.  I remember very clearly being hurt.  In my little sixth grade way, I suffered.

There was nothing specific that I remember learning at the time through that experience, but I remember it and I remember it was tough.

 And yet, I'm past it.  I can smile about it....minus the punk kid....I was torn up for days over that dumb situation, but I needed it.  Maybe it was humility God was teaching me. God, who had my path already totally planned out, included suffering for my good.  And so I praise him for it and for the many other times that I have suffered and felt the pains of this life.

None-the-less, when my son spotted another couple of boys a few days later, my response to his inquiry about seeking out their friendship was quite different.

I have to admit.  I kind of discouraged it.  Because everything in me wanted to protect him from another rejection.  I told him his sisters were just as fun as those boys.

Was that really the best I could come up with?  I was watching my girls in the kitchen painting their nails.

So, I took my statement back and simply warned him that the boys may not be totally nice to him, but to go for it.  When he left, in his second attempt to avoid nail polish and Barbie princess pop star for the morning, I realized how quickly I tried to keep him from potential pain.  And why?  Because I didn't want him to feel it.  And why?  Because it hurts me to see.  And yet, God's Word talks about suffering from beginning to end.  We won't avoid the storms, and neither will our children.

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance...

My son experienced in a small way the difficulty that life can bring, and he will continue to do so time and time again.  I can't stop it, and I can't avoid it for his sake.

But as I've reflected in the last couple of days, I know that the difficulties and trials that he faces will make him into the man who God wants him to be.  And beyond this amazing truth, they will prepare him for what he may face in the future.  They will allow him to empathize, sympathize, befriend, and trust.

One of the most beautiful things I've experienced is listening to the testimony of a believer who has suffered greatly and can express the clarity of God's hand all along the way.  This is our reality as believers through suffering - that we can experience God's grace and mercy in the midst of suffering, which allows us to know, with all our heart, that we are not in control, but confirms that God truly is. 

I remember about two months before my dad passed away, I found my husband in the basement working on his computer.  When I inquired about his work, he reluctantly told me that my dad had asked him to begin working on his funeral service.

To say I went a bit crazy would be an understatement.  I wasn't ready to face that reality and trying to imagine his life being over was too much, too unbearable, and created such anxiety in me that I began fearing what the last days might look like.

In my inability to trust and not control, I created unnecessary anxiety for several months.  It's the anticipation of the unknown that causes us to doubt, fear, and lose trust in the one who created us.

In the moments that my dad took his last breath, God was there.  He was ever present and perfectly in control.  My family could sense it in a powerful way.  And there is no doubt that in the moments after he went home, God bottled up my dad's tears and welcomed him into paradise.

Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? ...

Not long ago, my mom was diagnosed with a degenerative disease.  The ugliness of the disease makes me long for heaven.  And I know my mom does too. And when she can't speak anymore, I know the Lord will still hear her praises.  And one day her savior will bottle up her tears as well as He welcomes her into his glorious kingdom. 
   
But here's what's even more amazing:  We're promised not only that God will carry us through our suffering, whether it's a young child's rejection or a grown ups tears over pain and illness, but we're also promised eternal rest one day. We have the promise of a new heaven and new earth with no suffering and no tears; it will be perfection.

And as amazing and blessed as this life can be, without the suffering, we often forget from whose hand we take the lead and fail to remember where it is that we're ultimately headed.  

The link below is to a song that I recently listened to.  It had an impact on me as did the words of John Piper's godly instruction in the middle.  
 

Though you slay me
Yet I will praise you
Though you take from me
I will bless your name
Though you ruin me
Still I will worship
Sing a song to the one who’s all I need

He's all we need, He's all we need.  No matter what we face, He's all we need.  And so in the midst of suffering - no matter how great or small - I will praise Him. 

http://www.desiringgod.org/blog/posts/a-song-for-the-suffering-with-john-piper

Reflections on Regret: Another Chapter in Motherhood

It's tough being a mom.  

It's been said time and time again.  And I don't disagree with the statement.  

At times, motherhood has made me tired.  Not like the, I didn't get a good night sleep, tired; more like the, I'm going to be sick to my stomach if a see a perky person today because coffee doesn't even work, kind of tired.

Motherhood has made me worrisome.  Just a few days ago, Lily was riding her bike at the park.  She wanted so badly to ride down a very steep hill.  We told her she could, but the entire way down I imagined the fall, the scrape, the screaming, and the scoffing from her older brother.

But we let her.  And so onward she went.  But instead of the fall, the scrape, the scream, and the scoff, Lily lost control of her bike and rode straight into a pond at the bottom of the hill.

Fortunately (at least for us), there was a couple getting their engagement pictures by the pond.  As they watched the five year old scream past them and land in the water, the man reacted and pulled her out.  Moss and all.

Poor guy with the wet pants.  And while we had a hard time gaining control of our laughter once we realized she was OK, don't think for a second I don't worry every time she says she wants to ride her bike. 

At times motherhood has made me strangely self aware.  Every once-in-a-while I look in the mirror and think to myself:   I can't believe I'm a mom (at least I say it to the mirror and not to my children).  And then there are times when I can't believe how easily I can become introspective and ignore all else going on around me, including the repetitive: Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom!  Can I have milk, can I have milk, can I have milk!  I need help, I need help, I need help!  stop kicking me, stop kicking me, stop kicking me!!  I'd like to think this kind of introspection is a sort of gift.

But when the strange introspection wears off, the job of motherhood can (and has) made me incredibly impatient.  

We had company the other night.  It was an adult dinner, but I figured I could multitask and play mom and host.  I could play SuperMom! for a few hours.

Lily was in the shower - I ran up the stairs to check on the kid and back down to cut the pie.  Back up the stairs to tell her to wash her hair and back down to make sure everyone had napkins and forks.  Once dessert was served, it was time to scoop up the kid, put her in bed, and fly back down to clear the plates.

Supermom's don't exist, just so you know.  No matter how awesome our cape, we're human.  And human's fail.    

When she got out of the shower, the first thing I noticed was how slimy she was and how slimy her six barbies were.  It didn't take long to figure out what she washed herself with when I saw the empty bottle of conditioner.

"Mom, I decided to use the 'air condition' on myself since it makes my hair so smooth." 

There was no time to remedy the situation, so I pulled PJ's on my slimy (still wet) and "air conditioned" five year old, sung a fast forwarded "Jesus Loves Me," and turned out the lights.

She started bawling:   

"My barbies can't go to bed naked!"  

"Yes they can.  They're barbies."

"But they'll be so cold."  

"They don't have feelings."

"How can you say that, mom!"

I picked up the slimy dolls and began the process of clothing the barbies.  For those who have experienced this sort of things before, it's no surprise that by barbie number 2 (of six) my frustration level was at it's max.  I began mumbling to myself giving commentary on the ridiculousness of dumb barbie clothes while sitting in lily's dark room.  While company was down stairs. 

I finally threw the doll and shut the door.  I heard Lily yelling: 

"That's only two of them!  The rest will be so cold!  And you said dumb!"  

I left her in her room crying.  And went down stairs to entertain.

I felt awful.  Not for the barbies, just to clarify.   

Oh Motherhood.  

Recently, I came across an article entitled, Why I regret being a Stay at Home Mom.  The title intrigued me, and to be honest, I expected there to be some twist.  Surely she wouldn't feel so raw in her decision to stay at home with her children?

But she was.  And, frankly, the sadness I felt after reading this article had nothing to do with her choice of working.  I have many dear friends who work hard at their jobs and come home to continue the hard work as moms.  I also have dear friends who stay at home working hard all day with their kids.

What made me sad in reading this article is her regret.  She said it more than once.

Sadness exudes as she expresses how she wished she led a different life, clearly reflecting on her own desires and wants rather than the difference she made in the lives of those around her during her years at home.

But isn't this easy to do?  To buy into "The grass is always greener" syndrome?  The kind of syndrome that leaves me wishing I was the mom who has a full time nanny while nearing the reality of actually strangling a barbie doll.

And yet, there is no doubt that this kind of attitude leads to regret and disappointment.  The article proved that.

What's the remedy?  How can we live in the business and the mundane, the tough and the joyful days of motherhood and still find contentment where we are? 

It's all in our perspective. 

An Eternal perspective.  This is anyone's greatest source of encouragement - including a mothers.

For every bit of work that is done to provide income, for every diaper that is changed, for every ongoing conversation that is had at bedtime when we're longing for down- time, for every load of laundry that is done (when four more sit in their baskets), none of it is without purpose.  These are the things to which we've been called and it's a high calling, no matter how mundane or overwhelming the task may seem.

It's an Eternal perspective that reminds us that our ultimate job is to point our kids to Christ.

Dueteronomy 6:7 says, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise."

And the joy that comes from parents who have the opportunity to watch their kids grow into their own personal love for God and His Word must be overflowing.

Regret becomes of little significance when we see eternal value. 

There's no doubt that the job will continue to be difficult.  And there's no doubt that there will be temptation along the way to wish for a different life - a different plot.  And there's no doubt that I'll continue to need the date nights and the occasional glass of wine at the end of a long day, but there's no doubt that each day's work, no matter what was involved, is significant and meaningful.  Each day has eternal value. 

I left our company again the night they were over and slipped back into lily's room. Putting the half naked barbies aside, I tucked her in.  It didn't take long, it just took a little patience.  She put her arms around my neck and whispered, "It's Ok if you don't care about my barbies, mom.  I still love you."  

I love you too.  Lily.

Simple Truths

Yesterday I taught our women's Bible study.  The study consists of a group of ladies whom I have grown to love and respect as fellow believers and sisters in Christ.  They graciously listen to my "Aha!" moments that jump out to me in a passage, even though many of them have known Jesus much longer than I have. 

I had one of those "Aha!"  moments this past week when studying First Samuel.

In the passage we were studying (and really all throughout the Scriptures) the importance of remembering is made very clear -looking back on what God has done and reflecting on his goodness in the past.  

With the tenth anniversary of my dad's death coming up this weekend, I couldn't help but reflect on the ten years that have come and gone since he went to be with Jesus.  There's so much that has changed since he's been gone, and I often wonder what Dad would have thought about all that has changed in the last ten years:

Ipad's, for example.  Who would have thought ten years ago we'd have such a thing?  I bet my dad would have loved them; not so much for the practical uses but for the games.  He loved his games, and to have them at the swipe of a finger!  Who would have thought.  Ahh....I bet he would have played Words with Friends with me and would have been pretty fired up when I won (I am a Words with Friends force to be reckoned with; yes, I'm admitting this).

There's been incredible developments, but there's been a lot of change on the home front too.  The only grandchild my dad met was Ella, and I will never forget a special moment he had with his grand-daughter in the ICU. I remember Dad telling me how much fun we were going to have with Ella in the upcoming spring. She was ten months old at the time and was busily trying to crawl all over his hospital bed.  He wondered  if she would be a busy toddler.

Oh my word.  At the time we were all ridiculously naive in thinking Ella was busy.  Ella, who would sit in her stroller hour after hour while I sat with dad in the hospital, was an angel baby.  God knew what we needed at the time.  It wasn't until two little angel-devil's entered the world (Polski children two and three) that we understood God's graciousness in having Ella be our first born.

I think my Dad would have laughed at Jrod through the years.   We had a cop visit the house a few days ago.  Apparently someone called 911 after hearing a little girl scream at the top of her lungs (a neighbor thought she might be being abducted).  No, this what not the case.  It was Lily and Jrod in the back yard.  The tornado siren went off for the monthly test, and Jrod took advantage of the situation:  "Lily, it's aliens coming to get us!  You must put your head down!  If you look up they'll suck us up!"  Thus the screaming.  Thus the confusion about child abduction.  Thus the cops.

I honestly think my dad would have laughed.  But he also would have been so proud of his grand-kids (all nine of them now!)  I will never forget this beautiful picture during a worship service just a few short weeks ago:  Jrod was singing his heart out during worship - not caring who heard him or who was around - the boy sings with all of his might to Jesus.  And there, looking up to him, was his little cousin, in awe. And not because of a particularly good voice, but because of how boldly Jrod sang.  Beautiful.  And Dad would have loved it.

So much change in the last several years:  Change in jobs, illness in our family, children brought into the world, churches planted and grown....Reflection on the past is good; I can't look back on what God has brought us through and NOT remember his faithfulness to us.  God is our help in ages past, and He's our hope for years to come.  His faithfulness remained then and it will continue for us in the future. 

But that was not my "Aha!" moment.  That moment came for me when I read and reflected on 1 Samuel 12:24: "Only fear the Lord and serve him faithfully with all your heart.  For consider what great things he has done for you."  

Only (only!) fear the Lord and serve him with all of your heart.  It's the simplicity of this verse that makes me sit here with tears in my eyes.  This life is full;  it's full of the good and it's full of the really, really tough.

As I reflect back, I have experienced both in profound ways.   And as I look forward, I can (and should) expect both.  But my calling through this life is not to solve all difficulties, control my surroundings, or fight what I think isn't good for me.  My calling is to trust Jesus and to serve him with ALL of my heart. 

Before all else, Jesus.

I miss my dad, but I know that he wouldn't leave the presence of God to come back and check out all the change - not for anything.  In the end, it is Jesus.  And so, before all else, Jesus.

We sing a song in church from time to time called "All I Have."  Each time we sing it, I find myself filled with deep emotion, and as I listened to the words again this morning, it occurred to me what is so profound about this song:  it's incredibly simple truth: 

All I have
All I have
All I have is yours.

My kids?  Their yours.  My time?  It's yours.  My abilities?  They're yours to do with what you please.  My responsibility?  To serve the Lord with all my heart.

Thanks, dad, for being an example of these simple truths.  I look forward to seeing you again someday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JDrUtzpAyM
(you can hear "All I have" by Sojourn)