More Than Just Adam's Rib

Our Family: Crawfish Burials & Mexican Fiestas

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 15 May 2013 05:03:00 +0000

Meet my family.

This is the nine of us at our completely-impromptu Sunday best, with my mother asking me "Did you bring your camera" after I'm already at her house and "Do you know how to work the auto timer?" when the instruction book is somewhere at home, its spine still uncracked.(Thankfully, I'm not opposed to pushing every button with those indecipherable symbols to figure it out).

This is us--slightly neurotic, definitely exhausted, a good bit high strung, and always flexible. We fly by the seat of our never-need-pressing dresses and our just-put-your-coat-on-and-nobody-will-notice shirts.

Still, it still seems strange to see so many smiles in one shutter click.

We began as only four--my mother and daddy, brother, and me. Thirteen years later, even the dining table and its eight chairs that I bought because I wanted it to be big enough really isn't. Each time the nine of us gather for a meal, we have to drag in an extra chair from some other room of the house. And when our extended family and friends partake with us, out come the piano bench, the rolling office chair, and whatever other seating options we can cobble together.

My brother and sister by marriage are the ones on the far right--blue polo shirt and royal purple dress. Johnathan is the Navy chaplain and Liza works with CASA. Both just recently left Washington D.C. and moved to North Carolina, one of those routine government-change-of-assignments that will take them (and us) all across the nation and around the globe.

In the midst of the once-every-three-or-four-years-move, they left the chaos of unpacked boxes and well-wrapped china to come for a quick visit.

As you might expect, our daily lives simply stopped. Last weekend was a whirlwind love fest, Louisiana style, of course.

There was a valiant attempt to make a homemade hummingbird cake for mother's birthday, two chances to worship together at both our churches, a Cinco de Mayo fajita fiesta, and a crawfish boil (along with several crawfish shell "burials" around GrandMama's yard, courtesy of my powdered-sugar-war-painted daughter).

Then, there was the ever-coveted time playing with the world's best Uncle Johnathan. Nobody can elicit giggles, race on bicycles, or play ball better than my brother. Nobody.

Each time Johnathan and Liza leave to return back to their home, I believe there’s no more that could have possibly been crammed into their visit. Yet, at the next gathering, we seem to outdo ourselves again. And each time they are no longer with us in the body, all I can say is, “One day, there will be no more goodbyes.” No more.

Oh, how I long for that one day.

The Importance of Daddies at Day's End

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 10 May 2013 03:02:00 +0000

As late afternoon winds find rest, the cloud of dusty flecks disappears from those last lingering rays of auburn sunlight hesitating over the treeline. Early summer mosquitoes begin to buzz aloud, seeking a sweaty heat source while day's birdsong suddenly goes silent.

My oldest son, Wyatt, and I linger long near the swamp's edge to scoop up more tadpoles, maybe even catch one of the elusive, tiny frogs filling the surface under cover of night with bubbly, algae-colored eggs.

Soon will come the slim green frogs and transparent geckos lining the walls of our house, all in search of moths ever-hovering near the porch lights. Against a backdrop of rubbing cricket legs will come the squeaks of flying squirrels, the eerie hooting of owls on their tin-can phones, calling and answering from both sides of our house.

In the midst of all this normal winding down at day's end with my family, husband noisily plows up the back yard plot of land he bombed with poison just two weeks ago. Rain is coming tomorrow, the perfect time to break open the earth and scatter purple grass seed on bare earth.

While "poison" might seem a bit extreme, it's not...well, not if you live on a hay farm where the field is literally fifty feet from the front door. For some reason, the Alicia Bermuda hay does not respect the invisible line between mine and theirs. They don't even pretend to. Instead, their runners sashay over into my yard, almost flaunting their transgression and daring me to do something about it.

Ceding the land back to the field isn't really an option, though, because the hay's open-sod nature allows too many weeds to take root. The end result is a winter yard that is more weed than hay. That's wonderful if you're Amelia and adore anything that can possibly be considered a "flower" but not so wonderful if you'd really like a real lawn some day.

And so, husband plows and rakes and then plants by hand. It's not long before four little feet join in the "fun," two of which soon find freedom to squish bare in cool dirt.

Although it would go faster without their "help" and even though their assistance will put him finishing the task by headlights after dark, husband patiently bows his six foot frame to give the twins each a turn cranking the handle on the spreader.

Amelia and Emerson walk behind him, following in daddy's footprints, then run off in search of bright purple dots to cover with dirt, a task which grow harder with each dimming minute.

Mother's Day is just three short days away and I know some men are going to be scrambling to find that perfect gift for the mothers of their children. I like tangible "I love you" gifts as much as the next woman, but when everything is said and done, very little makes this mother happier than seeing her children spending time with their daddy. This gift of time will last longer and have a more far-reaching impact than anything you can buy in a store.

There's just something about that lingering of a father and child at the close of each day that brings me peace and comfort, a heart warmth that says no matter how chaotic and uncontrollable life may be around me, here in this moment, at least, all is well.

Cause and Effect: Are We All Bound Together?

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 08 May 2013 03:14:00 +0000

The concept that my life is bound to your choices doesn't strike me as that far fetched. How else do you explain my grocery bill each week. I certainly don't purchase any more food than I did a year ago. If anything, I purchase less. Still, with OPEC driving up the price of oil, drought in the mid West, an unseasonably cold Spring up north, and inflation affecting everything from toilet paper to crayons, it just makes logical sense to believe that not only am I effected by my environment but also that my choices affect you and your choices affect me.

Several years ago, a movie The Butterfly Effect espoused much the same view wherein small, seemingly inconsequential choices ultimately have seemingly unrelated (and sometimes catastrophic) results down the road.

In Chris Brauns' newest novel Bound Together: How We are Tied to Others in Good and Bad Choices, he makes a similar argument. Brauns' first two chapters are interminably tedious as he approaches his premise from the hypothesis that most people don't truly believe in what he refers to as the "principle of the rope," that we are inextricably bound to each other in good and bad.

Yet, once he feels the reader is convinced she is "roped" to others' choices, Brauns' narrative improves significantly as he explains how this principle plays out in the doctrine of original sin, wherein all mankind is "roped" to Adam's bad choice. Despite being "roped" to sin, mankind has a choice to burn that rope and join himself by a stronger rope to Jesus Christ.

Here's the rub, though: to be bound to Christ, one must be bound to the gospel of Christ, which requires that one first know the true gospel, the Word of God. Additionally, to be bound to Christ, one must be bound to each other in Christ in a local New Testament Church. As Brauns says of this need for Christian community,

"God's plan is not to change us as individuals; the principle of the rope means that our union to Christ also unites us to others who are connected to him in faith. As a result of our union, we are mortared into Christian community. The principle of the rope means that God will use the relationships we have with others in the body of Christ to change and transform our lives. God will use our new connections to confront our sinful habits, remind us of truth, and bring healing and victory to our lives. But this can only happen if we are roped into Christian community and involved in a Christ-centered local church" (p. 87).

Brauns concludes in his last chapter (which is, by far, the best writing in the entire book) with a call to avoid the trap of radical individualism, warning: "If we Westerners continue to see ourselves as islands, the future will be very dark. Cultures and countries cannot flourish apart from a deep recognition of solidarity that only Christ and his church can make happen" (p. 163).

The interesting thing is that this principle is important not just for Christians. Anyone's life can benefit from understanding how his actions affect others and how others' actions affect him. Yet, if a person is to reach the fullest plan God has for him in this life, s/he will only be as effective as possible when linked together through the gospel of Christ within a Christian community.

Chapters 4, 5, and 10 are the best in terms of content, but in all honesty, Chapters 6 - 9 were exhausting to read. These chapters do a good job of applying the principle of the rope by using Scripture to explain how one's joy, marriage, family, and even fear of death are better understood in light of one's belief that everyone's decisions affect another. Still, they are what I'll call "plodding" chapters, which I had to slog through.

While this is not likely a book that will radically change your life, Brauns' thesis is valid and his warnings about the dangers of radical individualism along with the strong need for Christian community are extremely important in our present culture.

Speaking "Alternate English"

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 03 May 2013 02:43:00 +0000

We Bought a Zoo. It had been advertised as a family friendly movie, albeit one the critics weren't exactly thrilled with. That was fine with us. In the past few years, "award-winning artistic masterpiece well-loved by the critics" has come to mean insanely weird, difficult to follow plot, or pushing some politically-charged agenda.

Besides, fine art has become less than important since three young children came on the scene. Or maybe it's just that I'm older and tired from the busyness of life so that when I have the chance, I want my movies to be entertaining, not draining. I want to see on screen the way life should be, not the way life is. I want the bad guy to get his comeuppance and right to always win. I want justice to prevail, sin to have very real consequences, and for those consequences to be immediate, not in the after life. Oh, and I want the happy ending. Always.

Yes. I want the fairy tale.

Don't get me wrong. I love historical fiction. I believe in the importance of reliving horrific events from our world's history. They remind us to avoid those mistakes in the future. They demonstrate just how sinful man is at his core and how low he can sink when given the rope to carry out those innate, twisted desires.

But as a general rule, "family-friendly" movies have become of utmost importance to me as a parent. What's more, the closer I grow to God, the less I want to fill my own mind with what I refer to as "smut."

As you might imagine, I usually wait for movies to hit television before I DVR them. By that time, most of the language has been chopped, even if the verbally polite audio doesn't match the moving lips, and inappropriate commercials can easily be zoomed past.

We Bought a Zoo, though, was a $5 after-Thanksgiving-sale purchase. And it was PG. Perhaps that's my problem. When I think PG, I remember when the producers of E.T. wanted a PG versus a G rating to draw in an older audience, so they added a single irrelevant curse word to the script. My how PG has changed.

Husband and I previewed the movie one date night, me squirming uncomfortably with each curse word and completely out-of-place sexual innuendo made to Matt Damon, who was playing the part of an obviously grieving widower.

Family friendly? Not for my family. All I could think was "My children will never be able to watch this!"

A few weeks later, I picked up the DVD case and just happened to glance at the back cover where I read "Includes English Family-Friendly Audio Track (Alternate Audio)."

Intrigued, I popped in the DVD and went to the main menu. Beneath "Play" and "Scene Selection" was "Language." I clicked, and the different language options were the expected ones: English, Español, and Closed Captioning for the Hearing Impaired. But then, there was a fourth option: English Family-Friendly (Alternate Audio).

By changing the language of the video, I could watch a cursing-free version of the film.

At first, it was amusing. I was and am honestly thankful the company gave me the made-for-TV audio. Yet, the label has troubled me ever since.

According to Hollywood, my household speaks a different language than the bulk of society. We don't speak English. We speak alternate English.

Alternate English.

When did a clean mouth free of curse words become alternate versus mainstream? When did a cursing-free household become marginalized as so different as to be the odd-man-out?

It's a sad commentary on where our society has gone, where it's headed, and why Christians need to take a stand in their own homes. If the 78.4% of Americans who claim to be Christians would ask God to help them bridle their tongues and speak like Godly men and women, well, you get the point.

Scripture tells us out of the mouth can't come both blessing and cursing. In other words, our hearts can't speak two languages.

Our children must see us as parents and Christian mentors practicing this "alternate English" in our homes. Otherwise, they will never be able to bridle their own tongues, will never master this strange language, which grows stranger by the hour.

Even Grown Ups Need Encouragement

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 01 May 2013 03:47:00 +0000

We are all pretty good at putting on our game faces, at wearing masks that conceal what we don't wish to share. The moment our pressed clothes and polished shoes cross the threshold, we muster up a day full of smiles and friendliness meant to erase any hint of the turmoil going on inside our souls.

But behind that smile that we wear for our friends, our families, our church families, and even strangers, sometimes it's difficult to just breathe. The emotional burden inexplicably becomes a physical weight that can almost be felt pressing down, in, around, compressing the heart, head, lungs...suffocating.

I've heard pastors tell congregations to just give the burden to God, and they'll instantly feel the weight lifted. Many times, that works. Yet, then there are those instances when God, Himself, burdens our hearts for an individual. He intentionally places the burden on us.

This past weekend was one of those times for me.

I tried my best to give three individuals' different situations completely back to Him because honestly? Even though it doesn't sound very Christian-like, I didn't want to be burdened for them. I'm in the midst of grading final projects and final exams. The last thing I wanted was so much drama during my busiest time of the school year. What's more, I didn't want to feel this much for someone who wasn't my own blood. It hurts to feel another's pain.

But God didn't lift the weight. Instead, He made my heart literally ache for what several of my sisters in Christ are going through at this season of their lives. For days, he made that burden all consuming, filling my thoughts throughout the day with prayers heavenward for that person to find His peace, comfort, confidence, strength, or discernment.

I have learned from past experience that this is how His Spirit works in me, reminding me to pray for others when my daily schedule might keep me from remembering. In time, He eases the weight, but until He does, He is calling me to pray and sometimes, to encourage those persons through my words and deeds.

Scripture says, "And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, ²⁵not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching" (Heb. 10:24-25).

Encouragement is something we all want but don't always give.

Perhaps we don't want to pry or get up in someone else's business. Maybe we're even a little afraid of what other burden we'll be laden with if we do express our concern or seek to encourage another.

But think of how good it feels when someone stops you just to say they are praying for you. Think of that phone call or short note you received, out of the blue, just to encourage you.

I have one of those cards tacked on my office bulletin board. Every time it catches my eye and I reread its words, my heart swells warm again and again.

Those words of encouragement, though? They're few and far between. It's too easy to tear down. It comes too naturally. Think about it. Do you call a company when they have a great product? Or only when you have a complaint?

It's discouraging when all you ever hear are negatives. My days are filled with college students and very young children, both of whom drag me down daily with a litany of complaints concerning what they think I'm not doing right. In this click and send generation, too many of my students are quite adept at vocalizing every grievance before walking away to take a breath and think about their words or tone. It's extremely rare to get a 'thank you.'

Perhaps it sounds whiny, but I have those days when I long for someone to step up and say something nice to me, to speak a word of encouragement over me during a trial, to tell me YES, I am doing something right, that I am doing a good job with whatever, or that they're praying for me.

Because I understand this need in myself, I try to meet it for my children by constantly speaking words of encouragement over them. Each night, I write my oldest son Wyatt a letter to read at morning breakfast, just something simple to brighten his day, to encourage him. Each morning after daddy takes him to school, I awaken to the phonetically-spelled reply of my kindergartner. This morning's missive was a list of what I could do to "exercise" my body and mind. Then, at the bottom were the simple words, "thank you encourage me."

Those simple words of thanks for me as a mother brightened my entire morning and stayed with me throughout the chaos of a too-full day.

This is who we all need to strive to be--a people who encourage, who build up. Because, truly, how much does it really cost us to open our mouths to encourage another or to take five minutes and write a short note?

Navigating the Fickle Friendships of Children

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 02:07:00 +0000

It doesn't matter whether you're six or sixty. Any time a person tethers his heart to another's and that cord is cut, the free fall from the emotional mountaintop is inevitable. If you're are one of the unlucky family or friends standing below when the heartbroken crash through the cloud bank and fall back to earth, you'll likely be nursing a few heart bruises, yourself.

Heartbreak can mask itself in the cloak of anger, grumpiness, and even defiance. But underneath these gruff symptoms lies a tender wound, a hurt not even a mother can heal with all the love she longs to rain down on her children.

I should know. Our farm was transformed into Heartbreak Hotel last Friday and well into this week. I had seen it coming, but even a good meteorologist can't stop a Gulf Coast hurricane from coming ashore. He can only warn of its imminent approach. Still, there are always going to be those who refuse to hear his words of wisdom and choose, instead, to stand on shore as the winds whip violently, sometimes lifting them from the very foundation they stand upon.

My six year old, Wyatt, knows he's not allowed to have a girlfriend until he's much older. We call them "friend girls." But no matter what name we gave the object of his affection, that didn't stop his heart from seeking another girl's approval and love.

He first told me about her a few months ago as we walked hand in hand together from the afternoon school bus. Crunching through the still-frozen earth of our hayfield to our home, he suddenly asked, "Do you want to know how we fell in love?"

Like most relationships, it revolved around food, this time an individual-sized bag of shared M&Ms. I couldn't help but smile when he didn't know her name. The more I asked, the more I realized he really knew nothing about her. In his mind, "love" meant friendship.

He just wanted a friend, even if it were a girl.

Over the next months of afternoon recess, he did learn her name, regaled us all with stories of her new glasses that kept her from "running into a wall" again, thought nothing of holding her hand when she wanted to walk on the balance beam, and gave her a wallet sized photo of our family.

Then came the long evening of tears when my little man turned little boy once more, his head bent low in my lap as he poured out an ocean of brokenness over the loss.

All I wanted to do was heal his heart and give him back the naturally open, trusting happiness only found in children. I tried introducing a new word into his vocabulary--"fickle"--to describe girls, used the "when they mistreat you, that means they really do like you" logic, explained that girls his age usually only play with other girls, and ended with the promise that he had a huge family who loved him more than most children.

Nothing this mother said made it any better.

Surrounded by a pack of other girls, his friend-girl had spoken the worst phrase in the English language: "I don't want to be your friend anymore. Go away!"

And so, I did the only thing I could do. While rocking my oldest in my lap, I prayed aloud over him.

The first few days back at school were lonely, but I kept encouraging him to find a new friend, to ask someone to explain the rules of one of those games he didn't understand. We talked about only needing "twenty seconds of courage"

One week later, the little girl's name is no longer a part of household conversation. My son's grouchy attitude has given way to his usual jolly bounciness. And what's more, he played a new game with another friend today, even though he didn't quite understand the rules.

Wyatt knows I don't always like him, but I will always love him. I still say those words on a daily basis, still put them in writing for him to read each morning at breakfast. Perhaps that's why my love is less sought after--because he knows it will always be there. It is safe, unconditional, and never ceasing.

This isn't his first heartbreak caused by the fickle friendships of children, and it won't be his last. It's one of the hardest parts of growing up. What am I saying--it's one of the hardest parts of living, even as an adult, this putting your heart out there and having to reel it back in, sometimes in pieces.

Yet, somehow, learning what true love isn't, what true friendship isn't--this is the only way to learn what actually is. This is the only way to appreciate the true love and friendships we might otherwise take for granted.

Christians & The Home / Public School Battle

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 03:28:00 +0000

This space typically steers clear of politically polarizing issues, but as a parent who is currently both homeschooling my K4 twins and public schooling my K5 son this year, I have to hear both sides of the great divide. Neither side is okay with the other. Both sides espouse only the evils of the other.

I have to hear it all. And it hurts my heart to the point I want to stand up and shout, "Stop It!!!"

That snarky little cartoon you posted on Facebook poking fun at home schoolers as being both ignorant and socially inept? The hilarious picture you linked to where two little African children comment on how horrible American public education is because the children are forced to sit perfectly still all day long?

It's not funny. Instead, it's divisive.

Sarcasm is anger's second cousin; it is a passive-aggressive way of saying, "I'm a better mom because I'm educating my child this way."

The problem, though, is not divisiveness in the political area. It's a much deeper division that pierces the very soul. This war over the choice between public schooling and home schooling is pitting Christian against Christian, dividing brothers and sisters in Christ.

One child even asked his mother how I could send my oldest son to public school if I had really prayed to God about it. The assumption was that I was a bad mother and a bad Christian for not homeschooling, that I was more spiritual if I kept my son home with me (and that he'd be more spiritual, too, by extension). In another conversation, a friend made the assumption my twins' shyness was caused because I home schooled them and would lead them to become social lepers. This time, I wasn't a bad Christian but was still a bad mother.

I am not merely a mother, though. I am also an educator.

Over the past fourteen years, I have taught your home schooled teens, your public schooled teens. I have even taught those private schooled teenagers whose tuition cost more than I make in a year.

In the end? I can't tell a difference among them.

As a whole, I can't stereotype a home schooled student as being "closer to God" any more than I can stereotype him as "lacking significant social skills." Likewise, I can't stereotype a public schooled student as being a "standardized test robot lacking out-of-the-box critical thinking skills" nor can I stereotype him as being "less moral."

In composition courses where students reveal more of themselves in their writing than they would in a history or math class where facts and figures are more important than personal ideas, I get the privilege of learning who my students are as individuals. Yes, even on the college level, I know them...sometimes too personally.

I listen to their in-class discussions, read their heart-driven essays, have one-on-one office consultations. By the semester's end, I know most of their histories, their current situations, their moral convictions, their religious beliefs, their political leanings, their dreams, their greatest hurts, loves, and failures.

Yet throughout it all, I can't really tell a blanket difference between the student who was educated in his kitchen or in a traditional classroom. I'm equally as likely to have a conversation about God with either group. (I'm also equally as likely to have my socks blown off by both group's immorality.)

Being a good mother? Being a good Christian?

It has nothing to do with whether you home school or public school. It has to do with you obeying God's calling for your life, whatever that may look like.

Our household is a unique one. I was public schooled from day one in kindergarten. My husband's academic upbringing was the exact opposite, with his mother home schooling him throughout elementary school and middle school, then home schooling through Pensacola Christian Academy for high school.

When husband and I married, we brought to the table our two completely different experiences on education. Perhaps that's why we both have love in our hearts for these two styles of education rather than animosity for one side or the other, because we understand this is one of those areas not spelled out in a Biblical command but one where we must pray and receive guidance for our family.

Whether we realize it or not, with every negative word we speak about the "other side," with each sarcastically angry cartoon or comment we post on Facebook...we're creating the next holy war at the feet of our children.

I strongly believe Satan is working intently to break up the unity found in the church. Where better to draw the dividing line than based on the definition of what makes a good or bad Christian? A good or bad parent? What better way than to discourage and divide rather than support and encourage.

Before I speak. Before I post. I need to ask myself if my words are opinion versus Biblical command, if my words can hurt, can offend, can divide versus draw my brothers and sisters in Christ together.

If the answer is yes, then I'd better hit delete.

It's Like Pulling Teeth

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 02:02:00 +0000

The two front teeth grew a little wobbly last November, sending this mother into a panicked rush to schedule the family Christmas pictures before those prominent pieces of enamel came out. I hadn't been prepared when the bottom front teeth were loose enough to bend forwards at a ninety degree angle, had quite forgotten how quickly they can go from loose to missing entirely. This time, I wasn't taking any chances.

Yet, after the bi-annual family portraits were hanging on the wall and tucked inside all the Christmas cards, I actually welcomed this rite of passage, a sign my little boy was turning into a little man. Husband and I laughed as we envisioned the Christmas Eve festivities including a very snaggle-toothed Wyatt lisping to "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth."

We waited. But those teeth never grew any looser. If anything, they tightened their hold, grew an attitude, determined to not come out.

After that, Wyatt would remind me occasionally that the front teeth were looser, would open his mouth crocodile-wide some afternoons for me to trustingly slip my thumb and forefinger around the tooth for a gentle jiggle. I always humored him, then smiled, said "not yet," and told him to just leave it alone. During the winter months full of flu, pneumonia, and stomach bugs, the "not yet" sounded more like "Are you crazy!? Get your hands out of your mouth!! You'll get sick from germs and then you'll make mommy sick, and we all know what happens when mommy is sick!"

One month turned to four before he started the persistent complaints about not being able to pierce the skin of each afternoon's apple snack. The tooth was too jiggly. Eating on the other side or chewing with his molars wasn't working well either.

Yet, Wyatt was firm in one resolution--he was not pulling these teeth. Not ever. Daddy wasn't going to pull them either. And Opa? Wyatt wouldn't even open his mouth around him, too frightened by his big, weathered fingers and rough-tough stories of string attached to doorknobs.

I just shrugged. Fine by me. They would come out when they came out.

By this past Sunday, though, I knew Wyatt was going to need to re-evaluate his strategy. Still, I agreed this wasn't the time to pull anything. Monday through Wednesday were his big "Iowa" test days. Even though the standardized test didn't "count" for anything, there was no way I was going to encourage him to put an aching crater in his mouth.

Those few days were spent screwing up his courage, I guess, because by Tuesday night, he begged his daddy to pull it. Husband said it wasn't loose enough. Wednesday night after church found Wyatt begging his daddy again, but husband still said it wasn't loose enough.

At that point, Wyatt took matters into his own hands so that after the twins' baths, husband had no choice but to break the one remaining root free from its gummy home.

A little over twenty-four hours later, I awoke to a note from husband saying he had pulled the second tooth before school this morning. Wyatt had stood on the bathroom cabinet, one foot in the sink, his face inches from the mirror, working that second front tooth back and forth until husband had no choice, again, but to make the final tug.

As I held that second tooth, turning its smoothness over in my hand, I wondered how this could happen so fast? How could a little boy so dead-set against anybody pulling his teeth suddenly shift to begging his daddy to do just that? Where did he find the resolve? The courage?

2 Corinthians 12:9.

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

Our greatest fears, our greatest heartaches--it is God who gives us the strength we need, His power. But only when we need it.

I've watched this week's horrors of the 2013 Boston Marathon, mourning with the parents who lost their 8-year-old son. I've prayed for the thirteen families who will now have to find a way to move forward after the plant explosion literally blew their lives apart. I have been daily mindful of the hundreds more involved whose lives are changed forever, who will need miraculous strength, super-human strength, to move forward.

We don't have the strength within ourselves to move not one step forward. That's why we look at the tragedies and say, "I don't think I could go on." And we're right. We couldn't. Not in our present state anyway. God didn't grant us blanket grace to survive all the horrors life throws at us.

All strengthening grace is individual. All empowering grace is daily, on an "as needed" basis.

Even a six year old boy's young life speaks to me of such great truths.

Five Minute Memories

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 02:21:00 +0000

"Want to ride bikes with me outside, mommy?"

I glance over at the clock. The minute hand has been marching steadily onward as husband played Candy land with the twins and Wyatt lingered too long over his fish sticks and the Sunday funny papers.

We have five minutes. Literally. Five.

After that, it's the nightly wind-down routine of bath, book reading, prayers, and bedtime. Any other night, the late sunset of springtime might make me fudge bedtime by a few minutes, but tomorrow is day two of IOWA testing. This mother well knows that staying up even a little late can make for one grumpy, overly tired boy.

Still, when my eyes meet his and I hear the orange dinosaur helmet click beneath his chin, I can't say no.

"Sure," I respond, already sliding my feet into well-worn pink Roper clogs. Instantly, Wyatt rewards me with one of those face-splitting grins of childhood. This is the grin of unabashed joy found by living in this moment alone, 100% unburdened by the choices of yesterday or the uncertainty of tomorrow.

Already, my choice is worth it.

The one problem is I haven't ridden on two wheels since before Wyatt was born. I'm not even sure where my purple bicycle is. And if I did, surely, its rubber tires have grown rigid and crackled from the persistent hundred degree heat of a half dozen or more Louisiana summers.

Wyatt mounts his orange workhorse and offers me his "new" green bike, the one he won last summer through the parish library's summer reading program but hasn't yet ridden much because it's hard for him to "start." It won't be long, though. By summer's end and another growth spurt marked on the wall chart, he will finally be able to touch the ground with more than just the tips of his toes.

I feel like a large square of paper being folded into a tiny paper crane, my extra large frog legs forming a right angle as I struggle to make them fit in the space between the handlebars and pedals. Slowly, I pump them ungracefully through the quicksand gravel. Wyatt drives equally slowly ahead, patient as he constantly looks backwards to make sure I'm keeping up.

Now empowered by several weeks of riding up and down the gravel drive, across the open hay field between the twin barns and our house, this boy thinks his mother should have just as much confidence. (She doesn't.) He pedals patiently beside me, sure of himself even when I am not.

Together, we reach the halfway point of the drive; he shows me how to make a u-turn around the tree and starts back at a faster pace.

I tell him to go on ahead, ride as fast as he can, that I'll keep up. He does, and I do, too. But then, he slows again, says he wants to ride beside me. Here, he is the teacher and I the student. It's a role he plays well. My heart melts at the care he shows me in this instant, but still, I fear crashing into him and urge him on ahead.

Husband is outside with the camera when we make it back to the carport. Wyatt is all smiles. Even the twins grin at the fun their brother is having.

Then, husband takes the bike from me, and the two of them start back down the drive for another quarter mile loop. Wyatt gives his daddy no kind deference, though. Daddy is not a student to be taught. He is a competitor to be crushed. Now, it's all about the race, about who can finish first.

Husband has to stand on the pedals to get started. He looks even more amusing, crane-folded atop that too-small bike, but the twins think nothing of it, continue to cheer him on even as he clearly lets his oldest son win the race.

Just like that, the five minutes are up. All the young ones groan, complain, and procrastinate, trying to extend this moment as long as possible. I end up counting to three; they file in reluctantly.

It's just five minutes. I could have spent them folding clothes, putting up the rest of supper's dishes, or any number of things. Most of the time, that's just what I do.

But sometimes like tonight, I remember that five minutes is enough. I build up a child. And I make a memory worth keeping.

The Value of a Four Leaf Clover

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 04:23:00 +0000

My oldest son, Wyatt, asked me to find him one before St. Patrick's Day. Like any good mother, I tried, diligently, stooping like an old woman until my neck burned from being unnaturally angled towards the ground. For two weeks, I passed the ten minutes waiting for the afternoon bus on this four-leaf clover hunt. Some days, I even crouched low and brushed my fingers through their thick, tangled locks, hoping to dislodge one tucked close to the ground, hidden within the canopy of average clover.

Yet, even after all my diligence, I found nothing but millions of ordinary threes. It was disappointing, being unable to fulfill my son's simple wish, especially since it would cost me nothing more than my time.

As I searched, I remembered summers past spent in lower Michigan on my Grandma and Grandpa's farm, me sitting on a plush carpet of tight green grass and black, loamy soil, both foreign to this Louisiana girl of red clay and unwieldy St. Augustine runners. As a teenager, I would spend hours on the ground, doing nothing more than searching for the rare among the ordinary and plucking my way to dozens of the four-leafed variety.

Sometimes, I'd even find a five or six-leaf wonder, although those extra leaves were always smaller than the rest, as if the legitimate three had stingily denied those stalk-strangers the proper nutrients needed to grow full sized.

Never at home had I ever found these treasured aberrations in such great abundance, sometimes growing a breath apart. I was convinced that the deep cold of Michigan winters somehow altered the clover's genetic code, making it more prone to these mutations, something that couldn't happen in South Louisiana where the temperature rarely dips much below freezing and even then, not for days and weeks on end.

Each year, I would return home with books full of carefully pressed fours. No, I didn't believe they held any powers to grant wishes or usher any good luck my way. Still, I enjoyed them and wanted, now, to share that joy with my own children, to no avail.

Weeks after St. Patrick's Day had passed and I had long since tilted my head back up to the warm Spring sky, I was on a mission to corral my brood of three for homework time. As I sprinted past, my eyes glanced down for a split second at a clover patch I'd examined too many times before. And there one was. I jerked to a stop and doubled back before doing a little whoop at finally finding one.

This past Wednesday, I came home from Bible Study to an equally excited young man. My four-year-old Emerson had spent his morning finding four leaf clovers in a patch by the equipment shed that Opa had given a lawn mower's stay of execution.

Emerson took me to the patch, and in a few short minutes, I found two more, myself. Anyone would have thought we had found solid gold rather than worthless weeds. Still, we placed them in a plate of water, both of us enjoying enjoy our spoils each time we passed through the kitchen.

It's ironic, how in this one instance, people in general prioritize the mutation, especially considering how physical differences aren't really celebrated or even desires. It's ironic how something that scientists would dismiss as a genetic snafu, a mistake of nature is much sought-after by the common man.

At four, my son knows these clover are wonderfully special creations from God, not mistakes. I encourage this search for the unique and press each away inside a book, knowing that one day, I'll need to bring them out to remind him that this concept doesn't merely apply to weeds by a barn but to himself as well.

When Princesses Come to Passover

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 04:35:00 +0000

I'm not sure what Jesus would think if He looked across the Passover table at my four-year-old daughter, dressed elegantly in pink linen with embroidered roses. Amidst the unleavened bread and the wine, the Haggadah of prayers and songs written in both Hebrew and English, and the tiny silver menorah filled with cornflower blue birthday candles sit six plastic princesses whom Amelia has brought to the feast, all dressed appropriately in their most sparkly finery, all wearing crowns.

Her twin brother, Emerson, has long ago put the Scooby Doo coloring book and twistable crayons beneath his seat, but she has no intentions of allowing her girls to miss out on the meal to come. They line up, form a circle, then move into a line again before facing each other close as Amelia animates them in conversation.

The group lifts their glasses in unison to partake of the first Cup of Sanctification. "Blessed are Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth fruit from the vine."

I add a silent prayer that my own clumsy prince and princess don't spill the Solo cup of purple grape juice.

Little chubby fingers next take a sprig of parsley, dip it in salt water. To my surprise, they eat it, undeterred by the taste and texture. This meal is special, and they know it. I explain simply how this is what tears would taste like and how this reminds us of the Israelites' tears when Pharaoh kept them as slaves. The twins know this story well. Even later this night, they will explain this part of the feast to their daddy.

My mother leans close to Emerson, dressed in his favorite orange Hawaiian shirt. As the youngest at the table, it is his role to ask the questions. Grand-mama reads from the Haggadah, and he repeats, suddenly shy at this attention.

"Why is this night different from all other nights?" I think of the apostle John leaning on Jesus' breast, asking this same question.

Minutes later, we all lift voices to sing the Hebrew chorus of a new song, "Day-enu." The words mean "It would have been enough," and although this meaning is significant only to me, the twins clap, smile, and sing praises to the Lord anyway. A few plastic princesses even dance along.

Together, we continue around the Seder plate, partaking next of the bitter herbs, although in South Louisiana where Tabasco and hot peppers are the rule, they don't make us cry. In fact, Amelia and Emerson both take their matzah bread back for a second dip in the bitter horseradish before pulling out their spoons to dig deep into the haroseth, a sweet apple paste resembling "mortar" the Israelite slaves would have used between bricks.

As any good hostess would do, Amelia picks up Snow White and Cinderella, offers them a bite of her favorite dish on the plate.

Two hours later, there is miraculously no grape juice on the floor or anybody's clothes. Everyone has fellowshiped and eaten well a meal of roasted potatoes, lamb, turkey, green beans, and strawberries on angel food cake.

We read from the Psalms of Ascents, sing another song in Hebrew,pack up the princesses, and head for home.

Later, the twins will joyfully share with their older brother about this Passover meal, so much so that Wyatt's face will sour as he fusses at not being pulled out of school so he could attend, too.

No, I'm not sure what Jesus would think if He saw my two youngest children enjoying their first Passover meal, but I think He would smile in approval, a smile that would reach His eyes and warm those around Him. I think He would enjoy these children just being children as they learn of His faithfulness in generations past.

Princesses, crayons, and all--somehow, I think a scene such as this is exactly what God would have had in mind when He penned those words explaining how the Biblically-ordained feasts of Leviticus 23 were for the "generations to come."

This is for that next generation--so that they, too, will know He is Lord.

The Joy in Trying Something New

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 05:52:00 +0000

By nature, I'm one of those newborn birds who chooses to remain huddled deep in the bottom of my secure twig nest, quite content to forever remain there with downy, untested feathers. Sure, I'll peek over the edge, even look around a bit in inquisitive wonder; yet, I dare not extend one wing into the open air for fear of failure.

Even with all my successes, I still fear newness. I constantly fear failure. But as an adult who knows life is deathly short, I constantly take the plunge over the edge into the empty depths of my fear, push myself to try new activities--making beeswax candles that spiral upwards, weaving baskets out of white reed from Indonesia, crocheting long Rapunzel braids that brush the floor, creating a three-tiered coral reef cake out of fondant or crafting a mermaid wave cake topper out of gingerbread and royal icing.

My oldest son, Wyatt, is just like me, only he hasn't quite reached the age where he's learned to choose action in the midst of fear, where he's learned the rush of success is worth the floundering spiral in thin air, falling tail feather over beak at times.

Now, I'm the mother bird called to gently push him out of the nest, despite his fears. And when I fail? God steps in.

We've been talking about taking Wyatt's training wheels off for months now. He's six. His church buddy just recently learned to ride on two versus four. He is strong and healthy.

Still, he balked at the idea, so I did nothing.

Then two weeks ago, Wyatt left his bike behind my van. Yes, I did the visual sweep of the back corners as always, but somehow, that bright orange hunk of metal hid behind my aqua cracker box on wheels. I completely missed it until I heard the sickening sound of metal, concrete, and my back bumper attempting to meld together.

Thankfully, my reverse speed is slower than a snapping turtle crossing Louisiana asphalt in the winter. The bike looked fine as I gave it a frustrated push across the carport. But, a few days later when Wyatt decided to take it for a spin, the bike wouldn't work. One training wheel was bent.

As I shrugged my shoulders in a pretend-shocked, well-there's-nothing-else-we-can-do-but-take-the-broken-training-wheels-off fashion, I couldn't help but smile at the heavenly boot pushing this mother and son out of their safety zones. What a great task for him and me to undertake together over the Easter holidays.

For the next few minutes, I pushed; I let go; he pedaled; he crashed. In five minutes, he could keep the bike upright but not multitask. In other words, steering was completely out of the question. Ten minutes later, he could drive a straight line but could neither start nor stop himself.

He fussed. He argued with me. He cried with defeatist frustration.

I sighed deep. He would never learn on our 40 x 20 foot square of concrete . It was too small. He'd get a good run and then fall off, unable to turn the sharp corner without crashing.

There was nothing to do but send him down the quarter-mile gravel driveway separating our house from my in-law's home.

He would have to learn by pedaling through pea gravel that acted more like quicksand than concrete. He would have to learn to steer by holding desperately tight to a steering wheel that developed a mind of its own when driving across a minefield of golf ball sized gumball seeds dropped from the gum trees above.

Twice that day, I ran alongside him the full length of the drive and back, yelling at the top of my bossy, maternal lungs, "Pedal! Pedal! Don't stop! Push! Pedal! Push harder! Faster! Don't stop!"

One mile later, he was elated! One mile later, I was elated, exhausted, and hoarse.

Two days later, Wyatt was tired. The newness had worn off, the praise had lost its luster. One knee was scabbed over with a bloody war wound. This riding a bike--it was work, not easy play. He wanted the training wheels back on.

I solemnly shook my head no. There was no turning back. Besides (logic), the training wheel was still bent.

Now, he starts, stops, and steers by himself. He's learned how to pedal harder to get up enough speed so he can make it through the big rocks. Every afternoon, he drives up and down the drive, joy radiating from that little body as he beats me home again and again. He leaps and sings to me the "Practice makes perfect" ditty he frowned at when I sang it just last week.

And me? His joy is contagious. I'm still so proud, I could burst.

This joy is what we miss when we're too afraid to get out of the nest, to try something new, when we don't even give ourselves the chance to succeed. This joy is what we miss when we allow fear to hold us back from what we know we should do, what we've been called to.

If only I could bottle this feeling to remind me of what this joy feels like...for the next time I am frozen by my own fear.

The View From Up Above

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 04:06:00 +0000

Here's a little test, asking you to rate yourselves in five simple areas. I promise I won't ask for your answers if you don't ask for mine.

"Are you above or below average in each of the following areas?"

My ability to get along with other people
My honesty
My work ethic
My basic intelligence
My morality1

In Larry Osborne's newest book, Accidental Pharisees: Avoiding Pride, Exclusivity, and the Other Dangers of Overzealous Faith, he says 100% of people will rate themselves above average in every single category.

The problem with this "I'm-better-than-you" attitude is that it's negatively impacting not just our personal and professional lives but also the Kingdom of God. Such an attitude affects the way we perceive other Christians and churches in general, even those that bear the same denomination.

Osborne notes that as the Christian grows closer to God, he is more likely to inadvertently become a Pharisee, in all the negative connotations of the word. As he states, "as you press forward, it's inevitable that you begin to notice that some people lag behind. And it's at this point that your personal pursuit of holiness can morph into something dangerous: a deepening sense of frustration with those who don't share your passionate pursuit of holiness"2.

While the book begins by exploring how the word "Pharisee" once wasn't a bad thing and how this group was held in high regard as the ultimate in righteousness, the text quickly shifts to a discussion of where the Pharisees went wrong and how modern-day Christians are making many of the same mistakes so that, in the end and without even realizing it, devout Christians zealously intent on pursuing righteousness are disdainfully treating other Christians with contempt.

It may begin with a disagreement over an interpretation of a much-debated passage of Scripture.

It may begin with a personal commitment to "raising the bar" in one's own life and then suggesting that real Christians must therefore do X, Y, and Z, too.

It may begin with an effort to root out false gospels and keep the church focused on holiness so that it matures into a group of fully committed believers.

Yet, whatever the initial cause of our Pharisaical attitude, the result is the same--we attempt to be the Holy Spirit for others. In that mindset, we begin to fail in loving others as Christ loved, we prioritize our relationship with God as the only way to relate to God, we bicker over nuances that do not impact the core of salvation, we fall into legalism with new rules and standards that must be met for us to consider someone saved, we fail to extend the full gospel to those Christians we consider weak, and we neglect unity in the church for exclusivity and uniformity.

Osborne says that in the end, "No one asks me if we love Jesus. That's too generic. They want to know if I pass their particular litmus test. They want to know if I share their vision, agenda, and code words. If I do, I get the secret handshake. If not, they pray for me"4.

The picture Osborne paints of the devout Christian as accidental Pharisee is compelling, convicting, and written in down to earth prose. He backs up his analysis with numerous examples from the Scriptures, admonishing his readers to quit following a cut-and-paste gospel but to seek to let Scripture interpret Scripture in order to see the full picture of what Jesus intended our ministry to be.

Interestingly, the group who suffers most from the Pharisee-Christian's attitude is not the non-believer but rather the floundering Christian. As Osborne explains, "We still lov[e] the lost and the hard-core sinner. But we disdai[n] the less than fully sold-out Christian"3.

He continues, saying the modern-day Pharisees "have plenty of mercy for those overseas, mercy for those who face tough odds, mercy for those who don't yet know Jesus. But there's very little mercy for struggling brothers and sisters in Christ. There's not much sympathy for people who are weak and faltering. For those folks, there's nothing but a harsh rebuke and stinging exhortations to catch up with the rest of us, often with a disclaimer that they're probably not even real Christians anyway"5.

And when anyone does attempt to extend mercy and compassion to these floundering Christians? They are viewed as watering down the gospel, making exception for sins.

Osbourne leaves us with two choices: to encourage or to discourage, to draw in those weak, floundering Christians or to shove them out the door as useless, lazy, and not worthy of Christ's sacrifice.

Overall, "Ouch" was my response to many a criticism in his pages. Unlike many books I review, this one will remain permanently on my shelf. Since I agree with Osborne that this tendency to become a Pharisee is all too easy for one who seeks to deepen his relationship with Christ deepens, I know I will need this continual warning reminder to guard my own heart.

There is such a thing as balance, a desperate attempt to not swing too far to either side of any one thing. This book, I believe, is Osborne's attempt to call us back from the fringes of either side, for the sake of Christ and the souls of mankind.

**I receive zero compensation from Zondervan for my review of this book.

1. p. 53
2. p. 20
3. p. 46
4. p. 90
5. p. 107

Taking Up the Art of Basket Weaving

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 03:54:00 +0000

Every time someone would ask what I was doing on Saturday, the words on my lips felt like a very poorly constructed lie. "I'm going to the library for a basket weaving class."

Basket weaving? Really? Surely I could think up a better excuse for abandoning my husband with a rowdy trio of mini me's for three hours.

But at 1 pm sharp, there I was, nervously sitting in the local library's back room with eleven other similarly crazy ladies (and one crazy man) who thought it might be an interesting craft to learn. Thankfully, I'd convinced a friend to join me in my foray into weekend madness so we could both fret over and laugh silly together at our ineptitude.

Picking up my first stack of newly-soaked reeds, I felt like a green professor standing before her very first class of ten unruly reed-students, all of whom knew this was my first day on the job. While I watched the real teacher standing before me readily bully her reeds into instant submission, I could only tentatively bend mine into a right angle, slowly, almost begging them to do as they were told and praying aloud for them to not break.

The reeds could feel through my hesitant fingers that I wasn't a real master, not one who was ready to do whatever it took to make them compliant. So, without a word, they instantly lay right back down on the table, refusing to stand up straight, even when I wove a first fence row prison around their sides.

Over the next two hours, I learned to soak (and re-soak) those rigid reeds to make them more pliable for bending. I learned a mouthful of new words like weavers and lashing. Then, just when I grew cocky, thinking I might just have mastered those stubborn reeds, making them stand at attention, somehow, I screwed up my over-under technique and had to rip out all the rows and start over.

I joked about how poor baby Moses would have sunk to the bottom of the Nile river if he would have had to rely on us to make his basket. My friend quipped right back, saying there wasn't enough pitch available to make hers watertight.

In the end, after struggling to command the reeds into a square shape, to tighten them into a "candy basket" so small, my son's twelve plastic Easter eggs barely fit--we triumphed.

Even knowing that no one would be as impressed with my basket as I was, I still left that class proud as a peacock, head held high as a conqueror. But more than that, I left with a new respect for Moses' mother, Jochebed.

Creating such a basket wasn't easy. Jochebed couldn't order her pre-stripped 1/2" reeds over the Internet from Indonesia. She didn't have a printed-out pattern before her listing the required reed lengths alongside steps with corresponding images labelled A, B, C, and D.

Instead, she would have had to personally walk to the Nile river to cut and gather her reeds, likely making the trip many times...to the same river she would use to float her son to Pharaoh's daughter. Jochebed then would have needed to strip her own reeds before creating a basket with such precision that it wouldn't sink.

It would have been a time-intensive, tedious endeavor, and that's without a baby boy in the room, one whose very whimper could draw Pharaoh's guards and sign his death warrant.

I always knew Moses' survival to be miraculous. Until last Saturday, though, I just didn't realize how miraculous it truly was.

What the Camera Sees

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 02:22:00 +0000

The bride to be smiles up at her future husband, the one she has loved already for four years. He makes a joke to break their shyness at being posed so close together in front of their parents. She, too, feels the intimate warmth of his hand around her waist, and a radiant flush stains her cheeks.

These are two people who only think they have weathered adversity just to reach this moment in white silk and red ribbon roses before the altar. They have no idea of the road that lies ahead, of the inconceivable betrayals, losses, and hardships that will cleave their young hearts while carving deep canyons and gorges across their foreheads.

They have no idea the sacrifices husbands and wives must make for one another, that remaining constant to their wedding vows will not come naturally but will be a conscious choice. All they know is that they believe they have been God-ordained to become husband and wife, that they are deeply in love. And love is enough.

Only it's not. Love isn't enough. It never is, no matter the romance genre's propaganda.

This hard truth they learn not long into their marriage. With a round of the flu less than a month from the day they say "I do" and an unemployed husband completing his first year in law school, there is no honeymoon phase.

The new wife who has spent her girlhood barefoot on the family place in the country where neighbors are more than friends now lives in the foreign concrete jungle of the city where doors are bolted tight, windows are heavily shaded, and nameless neighbors are never home to befriend. Her every evening is spent completely alone in the apartment as husband studies at the coffee shop through the wrought-iron gate next door. Saturdays, she escapes back to the country, stuffing her cup full with every possible ounce of family love and happiness to last an entire week.

By their first anniversary, she has taken a second, then a third job to start paying down the twenty grand in interest-bearing loans husband took out during his first year. Her husband, too, takes a day job as soon as school permits, adding that to his already full plate.

Even still, these difficulties are child's play compared to the trials they will be called upon to endure over the next few years. When all others fall away and there are no words left to say, they will have to choose--to weep, mourn, and cling to each other and the firm foundation of God. Or to escape where life has brought them and be carried alone out into the universe.

These are the same two people twelve and a half years later, posing against a background of pink and white cherry blossoms as their own three children bounce, dance, sing, and argue out of the camera's frame.

Once children in their late twenties, husband and wife are now nearing forty's mile marker. His hair is thinner, hers mixed with sparkling strands of silver. Time etches their laughter and worry lines deeper with each passing year.

No longer is their any shyness between the couple when the camera woman asks them to turn to face each other, her hand on his chest. As before, he whispers a joke only she can hear. This time, though, he is only seeking to make her smile, not break any discomfort. They both laugh aloud at this shared intimacy. Their open faces reveal two people who now know each other better than anyone else...and who still love one another.

Their smiles reflect not the easy laughter of youth and an untried relationship but rather the deeper, more abiding joy only developed over time as each has chosen time and again to stand in the fire--side by side, hand in hand. It is a smile of trust, honor, and respect, as if the one's very spirit is connected by an invisible, glistening strand to the other's.

There before the blossoms is a picture of a love that has been built on the firm foundation of Christ alone.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night. (Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach.")

To Those Parents of Mentally Disabled Children

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 04:37:00 +0000

The twins and I had spent the last hour pounding the pavement in a local subdivision as we do every Thursday morning, tucking the Word of God beneath the weather stripping of each house's front door. At four years old, Amelia and Emerson do quite well to keep pace with three other grown-ups who have the advantage of femurs, fibulas, and tibias double the length of theirs.

They pass the time chattering happily about any topic that strikes their fancy, reminding me to pray aloud, picking aromatic bouquets of clover blossoms from front lawns, and searching for forgotten copper pennies dropped on dark, asphalt streets. Yet, by the hour's end, their skip has lost most of its airy bounce, their incessant chatter is interrupted by longer pauses of silence, and their requests sound more like whines and complaints.

Still, Thursday is the one day a week we are off the farm and near the local mega mart, which means a weekly trip for supplies is in order, tired feet or not. Thankfully, the store welcomes mothers like me with a line of super-sized shopping carts our front, each equipped with a molded bench seat that holds up to 160 pounds.

The twins climb wearily on board, shove the "baby" straps and buckles aside, and lean back, their dangling feet still not quite long enough to reach the floor of the cart. As always, I tilt forward as if walking in a stiff wind. Much force must be applied to this too-heavy object not yet in motion.

Once inside, though, the cart easily rolls across the frictionless glossy white tiles. Still, I feel like I'm commandeering an unwieldy18-wheeler or a zoo train down aisles intended for a Volkswagen beetle. I constantly warn the passengers to keep their hands and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

As if my sheer size doesn't draw enough attention, Amelia sings her way down the pickle and peanut butter row and continues her tune up the row with the breakfast cereal. To the cart, I add two packs of the 48 double roll toilet paper on sale, the largest feed sack of catfood the store keeps in stock, and a week's worth of groceries.

Finally, I push an overly-full shopping cart out into the sun, no easy feat at this point. The parking lot, though, has a slight downhill slope from the mega mart's double-wide doors to my minivan. We coast so easily with kinetic energy that I have to jerk hard to stop.

And that's when I notice him, the same man I see each week working to collect shopping carts in the parking lot. Rain or shine, freezing cold or breathless heat--he's out there.

As usual, he's hunched forward a bit as he walks, is muttering slightly to himself about something. From the way he carries himself and his coke-bottle glasses to his not quite symmetrical face and disheveled hair, it is obvious he is one who has struggled in this life with a mental disability.

I'm sure he's borne others' cruelty as well, sure he's been called "simple," "stupid," and likely much worse by others who want to make themselves feel superior at another's expense.

Maybe to compensate for how I know others have treated him, I've always gone out of my way to be kind, nodding my head with a smile or speaking a simple word of greeting each time we pass. Although I'm sure he never remembers me in a sea of other mothers with equally noisy children, he smiles back or sometimes mutters an almost inaudible greeting in reply.

Today, though, he doesn't pass me by and head for the full buggy return. Instead, he stops at my van and asks if I'd like help. Before I can even recover from my surprise, the twenty-four pound bag of catfood is on his shoulder. Effortless.

He picks up my huge towers of toilet paper, my bags of bananas, and milk as I unload the bagels, cereal, and other random supplies. It is seconds before we are done. I utter a simple "thank you" as he takes my buggy, and then he is gone without a reply.

As I turn over the engine, he is parking my shopping cart back at the store's entrance where it will be waiting for me (and other overwhelmed mothers) the next time I return. I am close to tears as I explain to the twins why he was helping me.

"What a blessing!"

Never has anyone offered to help me load my groceries. I've struggled across parking lots before with much larger loads--some that I had to hold onto with both hands or they'd fall off the cart--all while strong, able men passed me by with little more than a glance.

I wish I knew this man's parents so I could tell them what a blessing their son was to me today. I wish I could tell them that no matter his disabilities, his limited understanding...no matter how many things he can never do in life, he was helpful to a woman he perceived to be in need.

I wish I could tell them how their son's inner kindness was the biggest blessing of my entire day.

It doesn't matter how smart you are, how strong you are, how rich you are. A meek, kind spirit can sometimes make the biggest impact of all.

A Look at a "Vintage" Easter

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 04:13:00 +0000

I came to love the old vintage post cards during those long summer days spent up north at my grandparents' Michigan farm house, the one sitting so high up on a hill that running down the steep slope from front door to lower basement often felt more like falling than running, as if at any moment, my legs may be unable to keep up so that I would stumble and keep right on rolling until I hit bottom by the apple tree where the corn grew tall.

Many an afternoon, my Grandma and I sat inside the house with its exposed beams and rustic cathedral ceiling built long before that was the trend. I would sit by the chimney made from rounded river stones hand set in gray mortar and watch as she pulled out binders filled with plastic sleeves containing post cards for all seasons, each addressed with a perfect cursive penmanship long lost in our era.

My father was the intended audience, not the child me, but still, I watched in eager wonder as she and my father carefully withdrew some of the more rare cards from the pages, delicately held them as if they might disintegrate at any moment.

Of course, the ones I always loved most were the rare, expensive ones with "perfect corners," not something one would give a girl who still had to be told to pick up her room. However, Grandma did give me one depicting a heart made completely of purple violets. In its center was a head shot of a Victorian woman, brown hair up swept in ladylike beauty. She was beautiful.

Throughout my childhood and long after I married, that postcard stayed in the top drawer with all the other important papers. Even now, I have never lost my fascination with those post cards, a trademark of love and remembrance from days gone by.

Two years ago, I found people had started scanning in these postcards from the 1920s and '30s and either posting them online or selling them on a CD. Though they didn't have the same feel or the beautiful sentiments written on the back, their images still reminded me of summers with my Grandma.

So, I printed dozens of the old cards on card stock, cut and matted each one before adding thin ribbon to make them ornaments on my Valentines Day tree. My children fell in love with the simple, hand-drawn images as much as I had when younger.

I intended to do the same for our Easter tree, but as any parent knows well, the unnecessary tends to remain undone. This Spring, a full two years later, I finally collected scanned-in images of enough Easter postcards.

As I cut and pasted the cards on screen to print, I was amazed at the differences I noted between Easter then and now. Not quite a century separated us, but the chasm was wide and deep.
Whereas our Easter is ruled by bunnies, I was hard pressed to find many images of rabbits, and when I did, most were of actual (pretty ugly) rabbits, not the Easter Bunny or any other cute, cartoon-like creature.

However, what I did keep coming across were image after image of plush baby chicks, fragrant blossoms, and Christian images. Images of churches, Christ, and the cross were available in great supply. And even when some Christian symbol was absent, many times, the card's simple verse mentioned the true meaning of Easter. One even sported a watercolor of Jesus on the dusty road to Emmaus.

Back in the '20s and '30s, most people would have raised their own chickens, making this a symbol of rebirth most people would have understood. And Christ? He was still the center of Easter.

Last month, I added those paper ornaments to branches laden with pastel-colored eggs and bright, sparkly butterflies. Though our world has changed, has transformed Easter into "Spring Break," our household chooses to retain a "vintage" understanding of the season.

Christ's sacrifice on the cross, His resurrection from the dead--back then, the people knew that this was the reason for Easter. Even if they chose to not serve Him, they knew.

Now? Our present-day society may try to bury the true reason for the season under a mountain of plastic eggs, plush rabbits, new dresses, and chocolate, but still, in our heart of hearts, we awaken on Easter morning knowing this is Easter. And Easter is about Christ.

May we who love Him never forget. Let us always remember His sacrifice and triumph over sin and death, above all else.

A Hymn of Gratitude for Springtime

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 03:58:00 +0000

Red-breasted robins crisscross the asphalt lane that winds past our farm. They've been here in the South for months now, gorging round, downy bellies on ladybugs, holly berries, and squiggly worms in preparation for the impending flight back north. "To Grandma Della's in Michigan" as the children always say.

I stand as I do for ten minutes each afternoon--pink ropers hesitating at the divide between gravel and black tar, waiting for the school bus that carries my kindergartner's hug. My eyes watch the vanishing point for the classic orange and black, but my ears listen to the birds' airy chatter. Their song is ever-constant today when the sun presses warmth through my cotton shirt until the heat caresses my bare skin beneath.

On days when the clouds form an almost reachable ceiling or when a chilled March gale wraps me further into myself, there is no fluttering, no sound. All are invisible, silent, hiding in the forest's web of woody catacombs above.

Today, though, I squint behind Jackie O. shades, gaze upwards at these miraculous creatures weaving invisible webs of joy like a wedding canopy. My feet are glued firmly to the earth, but I, too, feel this urge to soar, to give thanks and sing in celebration of Spring's advent.

Far out of camera range, my father in law stands by my daughter, both of them oblivious to the orchestra taking place a few feet above them. Their eyes focus, instead, on Spring's first rising from below. Up from the cold ground, white globes of clover proudly tower above wide, meandering patches of of three leaves, sometimes a lucky four.

This tough farmer with his t-shirts ever-stained by sweat and tractor grease; with his skin permanently tanned, and leathery from years working the hay fields....this is my children's Opa, a much-beloved grandfather who worked a lifetime at an oil refinery and raised both cattle and hay with his only son, my husband.

There is nothing even remotely feminine about this man. Yet, as I watch, our Opa stoops repeatedly to pick the clover "weeds" he once would have instantly sprayed into oblivion. With well-calloused fingers, he knots their rigid stems and weaves them into a bracelet for his only grand daughter, a necklace for her twin brother. Such an uncharacteristic expression of love.

I can't help but smile at how perfect this moment is, how much of the Father's love is evident above and below. And in that remembrance, I hum a tune to words long forgotten.

For the beauty of the earth,
for the beauty of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies,

For the joy of human love,
brother, sister, parent, child,
friends on earth, and friends above,
for all gentle thoughts and mild,

For each perfect gift of thine
to our race so freely given,
graces human and divine,
flowers of earth and buds of heaven,

Christ our God, to thee we raise
this our hymn of grateful praise.

Photo: My mother's camelia flowers.

When the World Says You're Unimportant

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 05:31:00 +0000

We strive to teach our children that they are important, that they have value no matter what others tell them. We grab little faces between open palms and speak seriousness into young, impressionable eyes, compelling them to believe they each have something valuable to offer in their uniqueness. They are loved. They are appreciated. They are needed.

Somewhere along the way, though, that message changes.

Maybe it's when we enter college or the workforce and realize we are only one of millions, all who have the same skills that we have, a speck of sand on a speck of sand. The message we then embrace is one reverberating the individual's lack of importance, lack of uniqueness.

I readily remember being told that English instructors were a dime a dozen, easily replaced. Anyone could do my job as well as I could, so I shouldn't think too highly of my degrees, knowledge, or abilities. My best was nothing compared to what others had to offer.

When I was laid off from my first teaching job mere weeks before Christmas, I bought into that lie without even realizing it.

For the six years I taught full time before having children, I always felt like a fraud. Somehow, I just knew one day, everyone would wake up and realize I didn't know as much as they thought I knew, that I wasn't as a great a teacher as they had heard. I readily accepted that what I had to offer was of little value and was always surprised when others felt differently.

When I began working part time while staying home with my brood of three, those feelings of unimportance only increased. I was now relegated to the status of adjunct, and as anyone in the academic world knows, adjuncts are literally a dime a dozen, the workhorses who are looked down upon by full-time professors serious about their craft. Adjuncts are disposable, easily replaceable, especially in fields like composition and literature.

No matter that as an adjunct, I taught nine sections a semester split out among three different colleges, almost double the teaching load I was required to teach when I was a full-time employee. My contracts each semester made it clear... I was not promised classes the following term; I was an "at-will" employee; any section with my name on it could be cancelled even after the semester began or given to another full-time instructor.

I was expendable. Unimportant.

The problem was, I listened to the siren song of the world for so long that I somehow forgot God's Word, which teaches I am fearfully and wonderfully made, that the abilities God gave me are important, do have value.

***

This past January, I was hit with an unexpected job loss for the Spring semester, taking nearly a 60% cut in salary due to low enrollment at one of my colleges and a complete sabbatical from another due to a renovation of their entire online program.

I was devastated.

It wasn't just the anticipated impact on my pocketbook, that weekly date night shifted to the living room sofa, that our one-night-eating-out a week routine became no nights eating out, or that trips to town were all but eliminated unless I rode along with someone else.

The bigger problem was how my lack of work confirmed my unimportance. The world was going along just fine without me.

While I told God I would still trust Him to protect and take care of us and while I truly believed that, still, I felt the sting of not being needed or valued.

Literally one day after receiving the news that my workload and salary would be slashed, a woman I had shaken hands with only once before telephoned. She spoke of hearing and loving the narration I had written for the Christmas musical the month before. Then, she said God had told her to call me today. She had been successfully homeschooling her son in all subjects but writing, which she struggled with, herself. Would I be willing to tutor him each week? She would pay.

I was instantly suspicious. Had the pastor told her about our financial situation? No one else knew.

No. He had told her nothing, only given my name and number when she requested it. As I listened, dumbfounded, she confessed her fear I would think she was stupid for not knowing how to write, so she had put off obeying God's leading her to call me until the late afternoon.

I sank to the sun room daybed and started to cry before explaining to her the events of the last few days. In the next minute, she was praying for me over the phone line.

God had chosen to not answer my prayers to increase enrollment in those courses that were cancelled. Instead, he was offering something different--an opportunity to work one on one with a child whose heart's desire was to become a preacher, a non-lucrative job offer I would have likely rejected had I been laden with my typical full teaching load.

I was important to His Kingdom's work. The abilities He has gifted me with are important. I am still fearfully and wonderfully made.

Since then, I have started tutoring a few more children out of my home each week. Each time I sit down with another mother, I am amazed to find she doesn't know a trick or technique that comes naturally to me, that I honestly thought everyone knew how to do.

I had bought so far into the lie of my own unimportance that I didn't see all I had to offer--not just to people but to God as well.

Some might read this and conclude I now have an issue of pride, but that's not it at all. I can rattle off a Santa-Claus-length "Naughty List" of my deficiencies faster than any Indy car can make a loop 'round the track. I still shake my head when anyone is impressed with my small abilities.

In the world's economy, sure, you and I are not terribly important. Yes, we can be replaced by others equally or more skilled than we are.

But God's economy is what's important, and He says each of us has a role to play in His Kingdom. Each of us is important enough for Him to know the number of hairs on our head. Each of us has been endowed with specific gifts and abilities given to us by the Creator of the universe, Himself.

Each of us is special.

Image: One really tired mother whose most important act last Saturday was to lead her children in making an Angry Bird pizza by themselves (the orange beak melted, but it is there).

When Jesus Shows Up for Playtime

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 05:17:00 +0000

A path of faux wood stretches across the entire hallway between the play room and my kitchen, a regular Great Wall of China blocking the Huns from invading. The only problem is this wall has been erected smack in the midst of our home's main thoroughfare, creating a traffic jam the likes of which construction crews are hated for.

Just today, the hall has been strewn with a dozen plastic dinosaurs, loose leaf paper, a stack of old magazines for cutting, zebra-faced scissors, purple glue sticks, and a zillion tiny scraps of confetti left behind by twins mastering the art of the collage.

No matter what it is, no matter how many raised surfaces I have for them to work on, the twins always choose the floor. And most of the time? The floor immediately outside the kitchen.

While I'd like to blame this problem on magnets or other mysterious polarizing forces, I'm savvy enough to realize the twins simply congregate where I'm working. With three meals put on the gathering table each day, any mom knows that's going to be near the room with the fridge, oven, and microwave.

No matter that there's an entire six foot area rug they could play on in the living room or that there is an upstairs foyer wide open for uninterrupted play. They unconsciously want to be where I am.

But as usual, this desire to be close to mommy leads to chaos and discontent. An argument erupts with Emerson not wanting anyone to step over his creation and with his siblings insisting he hasn't left them any choice but to chance the masterpiece's destruction.

It's inevitable that someone's foot will accidentally tip over someone else's tower, accidentally kick plastic X into plastic Y resulting in teary Z.

Most of the time, I can ignore the drama unfolding a few steps from the sink where I'm washing lunch dishes or scrubbing the stove top. It sounds harsh to say, but motherhood desensitizes you to all but the truly serious cries for help.

Today, though, Emerson was more adamant than normal that no one else could play with him. It was important. I shrugged, chalked it up to getting up earlier than normal or general grumpiness from seasonal allergies we all were feeling ever since the "worms" started falling from the oaks and coating the carport in a powdery yellow.

He kept insisting it was important, though. And it was.

"Come see, mommy," he called. "The Angry Birds are going to Bethlehem. I built it. They're following the star? See where I built Bethlehem?"

Sure enough, there was a path leading a line of multicolored birds and rotund, lime green pigs straight to the golden star of Bethlehem.

Who knew molded birds of furrowed brow knew where to find the Savior?

This focus on Christ on the same day that saw the twins awaking to argue before breakfast over how palm trees should be arranged around Jesus' tomb--it's a positive sign of their hearts. Even with the surrounding drama, it is encouraging to this mother who sees more failure than progress, who is living so close in the midst of raising children that it's hard to get perspective and see how far we've come.

Like many parents, I seriously wrestle with training up my children in the Lord. It is a burden and sometimes one I I feel I'm failing to carry well. It sounds crazy to say this since they're only four and six years old, but I often feel like I'm already running out of time to properly teach them to love the Lord with all their hearts, like every single moment is terribly important to cram in as much about the Lord as I possibly can.

I take very seriously Deuteronomy 6:7 where Moses says, "You shall teach them diligently to your sons 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 up."

On days such as this when talk of Jesus and Scripture shows up not just at lunchtime prayer but before breakfast, before reading lessons, while walking across the field, while preparing supper...

When Jesus shows up as natural part of playtime, I look at the verse and think, "Yes. This. This is what God meant when He said "when you walk by the way and when you lie down and when you rise up."

The more we intentionally speak the Word, the more our hearts unconsciously dwell on it and, thus, the more we speak it. It's a cycle.

The teaching, then, is less forced, less intentional; yet, the name of Jesus and the Word of God flows from the lips as easily as one's own name. Conversations begin to naturally lead from the day to day to the spiritual and back again without a thought--laugh-worthy words about a rat graveyard in one breath and deep words about the meaning of faith in the next.

My prayer is that God will give me lips to answer the hard questions my children ask, eyes of encouragement to see where we've been and where we're headed, and ears to listen with discernment to both my children and the Father.

Life in a Glass House: When Daddy Is In Trouble

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 02 Mar 2013 01:31:00 +0000

Dinner was an uneventful mixture of mom, dad, and youngest son inhaling a nutritious meal, two finicky noses raising high at said meal, and all three children competing for air time to tell the "best" and "worst" things from their day.

As I said, uneventful. (It's a good thing.)

While Picky Eater #1 swirled her spoon around the sausage and Picky Eater #2 used his fork to only eat the sausage in the bowl, husband stood up to start loading the dishwasher I had emptied earlier in the day.

He stooped his six foot frame to place one salad plate in the bottom, fork in the cutlery basket. I pushed back my chair to help, placed my dishes in the sink, and reached for the wet rag to start wiping down the "grown up" end of the table.

I heard the unforgettable sound of shattering china before my brain realized my eyes had seen husband grab the counter to catch himself. And in that instant of shock, the children froze, spoons and forks mid-complaint.

Daddy was in trouble.

In a Tom and Jerry cartoon, one frame would show the disaster, then the next frame would show a series of blurry streaks as everyone left the building with impossible speed.

In real life, though, there's no possible way to zoom across broken glass or even walk casually away and pretend the catastrophe didn't happen. That's when the self preservation instinct kicks in.

Instant, pin-drop silence. It's the "oh-my-gosh-somebody's-going-to-get-it-and-if-I-don't-pretend-I'm-invisible-I'm-going-to-get-it-too" kind of nothingness wherein a half-hour's roar is muted with a split second click of an invisible button. The ears seem to ring from the void left by sound's sudden absence.

The children may have known the correct thing to do, but they didn't understand the emotional significance of daddy breaking a piece of blue and white Noritake china that mommy had bought at Dillard's years before she was married. They didn't instantly think, "Why now!? When we don't have extra money to replace this plate?" All they knew was that broken = bad.

As the room remained paused in shock, I realized what husband had done. Without thinking of the potential cause-and-effect consequences, he had chosen to stretch his long legs over the open dishwasher to get to the sink rather than close the dishwasher, walk to the sink, then open it again.

And in that light bulb moment, I did what everyone was waiting for. I didn't yell, scream, or pitch a fit, but as my blood pressure rose, I broke the eerie silence with the tone my kids refer to as the "mean mommy voice," the deep, serious tones that spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e in a soprano.

"What were you thinking!?! Just because you can step over a dishwasher doesn't mean you should!!"

I angrily picked up the broken glass and slammed the jagged shards in the open garbage can. Husband brought in the vacuum cleaner. The children watched in silence.

When the crime's evidence was gone, Wyatt asked for paper, left the room. Knowing how Wyatt loves to write letters asking for forgiveness when he does something wrong, I thought that request a bit strange, but I kept cleaning the stove while husband went back to cleaning alongside me.

Minutes later, he returned, reached out his hand to give husband a piece of paper, then hesitated, glanced at me, as if confused since I was there. The little hand withdrew, extended my way.

"Here, mommy. This is from daddy."

Before me was an apology note, obviously written in my oldest son's hand but signed "Hubby," the affectionate name husband uses with me and that Wyatt had only just learned two weeks before from my Valentines Day card.

I laughed out loud, told Wyatt he couldn't apologize for his father, explained that daddy had already said he was sorry, mommy had already forgiven him, and that was that.

"We forgive and forget, you remember. It's what Jesus expects us to do. It's what families do."

That was two weeks ago. The incident hasn't come up since, but I know it will just because I know my children. They like to bring up the things we adults would like to forget.

"Remember that fight you and daddy had when....." Wyatt will say.

Then, I'll replay the same speech I give at such occasions: "Yes, I remember. It wasn't a fight. A fight involves hitting. It was an argument. And it's ok for mommies and daddies to argue. You and your sister argue. You and Emerson don't agree on everything, do you? Families disagree. They argue. BUT they always say they're sorry. They always forgive each other."

Being a parent means living in a glass house. Children watch every cross gesture, hear every work spoken in frustration, sadness, or anger.

I know they'll remember the inevitable harsh words spoken in anger. My only hope is that they will also remember what they always see and hear next--the apologies, the forgiveness, and the commitment to continue loving each other as husband and wife.

Consonant-Vowel-Consonant: Pray the Small Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 04:03:00 +0000

I can hear Amelia's high-pitched voice echoing down the hall from our bedroom.

"Fuh-uh-nuh. Fun."

"Buh-uh-nuh. Bun."

If she hears slippered feet pad across the floor, the music of her learning will stop in self-consciousness. And so, I simply sit, listen to this little one sitting upright on her bed, spindly legs and feet under blankets of pink and sparkly butterflies as she waits for daddy to come say nightly prayers and kiss her goodnight.

"Buh-eh-ll. Bell"

"Ssss.aaa.t. Sat."

One by one, she rhythmically goes through a list of words, sounds, always a series of two consonants separated by one vowel.

I smile, thank God that something is sinking into that head, the one that fears what she doesn't already know how to do, just like her mother.

Just today, she and I both had another meltdown over her reading lesson, something I thought we had gotten past weeks ago. We'd been taking it slow and making great progress. The day before, we had celebrated completing the fiftieth lesson, halfway through the book.

But today, her genetically-acquired fear of failure reared its ugly head again as I gently prodded her to repeat the sounds so she could figure out the new word. The corners of her lips turned downward and quivered intentionally with fussiness. As her I-can't-do-it attitude huffed towards my razor thin kindness, I snapped.

We three had been out early for a trip to the dentist, the pharmacy for brother's vitamins, and the weekly library run for fifteen books and story time's much-anticipated craft. Two boys were coming over in one hour for a writing lesson, and I was trying to sneak in the twins' reading lesson before lunch, knowing the relationship-destroying hurricanes that swirl when I try to do lessons in the afternoons.

This was the very kind of confrontation I was trying to avoid because I want her to associate reading with fun, laughter, imagination, and the key to all knowledge.

But I was rushing. I guess she could tell, could feel it even as I tried to speak slowly the lilting soundtrack of fun that I repeat whenever we're doing the lessons I know are more difficult for her than for her brother.

Frustrated with each other, we both took a time out.

Minutes later when I called her back to the table, it was obvious her attitude still hadn't changed.

I started slow and soft. "Amelia, it's not always easy to learn something new. I know that. Mommy had to learn to read when she was a little girl, daddy, too."

"Do you know what your daddy does when he doesn't know how to do something?"

She thought, chewed her lip, refused to meet my eyes. Then came a whisper. "He asks God."

The Holy Spirit's chastening came through the voice of a little child. How stupid was I!?!

A natural born teacher, I had been trusting in my own abilities, the same abilities that had succeeded with my firstborn and were doing better than expected with her twin brother. But with her? Here I was, struggling with my daughter all these months and not once had I asked God to help her to learn, to help me to teach. I had prayed for God to help me teach others but never my own daughter.

As a result, she and I were simply reenacting the same scene my own mother and I had played out more than once during my childhood, one of frustration and hurt feelings on both sides.

"Amelia," I said, softly again. "Would you like to pray to God and ask Him to help you with your reading lesson?"

Those big eyes flickered before her brown bob shook up and down.

Right there at the gathering table, the yellow and white reader open between us, I took her small hands in mine and prayed out loud for God to give her the ability to learn more easily, to help her have a good attitude about learning, and to help me be a good teacher.

The girl who flew through her reading lesson after that simple prayer wasn't the same child who sat with me moments before. Yes, she still stumbled over words, and yes, I still had to ask her to repeat sounds until she got it right, but the tension was gone. She giggled at the silliness of the story's plot, munched her M&Ms with great relish, and skipped off for playtime while her twin brother sat down for his lesson.

God's Spirit came down to my kitchen, to help a woman and her daughter through a seemingly insignificant situation.

It's times like these that I wonder what other insignificant problems in my household could miraculously vanish if I would stop calling them insignificant and, instead, take them before my heavenly Father's throne, if I would stop dealing with them on my own and would break the cycle of frustration and defeat by gathering there with my children and asking aloud for God's help.

To My Children (after a hard week)

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 23 Feb 2013 05:09:00 +0000

My Darling children,

It's been one of those weeks when I wonder if you've been replaced by alien look-alikes from Mars who only look like my children. Or maybe the mushrooms in Monday's sausage and potato soup were poisonous and caused you to develop a sudden case of selective amnesia wherein you instantly forgot every positive lesson I have sought to teach you over the past four or six years, respectively, in how to live as a loving family.

Instead of training up children in the Lord, I fear this week shows I still have a long way to go to avoid being a failure as your mother. Perhaps it would help jog your memory if I reminded you of a few rules of the house.

Because we are a family, ...

We say please, thank you, yes ma'am, and no sir. Mommy comments on your manners quite often, praising you for these few simple words that make grown ups feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

But when you forget, when mommy looks in your eyes and corrects your mistake, you're supposed to repeat after her with a parroted "No ma'am," not merely turn your head and go back to what you're doing. Yes, I will keep annoying you by saying those magic words over and over until you repeat them back to me. Don't sigh or pretend you didn't hear me. I know better. Just practice the politeness and move on. With practice, those words will hopefully come naturally one day and will help you have positive, healthy relationships with others in your adult lives.

We express gratitude instead of entitlement. You are not entitled to television, computer time, sugary treats, trips to the zoo, toys, or anything else of the sort. These are all blessings from God and your parents. A simple "thank you" for any such blessing is always much appreciated. And when you want something else? Yes, make your request known, but if it is denied, don't take this as an invitation to practice your lawyering skills with such fervency, a stranger would think your very life depended on mommy changing her mind. (She's not budging, by the way.)

For instance, when mommy plays three games with you but doesn't have time for a fourth, be thankful for the hours she devoted to spending time playing/cutting/gluing/reading/teaching/feeding you. Don't take her refusal as an invitation for you to sulk and then tell everyone we meet that mommy was "too busy to play with me." Those words are untrue and hurt mommy's heart. Washing your socks may not seem important when what you'd prefer is another round of of Clue Junior, but the day you have to go outside in 32 degree weather with no socks on, then maybe you'll understand.

Also, when mommy allows you to watch a single episode of Scooby Doo in the afternoons and a second episode auto-starts, push the pause button. You know how to work the remote as well as she does, even if you're 1/7th her age. Mommy will eventually realize your error; she will stop the second forbidden episode in the middle. Don't then screw up your face and lower your eyebrows in disgust before breaking into full whine about how this episode is the only one I never have let you finish before. Be thankful for the one and go outside to spend time with your siblings. Your time with them is shorter than you know.

We accept the meal on the table as a blessing, not a curse. Not every meal will be your favorite. Not every meal is mommy's favorite either. I would rather never again eat macaroni and cheese or meatballs in my spaghetti, but I know you enjoy these foods and so we eat them with great regularity.

Accept that mommy and daddy adore mushrooms. I know you all hate them, so I rarely include them in a dish anymore, even though we ate them by the pound before you were born. But when mommy puts a few rather large ones in your soup so you can easily just scoop around them, please do just that. I promise they didn't poison the rest of the food, and it won't kill you to leave them in your bowl.

What's more, your rather loud insistence that you hate mushrooms, sausage, etc. isn't considered polite table conversation and won't convince me of anything I don't already know. Never tell me "I don't like..." if it's sitting on your plate. Take a bite, then leave it there. It probably took me several hours to prepare this meal you're frowning at. And that's not to mention how hard your daddy worked to pay for the food so you could grow up healthy. We aren't intentionally trying to make you sick.

We treat others with kindness, forgive, and forget. You are all so good at the forgiving part, always ready with those kind words on your lips as soon as the request for forgiveness presents itself. But forgiving also means forgetting.

That means you're not allowed to exclude your sister from your games for the rest of the afternoon because you don't want her to make the same error a second time. That also means you can't bring up what your brother did to you a week ago. Forgiving means forgetting, giving the person another chance, wiping the slate clean.

Your siblings may drive you crazy. But, you wouldn't push/yell at/throw things at your friend at school or at church (or you shouldn't, in case you've forgotten). That means you shouldn't act that way towards your siblings either. Treat them with the same kindness and love you would like them to extend towards you.

Remember how often others in our family have had to forgive you. Forget their trespasses as you hope they forget yours.

We understand that our words and actions can really hurt. When you don't listen to mommy, when you ignore her instructions, when you talk back...when you fail to respond with love, gentleness, patience, gratitude, and kindness, it hurts her heart.

Yes, you may be small in stature, but you can hurt mommy more than most people in the world. You can even make me cry so hard, I'll feel like I'm breaking apart.

Some days, it may seem as though I am doing everything the opposite of how you would choose to do it. Some days, it may seem as though I'm asking you to do "all the hard work." But remember: mommy is trying her best to be the best mother she can be.

I will screw up. I will have to say I'm sorry and ask your forgiveness, hoping you will still love me anyway. Some days, I will make so many mistakes, you'll wonder how God could have picked me to be your mother. I often wonder that, myself.

Even so, everything I do, I do because I love God and I love you, not because I want to make your life difficult or because I want you to follow a set of rules merely for the sake of following them.

My children, I want you to learn to love as Jesus loved, to think of others before you think of yourself, to treat others with kindness even when they don't deserve it, to be joyously thankful for the little you have instead of always looking down the road with longing.

Look in your heart. Remember the teachings of your youth. And seek to put those precepts into practice. It's hard, I know. But we must never give up on each other.

We are a family.

When Jesus Compared a Woman to a Dog

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 05:17:00 +0000

Women don't seem to matter much in the Old Testament, at least for the most part. And when they appear on its pages, too often they end up in books like Liz Curtis Higgs' Bad Girls of the Bible series.

Eve, Potiphar’s wife, Delilah, Bathsheba, Jezebel, Job's wife--even a society not well-versed in the Scriptures likely recognizes these names. These women, their stories, and their sin stick with us and find themselves repeated in popular novels and movies.

Sure, there are the Ruths and Esthers who blow us away with positive lessons about faith in God, but for the most part, Biblical women get a bad rap.

What has always intrigued me, though, is how society can remember the bad women of the Bible but not (for the most part) the bad men.

Let's see....there's Jeroboam, King Herod, Pharaoh, and Judas. That's four.

How many evil, sinful kings were there in the Old Testament? Can you name them all, the ones who sacrificed their children, who murdered their way to the top, who slayed prophets who spoke against them, who God repeatedly said were "worse than their fathers before them?" I sure can't.

But the women? Yep. Even I can name them all.

Julie Zine Coleman's Unexpected Love: God's Heart Revealed in Jesus' Conversations with Women offers a different look at Biblical women in the New Testament. Specifically, she delves into nine interactions Jesus had with women.

Each chapter serves to confirm her primary argument that our Savior had quite a tender heart for women, that every woman (including the sinful woman caught in adultery) was important to Him and to the kingdom of God.

Coleman begins her nine vignettes with a "how-it-might-have-happened" narrative, transforming the sparseness of Scripture's into a three dimensional work of art. Then, she begins to dissect the interaction, asking questions, providing historical and cultural background needed to understand what was really going on, and drawing conclusions as to why He said the words He did (such as when he compared the Syrophoenician woman to a dog under the table) before concluding each chapter with a real life application for today's woman and journal / small group questions for discussion.

The text is conversational and analytical at the same time without being filled with a theological vocabulary one would need to go to seminary to fully understand. Personally, I found myself challenged with information I had not before considered but never felt the book's meaning was beyond my grasp.

Throughout the text, Jesus' interactions serve to show how He was intentionally seeking a relationship with these women. In several instances, that meant initiating a relationship with a woman caught up in the throws of sin.

Still, He met them where they were, but He didn't leave them there. Instead, He called them to repentance, to deeper faith, to a knowledge that they truly mattered to Him.

In a world of Twitter, Face book, the Internet, and various other social media outlets, where everybody has a cellphone and a camera to capture a person's solitary sin and then plaster it across the world in seconds where it will remain there for a lifetime...

In a world where one person can be then defined by that single sin despite a lifetime of pure actions, Coleman's book shows a Savior who values women (even fallen women) and who still says, "Repent. Come back to Me. You matter."

As the author concludes, "He will never fail to meet you where you are when you come to him."

**I have received no compensation from Thomas Nelson for my review of this book, good or bad.

A Different Kind of Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 16 Feb 2013 05:14:00 +0000

As the sun set on Valentines Day, I left my husband and children to gather with another adopted family, the kind I imagine joining with in heaven's throne room.

Every tribe, tongue, and nation raises voices together to sing two verses of Amazing Grace. In reality, it's only twelve countries gathered round pressboard tables rather than brilliant sapphire and radiant rainbow of holy glory, but still, to this sun-kissed white girl who grew up in an all-white neighborhood, went to an all-white church, and went to a school with only two skin colors, the rainbow before me is just as beautiful.

As they enter the room, they hug, kiss, even smile differently than the vanilla world I live in. Several of my students from Africa--now they know how to smile. It's contagious, those smiles, an impossible joy based on their histories, their present circumstances, their poverty and loneliness, separated from our country by a language barrier thicker and more impenetrable than most concrete.

I know the long hours these refugees work, the low salary they make, the menial jobs far beneath their intelligence that they take simply because they're what is available, meaning no one else wants them. They mop floors, clean hotel rooms, hand wash cars, wash dishes in restaurants, and sanitize public schools after hours.

One twenty-something man only two-weeks here from Malaysia tells me he used to farm rice, then worked the last three years of his life as a cook. Pizza and pasta. Do we eat Italian here in Louisiana?

Another young lady, alone in this new land with a four-year-old daughter--she speaks maybe two sentences week after week until last night when she bubbles forth unstoppable broken paragraphs of excitement. Some gracious soul had taken the time to write a short email praising the cleanliness of his hotel room. The ten minutes it took for him to express gratitude resulted in her being named "Employee of the Month," her salary bumped from $8 to $9 an hour, and managements' good favor.

The former truck driver cleans the casino but never stops smiling and laughing as we struggle to overcome each other's language barrier.

Kih-mee-KAA , they teach me last night. Scorpion.

I continue to be amazed at the great God I serve who sent the world to my doorstep so I could have the opportunity to fulfill the Great Commission even though I lacked freedom and funds to go in obedience.

February 14, 2013, marked the one-year anniversary of our group's first English as a Second Language (ESL) meeting. In His perfect timing, God-ordained that on the day our nation celebrates love, He allowed us to begin a ministry to show true agape love to all the nations in our community...

opening up our church doors, our homes, our pocketbooks, our minds, our families, and our very hearts to them.

And just like what normally happens, the more love we've given and the more of ourselves we've invested in those who come to learn from us, the more love we have received--exceedingly, abundantly, far beyond any love we have demonstrated.

That is a love to celebrate.