this beautiful struggle

Good news, bad news

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Mon, 20 May 2013 22:37:00 +0000

Here's a little game I like to call "good news, bad news."

Good news: I'm getting a half priced Sonic shake tonight. Bad news: It's justified because it was nearly 900 degrees and I'm 9 months pregnant.

Good news: My husband watched Forks Over Knives and bought in completely. Bad news: Reducing meat intake is significantly challenging me in the menu-planning arena (though the kids chowed down on tonight's completely meatless table).

Good news: Those home remedies for carpet cleaning (1 c. hydrogen peroxide + 1 tbsp. baking soda) works great! Bad news: It was cleaning up Lady C's poop.

Good news: It's nearly bedtime! Bad news: they don't put themselves to bed yet.

In a day's work

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Sun, 19 May 2013 01:07:00 +0000

Today, as a family, we accomplished the following:

Made a dozen muffins for breakfast. Ate 3/4 of them. Froze remaining 3.
Spent a daddy/daughter morning with breakfast, a haircut and a trip to Meijer for lettuce (for lunch).
Hung up winter coats and organized children's shoes in the closet.
Vacuumed all floors upstairs, put away things previously strung about on the floors.
Laundry detergent made. (1 bar of Dr. Bronner's soap shredded/chopped + 1 cup each of borax, washing soda and baking soda. Approx. 1 formula scooper per load).
3 Loads of laundry washed & dried.
Trip to the greenhouse for the last of the garden starts (Roma tomatoes, broccoli, cabbage), herbs and a few flowers for the front of the house.
Trip to Piqua just to enjoy the view because we missed our turn.
Lunch - delicious salad, complete with a fresh cilantro lime vinaigrette.
Swept up extremely dirty kitchen floors.
Naps by every single person in the house. At the same time.
Ate homemade popsicles on the front porch swing (1/2 c. orange juice, 1/2 cup vanilla coconut milk, spot of vanilla, spot of maple syrup or honey, frozen into popsicle molds).
Planted aforementioned flowers.
Planted aforementioned starts and herbs (in pots).
Weeded garden (well, at least around the onions).
Built string trellis for green beans to climb.
Grilled steak, baked french fries, thawed green beans.
Showers with washed hair.
Aforementioned clean laundry folded and put away.
Snack and a movie.
Evening with a buddy.
Eyebrows and upper lip waxed.

Now, I say this not to brag about our productivity levels (but considering that 3 of us combine for an age of 8 and another can't walk with her feet pointing straight in front of her, I feel like we fared well).

What I enjoyed most about today isn't the feeling of crossing these things off the list but rather the sense of home-making it created. The kids enjoyed helping with each of the activities and we all felt good about contributing to the well being of our household. Sure, it's all stuff that needs done to make the house run smoothly, so in a sense there's a level of efficiency, but I also love how it comes together to make our house more than just the place we sleep and eat, but also the place we spend some of our days.

Our home.

We could spend our money to have a large chunk of these tasks completed on our behalf, but I love the sense of provision that comes from getting dirt under my nails and mixing my salad dressing. I feel enabled, empowered, as if I have a voice and mind behind what I'm doing. These simple tasks remove me from a victim-of-life-that's-out-of-control mentality and place me firmly on the ground of Active Participant in this world.

I just read the other morning that God gave us tasks in the Garden before the Fall. Work isn't evil. It's our way of participating in the creative nature of God's presence. The curse put a man's brow to the plow, but I believe what really happened might have simply been a skewed view of work and why we must labor in order to produce. A bit of pain suddenly accompanied the accomplishment. (True for the woman as well, and ironic that both parts of the repercussions of the Fall are referred to as "labor.")

The work isn't evil; in fact, I wonder if a tad bit of idolatry slips into the picture when we start believing our time is "worth" more than our efforts, especially when the time benefits our pocketbooks over the ways in which God is moving and growing and sustaining and furthering His Kingdom in this world. Perhaps it's only through the work of the "curse" that we truly understand and appreciate the gift of the fruits of our labor.

Jim, Pam and the rest of life

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Fri, 17 May 2013 02:18:00 +0000

Hands down, season 3 was an Office high note for me (and, based on the lookbacks pre-last episode, it was for the cast as well). I remember multiple quotes from seasons 3 and 4 being used as teachable moments or simply random texts to Kristy.

So I think to myself, "would a stupid person do this?" and if so, I do not do that thing.

I bought the Beni Hana Christmas and the Jim & Pam Wedding episode on itunes. This was pre-DVR yet post-VHS era and I had no choice, but I watched and rewatched my money's worth.

I put a mark on her arm... so I could tell them apart.

The season following was hit-and-miss, though I still had high hopes. Don't get me wrong... the sharpie marker directives by Dwight were quoted frequently during a time when several of my friends' babies were born (and that episode replayed the night little Kyle was born, which provided a flurry of texts). And when Pam got excited over the baby suddenly latching better, only to find out it was the wrong baby? Hilariousness.

But to be honest, after Jim and Pam got married and had their baby... I gave up on them. For some reason, once I had my happy ending, I had little incentive to come back for more. Especially because Jim seemed to stop pranking Dwight.

Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.

And once Steve Carrell - who generally only provoked anxiety upon me each episode - left, I only tuned in when JJ happened upon the station. We didn't even set the DVR.

My slow fade from The Office allegiance made me question life. I don't think as a whole the product diminished in quality; the characters continued to come to life, story lines deepened even amid the shallow setting.

But Jim and Pam were together and part of me felt like the development arc had hit a plateau. I got what I wanted and moved on.

I think it has something to do with Donald Miller's take on story and how we love the conflict. It changes us. We thrive with the tension, the not knowing. Once resolution begins, we want to know how it turns out, but it lacks the power of the unknown. And somewhere we know that the resolution, the peace, isn't what changes us and develops us, but rather in that tension.

Perhaps that's why I was drawn back for the final episode. Not simply to relive the best moments (wallets in vending machines, popping medicine balls) but also to celebrate the growth of the characters. I'm not just celebrating that Jim and Pam are together, but reminiscing on the very qualities that drew them together in the first place. I'm watching and loving their journey, not just their victory in enduring the hard times.

So often in the tension we ache for resolution. But if we're not careful and the resolution becomes the point, we quit the story several seasons before the show is over.

When a boy loves his mama (on dandelions and plaster-of-paris)

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Sat, 11 May 2013 12:00:00 +0000

This week marked my first to receive heartfelt gifts from my eldest. It started with the classic dandelion bouquet (in a vase, no less!); today he gave me a card and necklace that he made at preschool. (You can't tell from the picture, but it's plaster-of-paris on a string with an imprint of a beer cap in it. Yes, beer - he told me specifically. He knows his mama and I love his school.)

Most precious: his excitement of the giving. He told me umpteen times how happy I was to get the flowers. And he barely let me wait to get home from school before unwrapping the necklace - he actually told me what it was upon first sight of me. "Mom!!!!! I made you a necklace!!!!!" I tried to convince him to let me wait until Daddy was around to unwrap it, but he would have none of it. Then, as we said our pre-nap prayers, he told me that he wanted me to take the necklace off when I ate because he didn't want me to get it messy. Well, of course.

I'll treasure these sweet trinkets. I'll lovingly store them away (well, maybe not the dandelions) and show them again when he's older.

As I enjoy them now, I'm drawn to reflect on the nature of love and giving and how we're completely incapable of giving gifts to truly reflect our gratitude. Specifically, because lately I've enjoyed this parenting-as-God's-perspective-thing (boy that sounds quite idolatrous, doesn't it?), I have to wonder how many bouquets of dandelions I've handed to God, proud of my work and confident that it is, indeed the best. gift. ever.

God lovingly accepts them. He understands that what we have to offer, no matter how meager, comes from the heart. It's not the flowers or the necklace, but the diligence in giving. To be honest, it's probably more for the giver than the gifted. My heart jumps because he's so excited to give, not because I need to receive anything.

So I consider how I try to express to God my love. My worship; my words of praise; my prayers. To think, these are likely plaster-of-paris necklaces, meager in comparison but gladly worn. Given probably more for my sake than His.

It's ironic, isn't it? This year, at 4 years old, is the first H Boy has attempted independent (yet aided) gift-giving. The previous 3 years required a bit of help from daddy on the holidays. However, these first 4 years of life have been when he's needed me most. In fact, of all my 3 (well, 4) kids, I find an inverse relationship between how much they need me and how able they are to give in response.

Someday the time will come when my kids are grown and completely capable of giving me big, wonderful, expensive gifts of gratitude (massage, kids! Always massage!). But in those days, I would expect little. Dear ones, you don't cause me near the angst or stress or tears as functional adults as you did this very week.

Even now, what I really want is for them to take a nap. I would dance for joy if they each simply did want I asked. The gifts send a nice message, but how I yearn for compliance, to simply follow my commands.

Hint, hint, self. Perhaps I need to invest slightly less energy stringing together elaborate phrases of love and adoration but put a bit more emphasis on those things God has asked and and requested of me: to live justly, love mercy and walk humbly. Oh, how that probably brings joy to God's heart. We can offer him dandelion songs, but maybe he wants me to be a bit more intentional about loving my neighbor Or not yelling at my kids. Or recognizing my bounty and giving some to those who need it more.

It's not to say that I should stop offering the handmade cards to God. He'll treasure them, but not because of the greatness of the gift but rather the heart of the giver.

Mothers for Daughters Day

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Fri, 10 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

I've been immersed in the book of Esther lately, giving messages at a few different churches about the story. Now, as good books (and even movies) often do, I see the world using its light and I find new perspective. What has completely captured my attention is the back story - the way in which Queen Esther rose to her place of power and influence.

[Warning: cue feminist flags to wave. OR, just my motherly flag.]

After Queen Vashti lost her crown for insubordination, the King's advisers recommended he find a new Queen. The method, as was custom in the day, called for eligible young maidens all over the land to come to the palace for a year of beauty treatments. When her time came, the young girl spent a night with the King. As soon as he found one he was pleased with, he would name her Queen.

This is the PG version. Nearly a Cinderella* story. Let's examine.

First of all, the age of eligibility for these candidates is around 13. Second of all, the culture was not one that really asked her opinion if she wanted to go. But those seem almost minor when considering other facts about this process.

They started in the harem for their year of beauty treatments. After their try-out appearance, they would go to another, separate quarters for the king's concubines. They would never return to see the king again unless he summoned them by name. And let's be honest. If he's getting a new one every night, how good are his name-remembering skills? Some men can't remember a girl's name 2 hours after meeting her at a bar, let alone a year or two later among hundreds of others.

So this girl's entire life, her worth, gets reduced to one night with the king. No pressure.

And that post-King-night life - let's think on that. She's living with hundreds of other passed-over, B Team girls. No one other than immediate family and the eunuchs are allowed in the harem. Because she's no longer a virgin, she's not really bridal material. Her one night with the king forfeited her future with a husband, family, village and greater community with which she had grown up. And I'll mention one source cited the average age of death for women living in the harem is 17. Details were sketchy as to why such short life expectancy, only that "harem life was hard" and likely took an emotional toll that we're unable to really fathom.

So if harem life, as a concubine to the King, seems less than desirable, then how did the King fill his 365 nights with fresh young women? Well, for starters, he is the king. They tend to get what they want. But also we have to peer into the culture of the day. Young women were rarely an asset and most often a liability. They required things like food and shelter but couldn't own much.

A young women generally left the house as one of 3: a slave, a concubine or a wife (listed in order of least to greatest social desirability). A slave was sold into the role but could be released after 7 years of service. A concubine was a cross between a slave and a wife - not sold, but yet she also came without a dowry, regarded as a linchpin of marriage, so also not the status of wife. She was cared for in the general sense that she was fed and housed and clothed, but the husband did not see her with the stature he would his wife. (On a positive note: any children a concubine would bear would be considered "true" heirs and the man would be required to take care of them, no matter if the woman left the arrangement or not). Lastly came the wife. She largely played a subservient role in the relationship, however - as we see throughout the Bible - there are specific ways God called society to a higher standard. Marriages weren't often arranged around love, but rather economic and social factors, so commanding a man to love his wife made considerable leaps. Though, admittedly not quite to the level which we enjoy today (or the extent we continue to call for in pockets of contemporary culture).

So tell me, dear friends - how would you wish to send your little girl out into the world? The goal would be wife. But when drought comes or the beloved horse dies or any of the unforeseeable occurs, how does the family afford the week-long wedding affair and the costly dowry required of a good marriage? Perhaps this one-night shot with the king isn't such a bad option. Perhaps she will please him most of all. At worst, she'll be fed and clothed - even somewhat "pampered" for a year (though I have my doubts the extent of this pampering... have you ever had anything waxed?). So, yes... take a guess what class of society these harem girls reign from? Probably not upper crust.

So what we have here is a socially acceptable occasion of a man (though Xerxes didn't come up with the idea) with great power and wealth, taking young women from the homes of families who find themselves amid economic hardship. It's a good thing that still doesn't happen today.

Right?

The movie Taken opened my eyes to a culture of power and corruption on the consumption side of modern day sex slave industry; however, in order to sell tickets, the victim was a rich white girl and the "bad guys" were foreign. While I appreciate the platform, we need to acknowledge that the key indicators for sex trafficking include: poverty, young age, limited education, lack of work opportunities, lack of family support (e.g., orphaned, runaway/throwaway, homeless, family members collaborating with traffickers), history of previous sexual abuse, health or mental health challenges, and living in vulnerable areas (e.g., areas with police corruption and high crime). (Source).

I've recently heard staggering facts about the issue, starting with the fact that I-75 (which I can nearly spit on from my living room) serves as the "hub" of sexual trafficking, leading up to Toledo where, per capita, the highest concentration of sex slaves in the United States currently reside.

In Ohio. The heartland state. Home.

This is literally in front of my face - tell me I haven't seen one of these victims at my gas station or in the fast food restaurants off my exit - and yet thrives under the guise of social acceptance and, often, victim blame.

It simply shouldn't be.

Mothers Day began as "Mothers Day for Peace", initiated by a woman who sought to unite women for peace. Essentially, these women were tired of their sons being sent off to war and wanted to express their frustration and a desire for alternative solutions. As the holiday evolved to become a celebration of the mothers, as opposed to their cause, the founder of the holiday actually denounced it. It wasn't always about flowers and spas and attending church with ma.

So I wonder, what if. What if mothers (and fathers) everywhere reclaimed the roots of the holiday. What if instead of a corsage or a hanging basket we asked our society to find and care for our little girls, sold or stolen from our homes. What if we vowed to raise our motherly voices together and to say this is not okay. These are our children...?

I wish I had something more practical to offer. I wish we could all donate $1 and end it. I wish I could stand on the street corner and point to where the victims are kept or who the perpetrators are, but I don't know. There's so much I don't know. I'm overwhelmed by the enormity and the hiddenness of the entire situation.

So, I do what I can. I'll point you to an organization centered on fighting it, rehabilitating victims and providing education. Give Gracehaven a motherly hug this month. Or take it a step further and take action on one of the 24 things you can do, even if small. Or leave another committed organization or resource in the comments. I'll take as many as I can get.

*OMG! I had no idea what kind of message the movie Cinderella was sending until I started lining up the similarities...

When you've had a bad day...

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Thu, 09 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

We all have bad days is probably a universal understatement. It's an idea that we know in our heads, but have little concept of what that looks like in life. Kind of like believing that other people do laundry, because when you go over there you never find 4 clothes baskets piled full in the middle of their living room. They say they drown in the chore, but somewhere in the back of your mind you think, "well, sure... but not really." Logically, they must wash clothes because they're wearing them. But our perceptions of others' realities never quite compute.

So it goes without saying that when you spend a day moping around because you're soooo pregnant yada yada and your kids refuse to listen blah blah and life is so hard bur bah bur bah bur... it's hard to recognize that anyone else would have ever cried the same tears. We know in theory that people struggle the way we do. But on the couch, tucked between pillows, it's simply theory.

Which is why James tells us (5:16) to confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. I hear the whole sin-confession part and I shudder a bit. It's not like I'm a teenager caught in the backseat of a car or a closet alcoholic that requires intervention. Something in that verse (really, in the connotation I attach to the phrase "confess your sins") makes me think it has little to do with my emotional upheaval*.

"Sin" has become a picket line word, something haters put on signs. And, if you ask me, we've spent a tad too much of our religious energy pointing toward it rather than redemption. So, in my tendency to overreact, I shirk away from the notion. I don't like to deal with it - in my own life or in others'. I'd really rather ignore that naming piece and focus on what we can do about it. My approach takes on a motherly tone, saying "I don't care who started it, everyone can end it!"

I remember learning that sin is simply "missing the mark", something we're all prone to do. So we can acknowledge that we aren't perfect, and some of us look to Jesus to make that all okay again. But James' recommendation isn't about conversion - it's about the process of refinement.

Tuesday night I came to the point where I realized I just needed prayer. The practice of prayer is not my strong suit and I decided that perhaps things would get better, quicker, if I enlisted the help of others. Jesus would hear my cry, but surely if enough of us make enough racket, He'd realize this should move to the top of the list. (Sorry for any of you with a sick mother-in-law that I just cut in front of**....). So I sent a message to a list of ladies whom I know would understand, not judge and even follow through with a word to God on my behalf.

When James says we should confess and pray for each other, I'm not sure which has more power to heal. For me, I took great comfort in knowing I had a list of ladies asking on my behalf, but even more so, I felt a new freedom simply by sending the message. By acknowledging, in a specific way, that indeed I'm coming up short. The dirty laundry went from theoretical to the middle of the living room.

The next morning I awoke to encouraging texts, messages and phone calls - not just confirming that each did her part to move me up the priority list, but also to share expressions of love and remarks of solidarity. No one showed concern because they were afraid I wouldn't crawl out of the dark hole - they cared because they knew it was important to hear "you are not alone."

One of the biggest lies we believe in the darkness is that we're the first and only to encounter the particular struggle. That grace only extends as far as the "normal" stuff, but this - this - is new and different and probably not okay. We label ourselves other and outside.

Loneliness and unhealthy solitude breeds shame, which is not the language of God. But a community of flawed and loving people, partnered with the Spirit of God, brings conviction - and that's where healing can begin.

*We can discuss my specific sin in a different post. I know some are saying, "you're allowed to be overwhelmed and tired and not feel like you're "sinning." But for me, it was - I can acknowledge it. I'll tell you all about it if you'd like.

**Wow, I'm definitely throwing out some awful theology just for giggles.

Cinco de MYo

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 08 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

I love numerous things Mexican. The food. The 'ritas. The language. One of my favorite family vacation memories involved leaving our resort to find a grocery store only to be the few primarily-English speakers there. My Spanish needed a brush up - we had trouble finding the deli turkey (pavo) and the frozen strawberries (because they came in cartons, not bags. Who knew?). Of course, my ever-chatty father wanted to talk the ear off of the taxi driver and I'm left to try to translate. Not helpful.

So as I drove by our local favorite Mexican eatery on Monday, I noticed the place was quite decked out, patio and all, likely from the crowd on Sunday's holiday. I wondered if everyone in the restaurant got Monday off as they likely staffed 100% on Sunday. Which made me really think.

A Mexican restaurant, with a workforce of a largely authentic population, worked twice as hard on a holiday that bears no significance for the average American. Case in point: I believe the holiday celebrates independence day. Mexico's independence from what country? My guess is Spain, but only because of the language ties. This isn't from lack of education; I'd chalk it up to "I didn't care enough to remember."

But yet I'd care enough to get a chicken fajita taco with fresh guacamole and a margarita every year?

I'd care enough to have a person - who would truly spend the day celebrating - give up the day off so that I can be served?

Something's wrong with this picture.

I understand the economics of it. I get that this is the biggest day of the year for the businesses, so what choice does an owner really have in the matter? So I guess what bothers me most is that it took me 32 years to realize that I'm being a jerk by stealing someone else's holiday

We can probably add this to the list of 10 Things Most Americans Don't Know about America.

This year we stayed home for the Cinco, mostly because it was a Sunday and I'd just have Margarita Envy. We made tacos (and fresh guac) to pseudo-celebrate, and I guess that's okay. Perhaps we'll make this the more standard custom. If I love me my Mexican food and culture, perhaps I ought to let significant holidays be celebrated the way I enjoy mine, with a paid day off and a party with family and friends. Not whiny customers.

What I really want for mothers day

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Tue, 07 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

1. A shirt. That fits. Over the entire torso without needing 1+ tank tops to cover indiscriminate patches of flesh. Without stains. That matches everything (read: all my yoga pants).

2. A pedicure that I neither found the salon nor scheduled. I just show up. One where they offer me complimentary drinks to relax and it takes a good hour to complete. Possibly a painless leg waxing while they're at it, if that exists.

3. A bed to myself, door shut, a few Ambien and possibly a good catheter for just ONE night of complete and uninterrupted sleep.

4. A week without menu planning and grocery shopping, where all 3 meals miraculously show up at my front door, prepared to my obnoxiously high standards.

5. Once... just once, this scene:

Me: Okay kids, it's time for nap/bed!

*Sounds of feet shuffling upstairs*

"M, you can use the potty first."

"No, that's okay, you were here first."

*Sounds of doors clicking shut*

*Sound of complete quiet for 2 FULL HOURS*

Ok, I lied. If I had this just once, I'd spend the rest of my days longing for it to reappear.

6. A really big bowl of creamy pasta with chicken and sundried tomatoes and bread/sticks which won't make me feel like I'm in a coma afterward.

7. To go on a 3 mile run in 70 degree weather, with a slight breeze and a spot of sunshine.

8. A ~~year~~ month of traveling around with Jen Hatmaker, followed by open doors to get to do what she does.

I'm not asking for much, am I?

Dumb movies and cheap food

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Mon, 06 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

I'm not the movie connoisseur in this household. I generally stick to a good political thriller (love me some conspiracy theories!) or an occasional romantic comedy. When JJ rents one, the primary decision is based upon if I'll be staying awake for it or not. Otherwise the gates are open for a variety of other shows.

So, when my friend Kenny offers up his periodic perspectives on Facebook, I relay these to JJ for movie-going decisions. However, like many critics, Kenny's reviews seldom match those of the general public. He gave Ironman 3 a lukewarm-at-best rating, whereas the rest of my feed raved. JJ remarked that perhaps it made him trust Kenny's judgement a tad less (especially because Kenny mentioned that he disliked Ironman 2 to an equal extent and JJ enjoyed it).

The difference, I defended, lies in what each is wanting from cinema. Kenny, trained in the broader scope of the art, seeks depth. He wants well-developed characters. Plot lines that flesh out and connect. Themes that reach beyond the surface. Comedy to depend on wit rather than vulgarities. Scripts built to use language with purpose, concise in selection, not simply for shock value.

American audiences don't naturally seek these out, (though they might be appreciated). But we're too easily entertained by special effects or cheap thrills.

I read a similar summary of our approach to food recently (in a book called All Natural). True foodies savor a dish for the flavors, acknowledging the way certain spices connect or contrast. All too often, the American diet allows us to be quickly carried away by the cheap fix of salt, sugar and fat. We've become accustomed to settle for the cheap and easy.

I have to ~~wonder~~ assume our penchant for immediate gratification and the quickest way to a desired result profoundly affects the interior formation of our lives as well. With dangerous results.

Of course, I immediately think of the spiritual. God's work at transformation takes time, yet we want instant and lasting change. (Enter: parallel to our approach to healthcare, seeking to pop a pill over renovate lifestyles). And when it doesn't come? "It wasn't God's will." "You didn't try hard enough."

Our communal life suffers. We want relationships that immediately satisfy our every wish and desire. We want the relationship to remain as exciting and satiating as the first bite. And when someone falls short? Discard and move on. So we move to new churches, schools and homes when the old ones fail to meet our current needs.

There's something to be said for digging deep. For putting forth the hard work of creating works which last. Look at the art of generations past - cathedrals that have endured centuries and wars and weathering the elements. People actually invested into something without a guarantee they would live to see the end result. The idea of contributing to something lasting mattered more than the immediate sense of enjoyment.

I'm sad the lifestyle of my generation leads to more emptiness; we haven't yet understood the value of participating in something that lives beyond ourselves. As my wise friend KLR puts it, we're a throw-away society. Why fix it when we can get brand new even cheaper? The result has left us unable to taste and appreciate the true riches of this world. We're too easily captured by the new and shiny to see that it's fools gold - we haven't dug deep enough to know the real thing. Our society operates using fools gold as a commodity, so we haven't experienced the full value of something precious.

Yet we wonder why we're always longing for something more.

I hope to become a person of something more. Depth. Value. Not just cheap entertainment (though, we all know I'm hilarious). I want to build into something which will last beyond myself. Not just my children, but rather relationships and communities that leave legacies. I don't want to coat myself in sugar to be initially accepted - I want to be a person that people might require a second or third bite to really experience the nuances of who I am. I want my friendships to compare to fine wines, gathering flavor and appreciation with age.

When people watch the movie of my life, I don't want them to tell of the stupid characters who found a tiger in the bathroom. I'd rather they become wrapped up in the tensions of living faithfully with God and people. I hope to win an Academy Award, not earn easy millions by telling the same story already told, but this time with bigger guns or faster cars.

Hitting the highlights

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Sun, 05 May 2013 23:35:00 +0000

Just a few notes from the day...

1. Conversation with H Boy while leaving church-

H: Mommy, can I sit by you at lunch.

Me: Yes, that's fine. Do you like to be close to mommy because you know the baby's coming soon?

H: No, I like to sit by you because I love you.

2. Slicing open 2 avocados which I bought a week ago to find perfect ripeness.

3. Thinking this might show up in next week's sermon:

Who doesn't love the Karate Kid? (However, I'm in for a cultural awakening when half the people at the gathering are too young to fully appreciate the nostalgia)

4. Another conversation with H -

Me: H, where's C's diaper?

H: Well, she wouldn't let me put it on her. She walked away.

*Note: due to the fact that this exact scene has been brought up in previous conversations with friends, I must note that we did not request this of H. We had simply told them to go up and get their jammies.

5. Waking at 7:30am to the sounds of the kids already downstairs, peacefully enjoying a banana snack, without our assistance. Just when we're on the cusp of self-sufficiency in the early mornings, we decide to bring on an infant. Genius.

6. Baked tacos. They were delicious. Especially with the guacamole made with aforementioned avocados. Our first taco meal where at least one of the kids ate them in taco-form (as opposed to meat and toppings in separate piles).

7. I read that Michael Pollan released a new book, Cooked. It's still too early for an ebook to be available through the library, but I'll continue to monitor that situation.

Second verse, same as the...

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Thu, 02 May 2013 01:01:00 +0000

Much of my parenting work would probably better be qualified as "herding." Meal times, bedtimes, bath times, even play times - it's a matter of getting the pack moving in the same and right direction. Once they learned the expectation and understand what I'm wanting, it generally works and makes my life efficient enough that I can leave the house on a regular basis.

So when parents ask "how I do it" I'm honest in my response: they lead one another, enjoy one another and learn from one another. It's a good system, but also the only system I know - I haven't a clue how to parent only one child or children with an age gap that would require separate toy bins or movie shelves.

But alas, the Terrible Threes are upon us. "People" (whoever they are... liars) call it the terrible twos, but apparently we've evolved to delay this period of parental hair pulling because JJ & I consistently stumble into it - a bit cocky at the ease of the 2s, mind you - unaware of what lies before us. The primary symptom in our house? Bedtime. Daily, I yearn for the clock to tick upward, while I also maintain a seed of dread for what could be ahead.

We finally grew out of this with H Boy a few months ago, to my sheer delight. After a rather rough evening (in a span of several months of rough evenings), he and I had a bit of a heart-to-heart one morning about my expectations of him as a "big boy" when it came to nightly routine. His shenanigans halted nearly immediately. The angels sang a hallelujah chorus.

Thus, 3 days later, Miss M picked up where H Boy left off. I could've cried. Ok. I have.

This week, likely due to the recent changes in bedroom situations, brought especially frustrating evening hours. And everything we've tried that had traditionally worked for H, even the "last straw" moves, met willful resistance with Miss M. Nothing worked.

While I realize in theory that "every kid is different" and I try to adjust to these inconsistencies - H eats his stir fry veggie by veggie, no rice, shrimp first; M likes veggies on rice, no shrimp, C pretty much will only eat the rice if possible - the practice of raising very different children is challenging. I can herd away with different personalities but rather than the strategies I'm seeking, what I need is to learn how to love differently for each child.

Tonight, because H Boy decided it was Napless Wednesday, he headed to bed first. Lady C followed. But Miss M joined her daddy for some outside work and a round of soccer. She came in beaming.

Though we still encountered a few blips (a needed water refill, some kicking of walls) it was overall subdued compared to previous evenings. Perhaps it was because I was hopeful and wanting things to be better. This could all be in the eyes of the beholder, and I'll be honest - my attitude about it has been quite negative. Very woe is me.

But in my heart of hearts, I know what she needs is some special "her" time with each of her parents. We expect so much of her - to keep with what H Boy is doing while watching out and helping Lady C. And so much of the recent change (ie, the room switch, not to mention an impending baby) isn't her fault. Yet we expect her to roll with the punches without argument. These things weren't her decision, yet she's living with the consequences - in her room, as it may be.

So yes, I need more patience and grace for her. But I believe I also simply need more - different - love for her. To show her she's as special as everyone else by engaging in things with her. Just her.

And again, it takes me to what God often feels in His dealings with us. He doesn't blanket us all with the same kind of love. Equal and abounding, yes. But he speaks to each of us a unique love language that our hearts want and need. Some "herding" may be required, yet His love is personal to each child. Not only do I feel overwhelmed by thinking how does He do that? but I also get lost in gratitude that He loves so much that He would pursue each of us in a deeply personal way. He doesn't just appreciate or acknowledge or navigate the differences between each of His children; He creates them specifically to be that way. Apparently, a bit of His glory dwells in each of us that wouldn't been experienced otherwise.

It's time to take that same understanding of my own children - which is one reason why JJ and I have loved the idea of big families in the first place. It's in the uniqueness, the differences, the elements you can't quite put a finger on but that bring a smile to your face, that a richer experience of the world exists.

So, here's to loving them, each and every. And yet another one. (Well, in another 6 weeks or so).

Mousse, gel and childrearing

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 19:11:00 +0000

I remember Mr. Tipton teaching in the 7th grade about the use of the barometer and how it indicates weather changes. But after I survived puberty, I found I had little need for one. I could simply look in the mirror instead.

As others born into my state can attest, naturally curly hair takes on multiple personalities, depending on humidity, weather and showering habits. While I've grown up receiving complements on my "beautiful hair" I'm tempted to reply with a statement of the unreliability factor that goes into such a look. I tend to change product with the leaves, depending on the tight hold of gel during the dry winter months while harnessing the natural power of spring & summer's humidity with a less weightier mousse. ("What about fall?" you ask. That's what I call ponytail season.)

Also, hormonal changes can be tacked onto the list as I "went straight" for 2 of my 4 pregnancies, only to see the rings return post-baby. It required a whole new skill set, dealing with less-than-scrunchy hair as these past several months saw me wielding a straightening iron. However, as I visited my stylist last time, she directed me to the life my curls were still living below the surface.

So now, with seasonal and hormonal changes upon me, I'm left to ponder pre-shower the strategy of the daily tress. I can go straight, pushing and prodding and sometimes damaging my hair into utter submission, but it looks nice and it's reliable. Or, I can open the gates, apply the mousse and see what happens. And the results will be an outpouring of the natural tendency.

Essentially, I tell my hair, I can make you do what I want you to do, or I can let you be beautiful.

Oh, how this challenges my sense of motherhood.

I want nothing more than to depend on the straightening iron of discipline. These years of early childhood seem to me the easiest to fall into the trap - we have an arsenal of tools. Guilt, shame, punishment... all at a fingertip's reach. People say "you can't make a kid do anything" but I disagree, at least in these younger years. However, as my split ends will testify, it results in damaged growth.

I wish for kids who listen well, behave like angels and put off an image that I "just stepped out of a salon". But the reality is: that's not where I live. And though they're not perfection, they're beautiful. That should be the goal.

Perhaps child rearing is like haircare product and each has a season. And every once in a while we can break out the straightening iron, not in a means to control, but rather for added diversity. But on the daily front, let the lighter touch of mousse and gel do the holding and shaping. Granted, you may not like the results every day, but there's something to be said for natural, honest beauty.

So, mamas (and papas)... let us each allow the curl to run free. Stop asking or threatening it to be something it's not, but rather embrace the fact that curls like that cannot be replicated so we must enjoy and appreciate them for what - and who - they are.

*Sidenote: forgive me of my hypocrisy. Because I sat down to write this, I no longer have the time to be patient with my "natural look." Friends who see me tonight, yes I'm going straight. This wind is fierce!!

**Strong influence for these thoughts given by the brilliant and beautiful Anna B. Guillozet. Last name spelled and pronounced differently every time I attempt it.

Unbreak my heart

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 22:57:00 +0000

I hold a master's degree in talking and thinking about God, but most often I feel completely inadequate when it comes to talking to my kids about God. So, of course, the significant conversations occur when I'm flying solo and cannot look at JJ and say, "so, daddy, what do you think?"

I'm not sure where it came from, but H Boy tossed into conversation at dinner that we "don't want to break God's heart." I think we read that in our storybook Bible and he clung to the phrase. With a deep breath, I asked - what does break God's heart? "Well," he responded, "when people are mean."

"I think you're right," I responded. Okay, I like the train of thought. "So, what else breaks God's heart?"

"When mommy cries all by herself."

For. The. Love.

It's hard to express the emotion that welled up, but it came out in the form of tears. Some of it was the humility that comes with your children seeing you at your weakest. Some of it stemmed from sadness that my littles have experienced their mommy crying because I know how powerless you feel in the midst of someone's hurt. In theory I understand that it's okay for kids to see that you're human and that it's normal to express emotion. In practice, it takes every ounce of humility I have (which, let's be honest - isn't much).

Often, in our teaching we become the student. In my attempt to teach my 4-year-old about God's love and compassion, he turned the tables to remind me that God's love and compassion extends to all of us. Which is probably an even bigger lesson for a little one to experience. I want each of the kids to grow up with an awareness of God's deep love for them at a personal level; however I don't want to forget that He feels the same about every person on this earth. It seems that H Boy is ahead of the game on that one.

The conversation eventually turned to what makes God happy, to which we decided on 2 things - when we give hugs and change a clock. I have no idea where the second one came from.

So, I suppose I can't read too much into my theological conversations with a 4-year-old.

But my heart is appreciative nonetheless.

When I grow up

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 18:05:00 +0000

I tend to live in patterns that make me challenging to categorize. They say that adolescence is this tumultuous time when you lack confidence and you're very aware of your social surroundings. But my teen years (and into my early 20s) saw me content in my own personhood, oblivious to the mean, catty girls who plotted my social destruction. My 30s, however, find me paralyzingly face-to-face with my lack of connection.

I tend to support ideals but shy away from putting them into effect in my own life. Like the fact that I support our 2nd amendment right to a gun, but don't want one. Or that while I hope my kids carry a Bible with them to school, I don't want the school to be the ones to teach it to them. I'm Katy Perry's hot and then cold, yes and then no.

So it should come to no surprise to me that I left university with some of my most conservative leanings in regards to faith, scripture, family life and how the world worked. Usually the know-it-alls with a diploma tend to live voraciously and then slow down later once the "real world" hits. But not I. All of a sudden, I'm rethinking everything.

Most prominently, I've adopted more significant "feminist" perspectives which previously scared me. That word scared me. In honesty, I believed if you were one of those, then how did call yourself Christian? The two ideals simply seemed to conflict.

Until I married. Until I had children. And most remarkably, once I gave up a paying job for staying home every day. The last change probably gave me the most freedom to take on the title.

So, yes. I'm now a stay-at-home mother of (almost) 4 children, spaced in a way that one would inaccurately assume that my religious fanaticism opposed any means of pregnancy prevention. I look like a daycare provider when I leave the house. I cook nearly every meal from scratch, grow a garden and try to preserve the bounty. I bought a sewing machine to create crafts or even clothes. I make my own laundry detergent.

And I feel the most liberated I've ever felt in my 32 years of existence.

Last night, (ironically, as I was folding a pile of laundry) I reflected on my progression toward more egalitarian thought and began to feel a sense of peace with my decisions in life. Perhaps it's because I feel like my daily work, though challenging and in many eyes, somewhat menial, makes a difference. Or perhaps my experiences as a mom of 3 unique children created an awareness that each and every person born to this earth is created equal and beautiful and that no system should purposefully limit what life would hold for them, be it in his role or her contribution.

But most likely, I believe it's my freedom to choose my role - in this season, staying at home with my kids each day - that has empowered me most. I could leave each morning for a job in the corporate world. I could spend my days leading a team in some sort of non-profit or ministry initiative. But I've been granted the permission to choose to do what I love. What helps me define "success", what gets me out of bed each morning, what drives me continue to grow and learn and do - is my own.

Generations of women lived being told they needed to stay home and raise kids as their contribution to society. I believe a generation of women followed who were told they needed to get a college degree and find a good job in order to fully thrive. And now I live among a generation of women who are sorting out "mommy wars" discussions to find that we finally get to choose to do what fits each of us best.

Sure, we have a ways to go. Other factors, like class & social status (probably influenced by things like race and education) play a strong role in how "free" we are to choose. It's easier for some of us to make considerations than others. But the fact remains: less and less are we as women being told where our worth comes from. And for that, I'm grateful.

So as I've struggled to integrate this appreciation into my worldview of faith, I'm eternally grateful for souls blazing ahead and leaving me something to read in their wake. People like Sarah Bessey (I'm chomping at the bit to read her upcoming book Jesus Feminist) and Rachel Held Evans. And writers like Ed Cyzewski and Preston Yancy. I'm watching and hearing faithful people talk about Jesus and the Kingdom of God and how there's room for everybody. In fact, Jesus led the way.

I feel incredibly blessed. Incredibly loved. Incredibly grateful. Incredibly empowered.

I'm sorry for what's about to happen...

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 14:39:00 +0000

Dearest Children,

Let me just apologize up front. You got shafted in the Crafty Mom department.

You see, I'm a rock star at making sure you get healthy food at each meal. And sleeping? Boo-yah. I'm all over that. You're growing up the best-rested kids on the block. I also worked hard at allowing some "creative freedom" and messes are excused in the basement in exchange for a bit of imaginative play. We have a never-ending supply of crayons, papers, even glitter (gasp!) glue.

But your birthday parties are gonna suck.

First, I cannot decorate a cake. I can bake one. I won't burn it and I can even get something that is both gluten and dairy free to taste delicious. I once even made a pineapple upside down cake completely from scratch, without a box, and "poached" the pineapple. It was fantastic. I can also make sure that a substance filled with sugar, resembling frosting, will accompany said cake. You will declare it yummy. But the buck stops with flavor.

It'll look like a train wreck. With Christmas sprinkles, because that's what I had in the cupboard.

I once used a heart-shaped pan. The cake successfully appeared as if it were a heart. Total victory in my book.

So, once we bring out the round cake with frosting dumped on, and you open your presents that everyone else brought (because gift-giving isn't high on the list of skills for your father OR me), the excitement pretty much wanes. The decorations will be lacking - as in, absent - save the balloon wreath I made for H Boy on his 3rd birthday and have since recycled for every subsequent celebration. That balloon wreath might have been a birthday party crowning moment.

And games, favors, and special treats for the party? Well, thankfully your Aunt Gigi is good at putting together a little bag of something something, or I'd never know what to offer. We might get one of those for the parties we share with your cousins, but the ones we fly solo... well, I'll try to put it on the list. But I probably won't remember (or want to purchase) those little bags to stuff it in because they're too pricey just to have something to throw away later.

I promise to do all that I can so that you grow to be happy, healthy, well-adjusted contributors of society. I even promise to remember your birthdays and mark them special and allow you to choose the menu for dinner (or the restaurant, if that is the case). But please, when you set the bar of expectations for your next celebration, remember who your mother really is. You will not be disappointed if you set your sights a notch or two lower than all your friends.

Much love and Happy Birthday,

Mom

For the Fourth and Final

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 18:44:00 +0000

One of the most common questions posed to me over the past 8 months has been "So, are you done after this one?" To which I answer an emphatic "Yes." Our plan has always been for 4 kids and I don't anticipate it changing. I'm only getting older, but beyond that, I've been pregnant the majority of the past 5 years. It becomes less "special" when you do it more often than you don't.

Many women relish their pregnancies. They "just love it!" Not so much me. I don't hate pregnancy; I'm overall a very good pregnant woman in that I'm not a puker and haven't had to manage other issues like gestational diabetes, blood pressure or anything health-related. I don't hate needles and don't balk at that orange drink they make you consume to test for sugar.

However, even though it's not been difficult, it's still pregnancy. We've had a constant flow of pregnancy-induced sleeplessness followed by newborn neediness for several years now. After the weening of this one, I believe I'll fall asleep and not wake up for a week.

So, (while I retain the right to change my mind) in believing this is my final go, I simply must chronicle some of the things I've learned and experienced through my constant state of pregnancy. Someday this season of my life will seem like just a brief moment. The days are long but the years are short, right?

I hope to remember what it feels like to have a tiny person move around inside. Jumping on bladders aside, it's quite fascinating to watch elbows and feet protrude from my midsection. Sometimes I like to push back and see if we can't get a little game of tag going. I wonder if the placenta doubles as a treadmill. I will confirm that there comes a point in time when the movement goes from sweet and miraculous to something more akin to a bad roommate situation. When it's time for someone to move out, everybody is happier.

The kids enjoy the belly as well, offering nighttime hugs and kisses and wanting to feel the kicks. I'm sure it's hard for them to fathom that it's an actual baby, a sibling, in there. We haven't yet discussed the process of the baby coming out of mommy's belly, but I do understand why someone came up with the Stork as an option. (A friend recommended a vague description of mommy "pushing it out" without details. I wouldn't be lying but no anatomical definitions need to be given).

I'll be glad to part with all the maternity clothes. On average I require no less than 3 shirts to cover all necessary parts and pieces.

Overall, it's hard to imagine not doing this again. When I have a bad day or require a bit more rest, my husband encourages me that we're on the home stretch. But this reminder is bittersweet - the closing of a door to another significant period in my life. Of course, my identity lies not in the production of my womb, but it's served me well in creating such beautiful little balls of joy. One simply cannot participate in such miraculous work and quit it like a bad summer job. It's a role that stays with you forever, even as the task of mothering takes new shape.

Just when you think you know it all

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 11:00:00 +0000

A comment caught my eye and at 2 am it wouldn't let me go. "I'd rather offend you than God". Perhaps that's the root of my distaste for the conversation.

We forget that God is likely offended that 70% of our prison population comes from the foster system, a social cause for concern (thanks, Angela, for that stat - it kept me up from 1-2am). I'm prone to believe that God takes offense at the fact that our society, our country, spends more money on purchasing trash bags, a means to throw away our excess, than it would take to rectify the clean water shortage for most of the world. I think that's a bit offensive to the Father of those thirsty people. And honestly, long blog posts about "what offends God" probably ranks high on the list of offenses.

Somehow, we religious Christian people have made ourselves God's defenders. We carry His sword and shield into battle, protecting him from the evils of the world, whatever we deem and interpret them to be. That is, until we reacquaint ourselves with the passages of Scripture to remind us of how the relationship really works. God tells us numerous times that He will "go before" us and clear the way. He is the protector, the provider. He marches us into battle. He is our shield and sword.

Perhaps we need to revisit our role in the relationship. Perhaps we need to be reminded of our inability to understand God and recognize God and know God - and Maundy Thursday serves the perfect time for such reflection.

We only need to look at the life of Jesus to know what God finds offensive. It wasn't the riff-raff of society. Jesus ate with slimeballs and women of "poor moral character." And by "ate with" I mean associated with in the way of friendship. With such an audience, you can't tell me there wasn't at least a few dirty jokes cracked or that the conversation remained G-rated as someone poured the third bottle of wine. I'm not sure he took offense.

Jesus hugged the riffraff of society. He doted on women and children - those commonly deemed as property. He touched the sick, he looked into the eyes of the disturbed. When those at the end of their ropes grabbed on to his clothes and wouldn't let go, we don't hear cries of offense. We see love and compassion.

And then the religious folk show up. I'm not sure there's a better way to foreshadow a sermon or a teaching by Jesus than to have a Pharisee arrive. Jesus gets ticked off more often by those who study the scrolls and those who spent day-in and day-out with him, than by any character of poor moral development.

It wasn't the "immoral" or the folks on the outside of faith who need to take responsibility for the events of the Cross. It's the religious. The sin of immorality didn't send God to the grave - the sin of pride and idolatry did. Jesus was marched away by Roman soldiers because when God showed up on earth, we were too busy comparing notes on Leviticus to understand Who stood right in front of us.

The religious had no idea who they were talking to. And because God Himself didn't line up with what they believed about God, we had to shut him down*.

The fact remains: the more scripture you can recite, the more likely you would be found in Pilate's yard, shouting "crucify him!"

We traded a known murderer for the life of God Himself because He didn't match up with the picture we had drawn. And we took offense.

It's a dark day for us religious folk. It's a time we must deal with the consequence of trying to know God outside of what God has made known. It's a day we deal with our pride, our arrogance, our faith in our own self-sufficiency over faith in the character of God, known through the action of God.

Today is not a day to defend God's law or image. It's a day to remember that He took the place of defending ours. Even when we were wrong. Even when we screwed it all up. Even when we were so arrogent to think that we knew the answers. Even when we were too busy defending "God's honor" to sit and talk with God Himself. Even when we asked for execution orders and watched Him suffer.

And yet, God still forgave our offenses.

Not [just] theirs. Ours.

Mine.

*And we have a long, dirty history of knowing how to use politics to do so.

Defining marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 23:00:00 +0000

I. Can't. Help. It.

I've seen one FB sticker too many.

First - I fully support the right of individuals to have an opinion on both sides of the marriage equality debate. Many of my friends support a change in legislation to allow all people, regardless of sexual orientation, the legal right to marry. I fully support their right to express their beliefs.

I have a handful of friends who support the definition of marriage as one man and one woman. Again, I respect their right to such an opinion.

Push me the wrong way and I can argue either side equally passionately. Not because I believe both sides with equal passion, but because I'm smart and flighty like that and should have went to law school. But I digress.

What I cannot support: tossing around the word "Biblical" as a means to defend either* side.

If we want to use "Biblical" as the marriage standard, then lets go back to a few instances in Genesis. Like Jacob. Oh, Jacob. He bought his wife - exchanged 7 years of manual labor - and when the new Father-in-Law pulled a switcheroo, he slept with the wrong sister. Well, the rule of the day was: you shake her, you take her. So though the deal was for Rachel, Jacob got Leah as wife #1 and had to work another 7 years for Rachel.

A few things to point out from this little example about the "biblical" definition of marriage:

Though it was a social custom, it held many economic components in order to be legit. Lots of gifts and payments to make it all happen. Love played a role - "Jacob served seven years for Rachel and they seemed to him but a few days because of his love for her" (Gen 29:20). But he wouldn't get the girl with a simple handshake for Laban.
The passage that discusses the wedding? Then Jacob said to Laban, "Give me my wife, for my time is completed, that I may go in to her." Laban gathered all the men of the place and made a feast. Now in the evening he took his daughter Leah and brought her to him; and Jacob went in to her. (Gen 20:21-23). *Sorry, I should've given this post a PG13 rating at the beginning.
Marriage and sex went hand-in-hand. Thanks to a recent round of research on Persian bridal economics, I've learned that most sexual encounters resulted in either marriage or a concubine arrangement (step above slave, step below marriage). (Or prostitution, which seems like choosing a payment plan that's simply more pay-as-you-go rather than buying cash, as Dave Ramsey would advocate).

Hardly the engagement process or bridal experience of nowadays, eh? The Bible is full of info on marriage customs, but we don't seem to adhere to all of them. For instance, Part of Mosaic law includes a clause that mandates a man who rapes a woman to marry her - not as punishment for the woman, but for her care and protection. She would be deemed unmarryable by the society and possibly left destitute. Praise be to Jesus that we don't enforce this in our society - and that the status and role of women has been elevated to the extent that she's not deemed tarnished goods after falling victim to a heinous crime (and subsequently forced to live with the offender).

Does such "Biblical" evidence prove marriage is only between man and woman? Does it allow for same-sex marriage? Are there verses everywhere that can be used to "prove" the argument for either side?

Absolutely.

But what we don't get is a picture of my wedding day that replicates the experience of marriage in the Bible. (Which is too bad. I had a beautiful wedding day!).

We simply must acknowledge that we've imported a few of our experiences into the texts. Not facetiously mind you. It's simply what we know. It's what we've experienced, so when we read that "Jacob loved Rachel" we automatically assume she was wearing Maggie Sottero and served a vanilla cake with raspberry creme filling.

The writer of the book of Hebrews reminds us that the "Word of God is sharper than a double-edged sword." But it's one that's often used offensively as much as defensively. One that hurts people, cuts to the deep.

Friends, people shouldn't leave our presence maimed by the Scriptures. We have no authority to slice and dice. Convicting and convincing is more the work of the Holy Spirit than Holy Helpers. Instead we have a responsibility to love others. All of them. The ones we agree with, the ones we don't.

So please, continue worthwhile and thoughtful discussion. Ask questions that matter, not ones that prove your point. Show some humility and let others see that you don't know all the answers. But please, leave the "Biblical definitions" out of it.

We don't get many definitions in the Bible. Those came more with the age of reason, eons after such a beautiful and helpful and true Book was composed. But what we do get are pages and pages of examples, stories of truth involving faithful people trying - succeeding and failing - to walk with God. Much like many of us are attempting today.

*Admittedly, most offenders if the "biblical defense" attempts fall on one side more often than the other. Again this post isn't for or against either side, but rather the poor use of evidence to defend a position.

When I'm not the perfect Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 00:06:00 +0000

I can't - or won't - begin to count my #momfail indiscretions today. This week. I feel like our household has been on a constant cycle of my frustrations, followed by the kids not listening, followed by my short patience, followed by their insistence on pushing the buttons to see what, exactly, could make me snap. Then as I offer what pithy apology I can muster for being frustrated or not using my words or whatever the infraction, we begin the process again. Sprinkle in a sick kid and a dash of medical profession frustrations while you're at it. Just for giggles.

Sometimes, I just want to stop. Beyond that, sometimes I want my kids to know my limit. Here is where I stop. Here is where I fall to pieces. Here is where I feel I can give no more. But in my heart of hearts, I know that knowledge doesn't serve the kids best. It only adds a notch of self-righteousness to my belt of savior complex.

But can I tell you what such days does for me? It gives me an ounce of grace for God, especially on weeks like this - Holy Week.

I know, I know - theologically-speaking, God doesn't "need" grace. He's the giver, the creator of grace, not the recipient. But in his gift of parenthood, he allows our eyes to be opened to this beautiful parent-child relationship of which I shadow with my littles, and though it's imperfect, I still gain perspective. Sometimes I wonder if I get a taste of what God feels.

So maybe, on the week we remember God giving over his only son, experiencing the grief and anguish any parent would sell their soul to avoid, I can find a place to give God a break. To stop asking "why?" and simply appreciate that He would go to such lengths to redeem a world and a person He loves. Maybe I can give up being frustrated with the many ways in which we don't experience the fullness of the resurrection right now and realize that perhaps if I can just be patient God will, indeed, show us his finished work - in myself and in the world.

Or maybe it's an opportunity to see that God has done everything necessary to make the Kingdom possible. Dinner is served, I just can't seem to to stop picking around the mushrooms and complaining that "it's too hot, please blow on it."

At the end of the day, frustration and tears included, I still love my kids. We sometimes end the day celebrating the mercy of bedtimes and start the next day with a new dose of patience. But in realizing how much it takes to continually offer that grace to my kids, I've come to a new appreciation of God's willingness to start afresh with me.

God may have an edge with his nature of perfection and all. He probably doesn't end up in tears on the living room floor after we - again - don't pick up the toys as requested. I doubt he kicks doors or slams computers shut or tosses around hurtful words carelessly. And the fact he hasn't had it up to here shows me the depths of his patience, the distance of his grace, the hugeness of his love for me. When I reach my limits, it's hard for me to fathom his limitlessness, but my appreciation for it grows nonetheless.

Saved by the [dinner] bell

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 22:35:00 +0000

For all intents and purposes, today was a fail. Clarification: #momfail. The kids acted (mostly) just fine, but I lost my ability to remain calm and patient. I yelled. I got frustrated. I wagged my finger. I was late picking them up from a friend who kept them all morning (I know - all that failure stuff just in the time to get out the door. Super, eh?).

Then, there was dinner. And I was dreading it.

We had a good chunk of leftover beef brisket from the weekend that had been slow cookered with a sauce (store bought), of which no one raved. Then we had a flank steak from Pinterest that again drew few comments. So here I am with a bag of meat (*wince face, looking sideways*) that simply must be eaten or I'll have an economic heart attack. I also had 2 heads of broccoli that my meal plan rearrangement left orphaned. So, Mongolian Beef & Broccoli it was.

Backstory: my husband looooooves "Chinese" food. (I use the quotes because I've yet to visit China but I have a sneaking suspicion that the food I would eat would not taste like our take out). And every attempt I've ever made, short of the MSG-laden envelopes, failed miserably. Even something as simple as fried rice (and yes, I cooked it the day before and then fried). So my enthusiasm for tonight dinner lagged just a tad.

Alas, the hour of whining was upon me, so I began the preparations. And I must say, the results - based on a poll of child eaters and myself, as JJ comes home late tonight - were astounding. "It's delicious!" came out more than once per child. Baby C inhaled the broccoli. H Boy raved about the meat and ate 2 bowls of everything Miss M even finished her bowl. Top that off with the fact I didn't obliterate the rice for once and you've got one happy mama.

So, here's the recipe. I solemnly vow never to use up leftover roast or tough beef in any other way again. I'm also detailing exactly what I did because I was using leftovers. We'll pretend it's because I want you to have the same glorious experience. Really, I just need to log this down exactly what order I did everything because to say I "strayed" from my guiding recipe is an understatement.

Mongolian Beef & Broccoli :: Leftover Resuscitator

Mix together in a glass measuring cup:

1/2 cup soy sauce (I only buy the gluten free now, not just because of the gluten thing but because the taste is far superior. Totally worth the extra $0.40 for a purchase you make every 3 months at most)

1/2 cup water

1/4ish tsp red pepper flakes (definitely more if you like heat - this recipe is a zero on that scale, fine by me)

Several good shakes of ground ginger (I have no idea the fresh-to-dried ratios to follow, but JJ believes ginger to be the miracle seasoning, so I wasn't shy. I'd guess 1/4-1/2 tsp)

1/4 cup brown sugar

In your biggest frying pan over low heat:

Chop 1 carrot small and saute in a few tablespoons of sesame seed oil until mostly soft

Add 3 cloves garlic and cook 1-2 minutes (if you're using fresh ginger, add it now. How much fresh ginger? You'd have to ask a fresh ginger user. Not me.)

Add sauce and bring to a simmer, cook 3-4 minutes. It doesn't really get much thicker.

Toss in:

2 heads broccoli, chopped (no stems for us)

1 onion, in long thin pieces (julienne? I'm so not a food blogger)

1 can water chestnuts

1 huge back of leftover meat, sliced. I swear there was at least a pound, probably a pound and a half.

Cover and let simmer on medium low heat for a little while, stirring somewhat often as it's a very full pan and you want the sauce to cover well.

Serve over rice, if you can cook it. There's a 40% chance in this house, but tonight it was a win.

Not a "great" day - just a normal one

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 22:23:00 +0000

It wasn't one of those days where I savor every moment in glee. It was just a day. A very normal day where I semi-yelled my way into convincing a few toddlers to nap. I made a lackluster lunch. I didn't even shower and my house isn't any cleaner than when it started. But so many moments from the day need to be remembered so that when I look back at my days and years with these tinies, I get the full picture.

1. Conversation in the van -

H: Daddy has lots of computers in his class.

Me: Yes, he does.

H: He can count them.

Me: Yes, he can. Can you?

H: No, I don't have enough fingers.

2. Miss M giving H her cookie at dinner.

3. H putting on Baby C's boots for her. "Can I help you?" he says. Oh yes, he does.

4. Both girls learning to sleep together and the giggles that happen in those first few moments.

5. JJ reading the "Hip Hop Dog". (Seriously, who writes this stuff?)

6. H Boy discovering his first bean bag chair, asking to sit in it, and thoroughly enjoying the experience (at the library).

7. When any of the 3 of them exclaim "this is delicious!" to something I've made.

8. After enjoying an early morning banana (or apple), I hear them charge down to the basement without prompting, only to be beckoned for breakast.

9. H Boy beckoning the girls at lunch, "Girls! Lunch is ready!"

10. The look of excitement as Baby C opens her mouth as wide as she can in a grin. On multiple occasions.

Shake it if you got it

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 17:42:00 +0000

When I first read through my news feed, I honestly said to myself, "this is probably something I'm not going to have an opinion on." HA. All it took was a quick observation in my status and suddenly everyone's comments had me thinking. Add in the mundane tasks of boxing 3T winter clothes and sorting socks and suddenly this girl wants to share her thoughts.

I know, you're shocked.

For those of you out of the Ridgemont loop, or the 10TV viewing area, several of Ridgemont's basketball players were suspended (in-school) for recording a version of the Harlem Shake in the locker room. I watched their video and other than some tasteless gyrating, it was harmless. Based on the interview, I'd judge the boys to be trying an honest effort at fun.

One of the most interesting comments came from my friend AB, who told us the roots of the dance, which are quite appalling. JJ had to explain to me the entire craze and I still don't find any of the videos all that funny, so armed with such information I can firmly say I will never participate in such an endeavor. I'll play my lack of participation of social trends on my high moral standards (as opposed the original reason, which is that I live in a cave made of toddlers).

So, if the principal had punished the team based on these ideals, I'd probably buy him lunch because I love to fly a good flag around for knowing the whole story and being sensitive to how our media treats people not like the mainstream ideal (white/male/adult/typically developing). Goooooo inclusion! (See? That was a cheer. Maybe I'll get out my old Gopher skirt for it).

However, that's not the reason the punishment came down. According to the news clip, it was for profanity, distribution of unauthorized materials and unauthorized use of the locker room. Ultimately, the principal said he thought the video made the school look bad.

Which is what I found fascinating. Here in Troy, the principal initiated a school-wide Shakedown (my term, not his) where each 1st period class came up with a video for a contest. Roots of the video aside, I applaud THS for its attempt to mix up the monotony of the doldrums of winter. At its intent, and behind each of the videos created, it was simply a chance to do something out of the norm and have a little fun.

So, what's the difference between the videos at Troy and Ridgemont? Probably not the gyrating. Or even the shirtlessness (JJ's video featured a bare-chested figure with a helmet, of which he had to clarify was not himself). No, if you ask me - which, you did, if you're still reading - I think the main difference was that the Troy principal led the idea while the Ridgemont principal was surprised by it.

My understanding* is that the Ridgemont boys gained permission from their coach, so the "unauthorized" piece seems unfair. And in the coach's defense, I would've made a similar decision - it seems like a harmless activity. The boys could want to go steal road signs with their jersey numbers, to which I would advise, is not a great idea. But no, they wanted to dance.

Perhaps the coach should have mentioned it to the principal in passing. The pastor at the church where I served once asked me politely to please never let me be surprised. He stood supportive of most any of my hairbrained ideas, so long as he wasn't put in the position of being caught off guard. It was probably a wise philosophy. But then again, if I were the coach, I probably wouldn't have thought a dance video was worth mentioning.

I think the administration puts a lot of faith into their staff and this is an area where I think they could trust his judgement. Perhaps this is my tipping point into a bit of disdain for the school's decision - that it seems to be a power ploy, an attempt to make a statement that you may not do something without permission. I don't think the school lost face via the video, but perhaps the principal felt like he did, as if it gave a perception that he wasn't commander-in-chief and therefore such action needed stopped.

Which is a horrible reason to punish people. Especially kids. ("You inadvertently made me look bad and now you'll pay" is not a life lesson to be pushed).

I'm all for "the rules apply to everybody" and it drives me crazy when people feel the exception. But I don't think a dance video insinuates an attempt to circumvent authority. I think it was only perceived by the authority it inadvertently circumvented. People in positions of power and management tend to see it where the rest of the world do not. (I say this with the authority of a person who has felt this way before.)

Instead of responding with iron fists, perhaps the principal could laugh - or even dance - it off. Because seriously, it's silly. All those videos are silly. (Except the original one, which is just wrong.) Maybe the guy could applaud efforts at creativity and acknowledge that kids need an outlet to express their inclination to join in the fun that the rest of the world seems to be having. He could even mention to the kids that, in the future, it would be wise to run these things past management (a lesson any worker will tell you is worthwhile).

What we have now is a fantastic opportunity for leadership to set an example of humility and say that perhaps we over-reacted. It happens. Everyone does it. And the community has the grand chance to extend a gracious hand of forgiveness, as opposed to vengeful fingerpointing with I-told-you-so's (which is why we get so few examples of humility nowadays). We can learn the hard lesson of making wrongs right by all parties involved.

*admittedly, via FB chatter, so apologies to Nick for any inaccuracies. Feel free to correct me.

Pinteresting thoughts (another numbered post)

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 19:05:00 +0000

1. Yes, I have favorite pinners. We need to find ways to decrease stress and increase time in their lives so that they can resume their great contributions to the Society.

2. The pins are better at night. Apparently, people with jobs have better taste.

3. I appreciate the wealth of boards dedicated just to FRIENDS scenes (though I don't have one myself, I still love it in the feed).

4. I may or may not judge you on the contents of any recipe if added to a board that includes "healthy" in the title.

5. I secretly give bonus points to pinners who creatively name their boards. "My style" does not get points. Song lyrics always win.

6. I considered creating a board for hairstyles called "and I do great hair" but only 3 people would find it hilarious and I've only pinned about 2.5 pictures for personal use (2 of them while at the salon before a wedding, as mandated by the bride).

7. Friends, we have enough pins out there of the Naked palette. No matter how many times we rave, it's not going to get any cheaper and magically appear in our drawer. Join me in mourning.

8. Nothing I have tried from Pinterest can be deemed "the best ever." I stopped believing those captions.

9. I rarely re-caption. Just FYI, so my friends don't get confused again and think I'm considering law school.

Theology with toddlers

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 23:57:00 +0000

Tonight was my first experience telling the kids more about Jesus beyond how he loves them and cares for them and thanking Jesus for the many things each day.

After reading the story of the Tower of Babel:

H Boy: Why did they all leave the tower?

Mom: Because they found out it couldn't get them all the way to heaven.

H: Why won't it get them to heaven?

Mom: Because nothing we can do or build or say can get us all the way to heaven.

H: So how do you get to heaven?

Mom: Well, someone has to take us there.

H: When I get big, then I can go there myself.

Mom: Actually, nope... even all the big people have to have someone take us there. Mommy and daddy and papa and grandma - we all have to have someone take us to heaven.

H: Why can't you go there by yourself?

Mom: We can't get there by ourselves. We need someone to take us. Do you know who takes us to heaven?

Miss M: Jack and Raya!

Mom: No....

H Boy: Who?

Mom: Well, Jesus takes us there. He's the only person who can take us to heaven.

(The conversation continued for a little while longer, but these are the parts I best remember, even though it was just 5 minutes ago.)

Parenting: I really have no idea what I'm doing

noreply@blogger.com (Michele) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 19:35:00 +0000

I've recently been struck by how quickly H Boy has been growing into such a big kid; I'm so adapted to living in Toddler World (and continue to do so with the girls) that sometimes I feel bad that I'm not giving enough space for the kid to grow into his Big Boy Pants. I'm often taken aback by his abilities when suddenly expresses a deeper level of thought or displays a new skill.

Lately I've been accumulating parenting questions like crazy as we enter this new stage of kid development. While I believe our guiding philosophies stand strong, my old strategies fall short. Not only do they not bring about the action I'm hoping, but they're stifling the poor kid. So here I sit, curious about what in the world we do as we bring up this ~~young boy~~ little man.

1. When do naps cease? I'm a huge believer in the afternoon siesta, no matter the age, so rest time will always exist in our home. However, there comes a time when fighting him to actually go to sleep seems like overkill. However, I look out into the world of exhausted children in our culture, so I don't want to rush him. He and I discussed the other day the reason that Mommy and Daddy say "no" sometimes - that when we're little, we don't always know what is right and good, so we have to tell him. But as he grows and and can distinguish Right and Good for himself, we won't have to do the telling of no or yes. I'm not convinced he always knows the right and good state of rest for his body.

2. Managing strong will and opinion. H Boy seems to be a bit of a, ahem, Minehart, in his ability to want to stick with his pre-conceived ideas of what is supposed to happen. Perhaps this is true of most children, but when his heart is set, we struggle to lead him in other directions. Sometimes, I realize, it's not worth the battle and he can simply follow through on the plan. But at other moments, I find value in him understanding authority and realizing that what he wants isn't what he will necessarily get - I'm also not a fan of creating a tiny little lawyer, letting the person with the best argument win. So when it's late and he wants another story before bed, how do we calmly explain that sleep is more important, allowing him to express his frustration and disappointment, while still holding our line that it's simply time for bed?

3. Help[fulness] and responsibility. My kids learn at a young age that Mommy can't do it all; there's simply too many kids around here. They're pretty self-sufficient in the most practical of ways, but there are times - namely centered around the least-fun tasks - that the want me to "help." Like when they take alllllll of the blocks out in the basement and need help putting them back. I can understand wishing that someone would help lend a hand. However, I also don't think I made the mess so that I need to necessarily clean it up when they're of able body & mind. So where do I find balance between putting on a helpful character - willing to pitch in without my own benefit to show them what helpfulness and a servant's heart looks like - and allowing the lesson of "cleaning up our own messes", both physical and existential, to begin to grow?

These are just this week's concerns. I'm also floored that next year we'll be doing preschool every day - every day! - and my days of having the kid at home with endless freedom to go on day adventures (even if only to Meijer) will end. While I lament my years of "baby prison", locked down during naptime, I see on the other side a growing need to trim down my wonderlust tendencies. Going to school every day, beginning to have work assigned to complete at home, activities that will require a bit more foresight and follow through on my own part.

My life changed dramatically the day H Boy arrived into it, but that was no shock. What continues to surprise me is the many ways our lives are shaped and changed and altered by these little people year after year. One phase of Not Knowing What We're Doing begins to fade and we're met with a new one.

I feel like parenting should be more like school, that when you arrive at the junior or senior year, you've got the system figured out. But what I've experienced, and what I hear from other parents who are years and grades ahead of us, is that we never do. We return to kindergarten (or worse - 7th grade) about every 3 years. With each kid.

So here we are. Figuring out this next little step for the first of our little ones. Perhaps we can hope that it's like line dancing at 4-H camp. Though it will be different dance each time, we can work on our grapevines and shakes and high/low kicks so that it becomes a matter of sequencing our arsenal of moves and we'll look like uncoordinated bafoons a little less each time.

(Though, honestly, it would be a lot easier if parenting was like square dancing and we just have to listen carefully to what instructions Russ calls out before you Bumpsy Daisy).