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.

Smelling the Roses and Tasting the Bread

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

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

A few weeks ago I was watching some old home videos.  What amazed me was not my eighties bangs, which was quite a sight let me tell you, but the amount of time Dad spent videoing things like the yard at our vacation house, the beach sand (not exaggerating; he literally videotaped the sand), and the various birds that he was watching at the time.  And the videos were mostly beautiful.  

I may have yelled at the screen once or twice something along the lines of: "Dad, did you video any of us kids!"  I was a little excited when I popped in my sister's graduation party video.  In the first thirty seconds I saw two much younger (and kind of cute) sisters, some ugly bangs, and then.....the cat.    And he stayed on the cat for a ridiculously long time.  There were background voices of me as I greeted friends and family into the house, but on the screen was...the cat.  For the love.  

But Dad loved it all - his work, his kids, his church, sunsets, and even that dumb cat.  And he didn't just love these things, he took pleasure in them.  

Of late, I've been learning what it means to delight in the things that we have on this earth.  After all, God created them!  In his book, The Things of Earth, author Joe Rigney says this:  

"God surveys the world of matter and time, of trees and their branches, of seas and their waves, of signs and seasons, days and years, and he has one reaction:  exceedingly good.  Over-the-top good.  Exclamation-point good.  Spike-the-football-and-end-zone-dance good.  It's finite.  It's temporal.  It's limited.  And it's very, very good."  

I love this.  And God loved what he created.  Yes, our world is fallen and in need of redemption, and it's not forever, but it's still good.  Our world, as my husband puts it, is a glorious ruin.  And I believe we can enjoy God in enjoying this glorious place we've been given.  To enjoy our earthly pleasures without him is idolatry, but to enjoy them as drawing nearer to God through them is beauty.  

My husband and I took a trip to Chicago last week.  There are two things I loved about this quick getaway:  food (um, Girl and the Goat.  I still lay in bed and think about that bread...amongst my other deep and spiritual thoughts, of course.  But that bread... ), and I loved watching my husband experience Bono.   

I have to admit that his excitement about this band is contagious.  And when I say excitement I mean this:  He has met them several times and on one occasion had a rather deep conversation with Bono.  He's been to over twenty-five concerts, he knows every word to every song they've ever written (and can also tell you the meaning behind most if not all of them), he listens to them on a daily basis, has seen their house, successfully turned an entire generation of his youth group into U2 junkies back in the day, and, at one time in his life, he knew Bono's waist size.  I can't even.....I mean I just don't even....but, thankfully, he no longer knows such things.  

So, we don't just "go to the concert," because that would be ridiculous (duh).  We experience the concert, and the experience does not merely begin when you enter the stadium.  No!  No, no, no.  The experience begins several weeks prior to the concert.  And so, as you can imagine, it's difficult when one lives with such a follower to not get sucked into the excitement.  

We did not meet Bono on this particular visit, though we tried.  I mean, the kind of trying that included standing outside of Bono's hotel for a couple of hours.  After fifteen years of marriage, this kind of activity has become quite normal and expected.  Though when I tell people that we spent several hours of our getaway waiting outside Bono's hotel, I'm quickly reminded that this is not necessarily normal.  Mere facial expressions confirm this for me.  

But this is what we do.  And while we didn't get to greet Bono, we did get to meet his body guard (yes, my husband spotted him walking around Chicago.  And yes, my husband actually recognized him.  And yes, we almost followed him.  But that would just be ridiculous).  The exhilaration my husband has when we walk...or run...or skip and jump (I'm kind of not kidding) into the stadium is just awesome.  Here he is chatting about the ins and outs of U2 with one of the attendants before the concert because even with seats we were there almost three hours early.  Of course.  Poor guy was mostly interested.   

But what I love most is how he experiences the concert.  He sings at the top of his lungs and talks later about what it will be like in the new heavens and new earth when every believer who has ever walked the face of the earth will sing to Jesus with all their might.  He relishes in the creativity of the band and loves to watch the story of their concert unfold.  He sees the beauty in the bands vulnerability and belief in God.  And he feels the pleasure of God as he simply takes delight in having fun.  You can see it on his face.  

And you could substitute every emotion described above and that's how I felt eating at the Girl and the Goat.  I'm just putting that out there.  That bread.  

I'm learning to relish in the goodness of this earth.  I'm learning to take more pleasure in the beauty around me.  And I'm learning slowly but surely to put down the to-do list every once in a while and delight in what is right in front of me.  And that can and should happen in daily life, not just on getaways.  Sometimes I work merely because I'm supposed to work that day.   I run the kids around merely because they need to get from point A to point B, and sometimes that's all there is to it for me.   But I'm drawn closer to Jesus when I become aware of the beauty to behold even in the mundane.  There are small voices in my back seat to give thanks for.  There are students with interesting stories to tell.  And every so often there's a rose or two that's deserving of attention.   And I'm starting to see that the fuller my life is, the more beauty there is to behold.  I just have to see it, smell it, hear it, and sometimes even taste it.      

"We have been given eyes that we might see God displaying his beauty in the world, ears that we might hear God singing his grace in the world, a nose that we might smell the sweet aroma of God's life in the world, a tongue that we might taste God's splendor in the world, lips that we might tell of God's triumphs in the world, hands that we might lift them in worship of God and service to others, feet that we might venture out into God's world and extend his dominion to the ends of the earth.  We have been given minds and hearts that think and reason and feel and will that we might enjoy them and empty them in the greatest of causes."  Joe Rigney

Amen.  

Beautiful, Dumbfounding Moments

There are dumbfounding moments in life.  

Like the time I experienced the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland -I was astonished and speechless.  The natural beauty is simply breathtaking.  Standing on those rocks and taking in the magnificence around me is a moment I will never forget.  

Or the time when Lily dressed for church in the burka that my husband brought back from the Middle East.  Dumfounded, I tell you, that we didn't notice until we turned into the parking lot.  That was a moment.

And then there was the moment that my son read an original poem to his class (and their parents, I should add), which poetically stated the bad smell in the mornings...of his mother.  Yep.  That was an awkward moment.

Moments like these have been unforgettable, some inspiring a belly laugh and others producing a tear.  What I've been learning of late is that each of these moments have purpose.  Jesus is not absent in any of them.  No matter how great or insignificant a moment seems, the remarkable reality is that they all have significance.  

I brought my youngest along to visit my mom at the care center a few days ago.  So, this usually goes one of two ways:  either it's a great success and everyone departs with grins, or my daughter gets restless and starts doing cartwheels in the small room, hits her mom with her legs, and knocks over the humidifier.  I'm just saying that could be the other way.

But, I took the chance because my joyful and sometimes ridiculously crazy kid loves her Ya Ya.  Lily spent the first twenty minutes bossing my mom around.  Like a mini nurse she was demanding my mom stay in bed, keep her legs under the covers, and, of course, it was important that Ya Ya did not doze off while she told her stories, which became increasingly dramatic with every minute we were there.

When the nurse came in for mom's shower time, I had to laugh at my mom's quick pace in getting to the bathroom - perhaps she needed a break from my youngest?  I mean, I totally get it.  Sometimes you just need a few minutes of distraction from the number of words no matter how much you love her.

Lily was keeping us entertained with cartwheels while mom showered.  Each time her legs flipped over they came closer to hitting the bed...and the dresser, the humidifier, the tray, and her mother.  But we were interrupted when the nurse called for help.

Mom had fallen, so I immediately helped her up and assisted with the shower.  While mom calmed, my own emotion frantically rolled over me.  As I tenderly helped bath her, my youngest yelled from outside the bathroom, "I'll be here in the hallway doing cartwheels for you YaYa!  Then everybody will stop screaming their head off!    Cartwheels help everybody stop crying because you can't cry and be upside down at the same time!"

I had no context for this moment.  Literally holding my mom up while my daughter did cartwheels in the hallway to keep her from crying - this was a moment of pure, raw emotion that simultaneously inspired a belly laugh like I hadn't done in a long time.  It was a moment I will never forget.

Jesus was not absent in that moment.  It was not random that I had my lily with me in a moment when I'm sure my mom felt desperately vulnerable.  

I was thinking of this moment with my mom while we sat at a computer programming competition,  watching my son be a part of a team that found themselves in the finals, potentially winning a total of $30,000 for their weekend's work.  And what would make me think of my mom while at a Glolbalhack competition?

Lily's cartwheels.

My husband and I were expecting to merely pick up my son from his weekend of learning about computer programming through a competition that he became a part of at the last minute, thanks to a more than generous man who wanted to teach him.  But instead we sat in our Sunday best with several hundred other people, not in their Sunday best, watching our son and his team, "Jrod the Prodigy," present as one of the finalists.

I'll let you guess whether or not we stuck out in that sea of computer whizzes.  I'm pretty sure my husband was the only one wearing white pants and a purple bow-tie in the sea of weekend programmers, and I'm pretty sure I didn't spot another woman in a polka-dot sundress.

But I sat there nodding my head during the presentations, acting as if I understood  the various questions being asked to each team.  I mean, come on.  With each head nod I said to myself, "Stop it!"  But for some reason my head kept nodding.  Maybe it was some visceral way to try and fit in.  With my polka-dot sundress.

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

And when they announced that "Jrod the Prodigy" were the winners of Glolbalhack IV, we were dumbfounded.  We had no context for this - our son winning money for a computer programming competition while our daughter continued with her cartwheels barely missing photographers and successfully hitting her father with her legs.  No context.  Dumbfounded.  It was a moment that we will not forget.

And Jesus wasn't absent in the moment.  It wasn't random and it wasn't by accident that the Sunday before he had a conversation with an incredibly generous friend who happened to be a computer programmer.

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

Not long ago I had the privilege of sitting with a nurse as he cared for a woman who is essentially in a vegetative state.  She opened her mouth to eat, but her eyes remained shut and she sat completely and utterly unresponsive.  I felt sorry for this nurse until he said this:

"Some people may think she doesn't have purpose anymore.  But she has purpose.  The moments that I have to feed her help me.  And I know she knows I'm here."  

These beautiful, dumfounding moments make up this life that we've been given.  We're all given these kinds of moments.  Sometimes we just have to see them, know who's in them, and be grateful for them...

All of them.  

Weep No More

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

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

He has done great things, we will say together

We will feast and weep no more.  

When I was ten years old, we moved into a new house.  At the time it was a brand new subdivision and our house was only the third to be built.  For the first couple of years we'd watch as one house after another was built from the ground up.  

That wasn't the exciting part.  The exciting part was waiting to see who was going to move into the house once is was completed.  There were a few retired couples and across the way a family with a baby, but I will never forget when a particular family moved in a few houses up from us.  They had kids around my age. To be precise, the family had one cute boy around my age.    

I discovered this fact when riding my bike around the neighborhood on one particular day.  My Romeo was outside shooting baskets and I coolly and maturely began...riding circles in front of him.  

When I think back on my maneuvers to look "cool," I actually, physically twinge.  Like, what in the world was I thinking?  Riding in circles?  For the love of all things not cool.    

But it got worse.  After riding circles in front of their house, I decided that whatever I was wearing at the time was not good enough.  Though I don't recall what I had initially been wearing, I remember exactly what I changed into:  hot pink shorts with a pair of jelly sandals that I thought were pretty sweet. 

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

It was pretty bad for a few years there.  

Once I had on my new and improved outfit, I mounted the bike to do what any girl interested in a boy would do.  I began riding circles again while he shot baskets.  And it was clear pretty quickly that Romeo wasn't too interested in watching me or my bike circles, which was disturbingly confusing since I had on my jelly sandals.  

So, I devised a plan (and I am currently twinging revisiting this plan).  I decided that I was going to ride up and down the street in front of him, and every time I rode past him I'd do a "trick" on my bike.  

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

Nope.  

My tricks consisted of things like:  sticking one leg out whilst still peddling with the other foot and lifting one arm to wave while still holding onto the bars with the other hand.  I know, I know.  Pretty cool stuff, especially in my hot pink shorts and jellies.  

Romeo was still not giving me the attention I was craving, so I rode to the top of the hill and decided to impress him with the ultimate trick.  I was going to lift both hands in the air when I passed him and ride using only my feet.  YES.  

I got to the top of the hill and released myself, riding as fast as I possibly could.  Just before I reached Romeo's house, I lifted both hands in the air and I think (unfortunately) I let out some kind of yell. He finally turned, and just in time to see my bike hit a rock.  I failed to see the massive rock in the middle of the street because my eyes were locked on Romeo, and so I flipped right over the front of my bike.  

I'm not sure how long I was laying on the pavement before I noticed Romeo laughing.  I'm pretty sure that I realized one of my jellies was missing first.  I finally sat up and the searing pain in my right knee, which was covered in blood, finally began to register.   Jelly missing.  Romeo laughing.  Bloody knee...

I began crying relentlessly.  My bike stayed where it was and I hobbled back to the house wearing one, lonely jelly and a bruised ego.  

What happened?  I'll never forget my mom looking at me when I came into the kitchen. I mean, let's be honest, I wasn't about to divulge my plan to woo Romeo, so I simply told her, with babbling words and through ugly tears, that I fell off my bike. And I lost my jelly.   

She put her arms around me and didn't ask anymore.  I was glad because while I felt as though I could describe my bike tricks with magnificent details, I wasn't sure I would be able to relive the laughing Romeo.  So, she just let me cry.  And I cried hard for several minutes with my face pressed against her chest.  In the midst of my little storm, I found respite and peace in my mom's arms.  

I'm caught up with tears every time I hear the chorus of Sandra's song.  After some reflecting, so much of my emotion comes from the reality of what this song reminds us is to come:  

One day we will feast together - The heavenly feasting alone gets me excited (I even get giddy about what I'm going to eat for breakfast in the morning). But beyond the food...brothers and sisters in Christ from every nation will sit together and feast.  I will share a cup with those I have loved this side of heaven and as well with those whom I have struggled to love.  We will feast together and without bitterness or envy toward one another.  Our relationships will be restored and we will enjoy, with sincere and utter happiness, sitting around a table together.  I weep over this reality because from an earthly perspective I can only call it miraculous.  

We will sing together with our hearts restored - Can you imagine it?  Worship focused only on Jesus. Worship that is pure with no distractions.  Singing boldly and unashamedly to the one who has saved me.  The beauty and anticipation of this day brings tears of joy to my eyes.  

He has done great things we will say together - And I cannot WAIT for this.   There will be a day when we will be able to share with those who have gone before us, and with those whom we have never met, the great things that God has done - the ways in which He has comforted us in pain and the ways in which he lifted us up when our spirits were broken.  There are so many stories about the things God has done that I look forward to hearing.  

We will feast and weep no more - I long for this day with tears in my eyes because in a broken world, tears come readily.  But one day they will be gone forever.  I can't even imagine it.  Come quickly Lord Jesus.  

A couple of evenings ago, my dear mom spent her first night alone in her room. Now that she is in a care center, my step father sleeps elsewhere and her nurses are no longer in the room with her throughout the night.  It has been years and years since she has slept alone.  I knew she may be anxious on this night, so I  had been praying relentlessly that God would grant her a sense of peace and calm.  And it seemed things were OK when I finally fell asleep that first night.  

But then my phone rang late.  It was my mom.  She can't speak clearly anymore, so she just cried. She wept on the other end of the phone in the same kind of way I did when I stood in the kitchen, bruised and bloodied, with my face buried in her chest.  

I began crying as well.  What else was there to do?  I wished I could reach through the phone and touch her shoulders and let her know that it was going to be OK, but I couldn't.  So, I just quietly cried and listened while she wept loudly out of fear and confusion until she finally quieted down and gave into sleep.  The peace didn't come in the untangled way I had prayed for, without pain or difficulty, but life is usually messy like that.  It's in the tangled web of sin and sorrow when Grace is found in abundance.  Sometimes it's only in the storm of grief that we can recognize calming peace. 

   

But there will be a day when we will feast...and weep no more.  I pray daily that these words and the truth behind them will not sit idly in my heart, but that my spirit would know it, believe it, and live by it every single day.  There will be a day when tears are no more.  And until then I can press my face against my Father's chest and find respite and peace in His arms.  

Thank you, Sandra McCracken, for this beautiful reminder:  

We Will Feast in the House of Zion