Evidence

My eight month old is not a great sleeper.

On a good night, he wakes up once or twice.  Those nights aren't so bad because he can be a little charming in the middle of the night.  When he realizes that we are there to help him, his smile radiates through the dark. "I missed you, Mama and Daddy!"  he seems to say.

On a not-so-good-night, that sweet baby greeting loses its appeal around wake ups three and four.  And by wake ups five and six, there is nothing charming and dear about him.  Or me.  I am generally just angry.

Every parent knows that tired angry is not good.  Exhausted angry is worse.  It's actually a little scary.

Fortunately, my husband and I have developed an unspoken language that enables us to deal with our irrational, sleep-deprived emotions.  We each have a distinct "rescue-me-from-this-baby" grunt.  When we hear it, it is a non-negotiable call to action.

95% of the time, this system works out well for us.  Unfortunately, last night was one of those nights where we both hit the grunting stage at the same time.  At around 5:30 am, I flipped on the lights and took my infant downstairs to the play zone to preserve his well-being.  As he happily gnawed on a wooden giraffe, I popped open a Vanilla Coke Zero and jumped up and down in the kitchen until I was awake enough to function. 

How, I wondered, was I going to survive this day?  This month?  This year? 

If this sounds dramatic to you, I urge you to take the midnight to 5 a.m. shift at my house for a few nights. 

A couple of groggy hours later, the kids and I were on the way to daycare and work.  I was still on a woe-as-me thought trajectory when we turned off of the main street onto a little cut-through road.

There, in front of us, was a rainbow.  We paused at a railroad crossing, and my two-year-old and I both admired it.  "Whoa!" he exclaimed over and over again.  "A rainbow!"

Chill bumps rose up on my arm as I thought about the meaning of a rainbow: about its message of hope and mercy; about its representation of love; about its visible reminder that God is with us even during the storms.

Some days I can acquire perspective if I am intentional about it, but this was not one of those days.  I believe God heard my grunting and understood what I needed.

Proof.

Thank you, Father, for evidence that you love me and meet me in my trials - both big and small.

  

Sweet sleeping Connor.

Answered Prayer

About a year ago, I was walking my dog and pondering my plight as a non-property owning parent.  It had been a long Saturday, one in which my suddenly speedy one year old ran circles around and around and around the stairs.  We lived in a small rented condo with no yard, and my soon to be second born pressed too heavy on my bladder to make a park outing feasible for any length of time.

As my one year old giggled and galloped around the living room, I had cruelly condemned myself for failing to adequately provide for him.  My husband and I had given ourselves until the third trimester of my second pregnancy to find a suitable home for our little boys, and it was becoming clear that we were not going to meet our goal.  The condo was going to remain home sweet home.

My child, exhausted from his afternoon, was sleeping soundly when I ventured out for a walk.  As my dog and I meandered down the hill, I began to pray --- unsure why this God who professed to love me and my family would lead us into this situation with no back yard.  It wasn't a very good prayer because I interrupted it every few minutes to (1) rehash the life decisions that necessitated the condo; and (2) beat myself up for my lack of gratitude.

Suffocating from these toxic thoughts, I looked up at the night sky.  It was a beautiful, clear night --- one of those where every star in the heavens seemed to be visible.  I admired the starscape:  its vastness, its splendor, its timelessness.  In the stillness, I heard my soul breathe: 

Who owns the stars? 

And who owns the heavens?

Through these umprompted questions, it was suddenly evident how temporary my concept of property was.  Was the earth really mine to own anyway?  My life was so small . . . long after I was gone, whose property would my homestead be?

In that quiet moment, I realized that God was answering the prayer of my heart as opposed to the petitions of my lips.  Although I prayed for a home that I owned with a big backyard and lots of friendly neighbors, what my heart uttered was a plea for edification as a mother.  Please God, I subconsciously murmured, help me give my boys what they need. 

And in his perfect way, he did just that by reminding me of the insignificance of this thing I believed my children required.  My job as a mother, he seemed to say, was to cultivate in my children values of eternal worth. This home ownership hangup was a distractor.

Trust in me, I could hear him whisper to me, around me, over me.

It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the message I needed.  Thanks and glory to a God who ministers to my thirsty soul.

Twinkle, Twinkle

On the night before Halloween, my family headed to a fall festival downtown.  As we strolled down the sidewalk, we spotted the first Christmas lights of the season twinkling in front of a neighborhood business. 

I rolled my eyes, dismayed that consumer madness was inching into October.

My two year old hasn't had a chance to become similarly jaded.  He smiled, pointed at the lights and innocently asked, "Is it Christmas in there, Mommy?"

His simple question went straight to my heart.

In recent years, I have begun to dislike the holidays.  My job is busy; my life is busy; my capacity for extra to-do items is low.  The lights, the decor, the presents:  all of these things seem to be more about keeping up with my Facebook friends than anything holy or pure or good.  It all just makes me tired.

And then I hear this question from my two year old, who knows nothing about Pottery Barn Christmas versus K-Mart Christmas.  He just sees lights and knows they indicate that Christmas is going on inside.

His comments reminded me that it isn't bad to celebrate.  It isn't bad to give gifts.  It isn't bad to put out lights.  It's only when those things become disconnected to what is going on inside that they become burdensome and heavy.

I made up my mind to check my focus this holiday season.  It is a time of joy.  It is a time to celebrate giving.  It is a time to celebrate love.  And it is okay to share that message with the world. 

Where is Baby?

Where is baby?
Fast asleep.
Nestled on mommy
Hand on her cheek.

Mommy is sleepy.
Too much to do!
She closes her eyes . . .

Baby is two.

Where is baby?
Climbing the stairs.
"I do it myself!"
Baby declares.

Mommy is running
Childcare and chores!
She pauses to breathe . . .

Baby is four.

Where is baby?
Starting Pre-K.
"I'll walk in alone.
You'll be okay."

Mommy is watching
Baby and time.
She turns to the car . . .

Baby is nine.

Where is baby?
Home with a friend.
Board games and soda.
Games of pretend.

Mommy is nearby.
On call to help.
She sets out a snack . . .

Baby is twelve.

Where is baby?
At a school dance.
Still watching Disney.
Wanting real-life romance.

Mommy smiles - knowing.
As baby preens.
She looks in the mirror. . .

Baby's fifteen.

Where is baby?
Alone in her bed.
Lonely, heartbroken.
"I wish I were dead!"

Mommy is waiting.
Should she intervene?
She knocks on the door. . .

Baby's eighteen.

Where is baby?
Off on her own.
On Mommy's bankroll.
Thinking she's grown.

Mommy is praying.
"Just keep her alive."
She opens her eyes . . .

Baby's twenty five.

Where is baby?
Traveling the globe.
New husband, big job.
She calls to unload.

Mommy is listening;
Glad that she called.
And then baby says
The best thing of all.

Where is baby?
He's on mommy's chest
Grandma is cooking.
You know the rest.

One of Those Days . . .

The morning did not start off with a bang.  I overslept, resulting in my husband being late for a meeting.  I almost lost my temper and sent my toddler to school without breakfast because he was throwing such a fit ("I want eggs.  I don't want eggs.  I WANT eggs.  I DON'T WANT eggs.").  I didn't get to snuggle with my infant, which is my daily dose of peace in this busy season.  I checked my work email to get a head start and ---- ugh.  You know the feeling.

I sat on my couch in my pink striped pajama top and borrowed scrub pants from my sister-in-law and considered the next few hours.  Why go in?  I reasoned.  It's pointless.  I won't accomplish anything. This is just going to be one of those days.

I closed my eyes in prayer, hoping for sympathy for my plight, understanding for my mopiness, an excuse for my lack of motivation.

Instead, I heard Him say:

"Get up.  Get going.  I have things for you to do today!  Things you can't do if you sit here and mope about what you could have already done better or about what you don't want to do.  Defeat is not from me.  I am for you!  So get up!  Get going! I have things for you to do today!"

So I got up, I got going.  And I said a prayer for victory for all of you still in your scrub pants and pink pajama tops.

One of those days? Nope.  It's one of His days.

And He has things for you to do.

Treasure

My toddler is a bright little boy.

I know this because people tell me it all the time.  I also know this because he challenges me.  He already argues with me, corrects me on my Spanish pronunciation, and informs me when I have incorrectly read a story that he has heard before.  He loves to count and read and learn new words and understand how things work. 

Yesterday, when I picked him up from daycare, he was building a train track out of blocks.  He wanted to count the blocks with me.  There were more than thirty, and ---though he got tripped up on 15 and 19 --- he easily spouted out the numbers.

Another mom was picking up her child, and she asked, "Do you work with him?  I can't believe he can do that."

I was a little embarrassed because I felt like I had been caught "showing off."  I wasn't, of course.  In fact, I hadn't even noticed her paying attention to us.  I was just trying to relate to my child after a long nine hours apart.  Still, to deflect attention, I almost said something along the lines of: "Oh - he struggles with the numbers sometimes . . .". 

But I caught myself.  My two year old is old enough to listen to me.  He hears what I am saying.  Even scarier, he understands a lot of it.  So - while downplaying his strengths may meet my need of demonstrating humility - what will he take from my comments?  How will they make him feel?

So, instead, I took a deep breath, turned the attention away from myself, and said, "He just really likes to count.  He's a smart little boy and a good learner."

It felt like vanity to say that --- like I was bragging on myself.  But I wasn't bragging about me.  I was recognizing one of the gifts God has given our son.  I was letting him hear me acknowledge his strengths and positive qualities.

I think that it is important for children to hear their parents speak proudly of them.  Too often when speaking in public, I make comments about my children as if they are simply extensions of me.  But they aren't just an extension of me!  Instead, they are wonderful, unique little people made in the image of God!  When the situation calls for it, I believe I should praise them as such, not downplay their accomplishments as if someone had praised me.  I know it is important to teach my children humility, but it is also important to teach them that they are good and equipped with special gifts from their Maker.  How will they ever learn to share their gifts if they don't recognize that they have them in the first place?

There are so many voices in the world that will seek to convince my children that they are less than adequate; I believe it is my job to teach them that they are a treasure, sought after in love and won at great price. 

Decision

In law school, success in most classes is determined by one grade:  the final exam.  It is generally the only test given in a semester, and it is the sole determinant of your fate in that class.  Suffice to say that final exam time is stressful.

On the night before one of my exams, I was cramming in the library.  This wasn't over-kill cramming.  I really needed to study.  I wasn't ready.

One of my friends stopped by.  She was dating someone who was not a good boyfriend.  Unfortunately, she had just discovered exactly how bad of a boyfriend he was.

I had a dilemma:  should I keep studying, or should I take time to be with her?

I am not proud to say that this wasn't an easy question for me, but I did do the right thing.  I closed my computer, stood up, and said "Let's go for a drive."

I am absolutely sure that I did not help her at all.  There was nothing I could say that made it any better.  I probably did say things that made it worse.  I'm not really good at things like that.

On the flip side, she helped me tremendously be allowing me to be there with her in that moment.  She let me make a choice to prioritize people over personal gain in a fairly low stakes environment. 

That night was more important to my education than almost any other. 

Cheater, Cheater

My senior year of high school, my teacher gave us a dream assignment:  write a fable.

At the time, I wrote fables for fun.  I woke up thinking about them and went to sleep thinking about them. 

Unfortunately, the assignment came at a busy time . . . so rather than writing something new, I just pulled something out of the drawer that I had previously written.  It would suffice.

The day before the assignment was due coincided with the last night of the regional fair.  I LOVED the fair.  I really wanted to go.  I called a friend to convince her to go with me.

"I can't," she said.  "I haven't written my story yet." 

"That's easy!"  I told her.  "I'll help you!"  I then proceeded to spout out one of the stories I had been thinking about for a few weeks.

We went to the fair.  I think we had fun, but - to be honest - I don't really remember.

What I do remember is what happened a few weeks later.  My teacher had finished grading the fables.  She said there were two that really stood out.

She read my fable to the class first.  It was okay, but it wasn't really great.

She then proceeded to read the second fable, the one I had given away, noting that it was "her favorite."

My friend beamed.  She should have.  She did a great job of writing the idea that I had developed. 

I felt like I had given away my first child.

It was the best lesson on cheating that I could have received. 

The Eleventh Commandment

In every family, there seems to be one person that receives notice of the Eleventh Commandment:

Thou shalt not be late to church.

Unfortunately for the recipient, there is usually only one person who is aware of this commandment in each family --- making him or her a fiery ball of nerves on Sunday morning.   You can usually spot this person by The Vein that is pulsing from the forehead or neck.  Other tell-tale signs include The Scowl, The Clenched Jaw, The Glare, The Balled Fist, and The Snorting Nostril. 

In my family, this person is me. 

My anxiety starts as soon as I wake up on Sunday.  I start plotting about how we can all get out the door on time.  To get a husband, a two year old, and an infant ready and keep them that way at the same time requires some strategy.  A strategy I have not mastered.  We've tried 9:30, 10:00, 11:00, and 11:15 am services.  We've tried dressy church and blue jean church.  No matter which one we choose, we are late.  Half the time, we are unshowered. We always miss the music, and sometimes we miss half the sermon too.

I will admit that I am part of the problem.  And that only makes me angrier. 

I've tried to pretend to be laid back about it, but that's just not me.  It comes off a bit like using surfer slang in a business suit.  I'm not fooling anyone. 

This is a problem that requires some serious therapy.

And so, I reread the 10 commandments, and remind myself that there are, in fact, only 10.  These 10 include the following:

* You shall have no other gods before me.
* You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below.
* You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name.
* Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy.

I want to rationalize that the Eleventh Commandment is consistent with these, but I don't think that is true.  It would be one thing if I were truly pursuing God's honor by getting to church on time.  But, really, I'm not.  I'm actually more interested in my honor.  It's EMBARRASSING to be the last family at church. 

Gulp.

So, my children who are watching me (and who are likely victimized by my Sunday antics), aren't really learning anything about God's will.  What they are really learning is that mom deifies her image over all, that she invokes the Bible to justify her need to be on time to church, and that she defiles the holiness and peace of the Sabbath to follow societal customs.

It sounds like I'm being harsh on myself, but I'm really not.  It's no picnic to get ready for church while harassed by an 11th Commandment follower.  It's certainly no way to prepare the heart for worship.

This, of course, brings me back to where I began:  The Eleventh Commandment. 

If you happen to adhere to it, I have a newsflash for you:  It's a fiction.  It's a distractor.  And it's likely to make you violate the first ten.

Keep going to church and aiming to be on time, but remember:  the heart of the matter is always the heart.  And a pure, patient, God-seeking heart will teach your children more than announcement sessions and opening songs at church ever will. 


 

Love Notes

When I was growing up, I always joked that I'd find a man who liked to cook.  In deep south Georgia, where women did almost all the food preparation while men sat around on the couch and talked football and farming, this was more of a fantasy than an actual list item.   

I also always dreamed of having red-headed children.  I come from a long line of red heads.  It missed me, but I always hoped I'd pass that gene along.

In law school, I met my husband.  Our first Christmas together, he surprised me by cooking me dinner at my apartment.  It was really, truly, wonderfully good.  To my surprise, it wasn't just a one-time dating tactic.  His resume actually lists cooking as a hobby and interest.

I would have married him without the cooking, but it was definitely icing on the cake.

There was, of course, one catch.  My husband is Chinese, so I was sure when we married that my gene pool would be obliterated.  It was a small price to pay.

Imagine my surprise when, upon the delivery of my second child, one of the first comments out of the surgeon's mouth was:  Is his hair red???

It's not fire engine red, but it definitely has an auburn cast.

I take tiny miracles like these as evidence that God loves me in even the smallest of things. 

Community Wipes

Since his birth, our now two-year-old has known only one kind of wipes:  Pampers Sensitive.  Some well-meaning soul told us early on that they were the best for little bums, and we trusted and never deviated.  Until recently.  Since the arrival of our second son, we've been trying to save money.  We eat out less, opted for Netflix over cable, edited our cell phone plans, and switched to Luvs diapers after trying out a sample and determining that they got the job done just as well as the more expensive brands. 
 
That's when I began to eye the wipes. 
 
At home, I didn’t really feel the need to change our brand.  We have a newborn with sensitive skin, and I didn’t want to change things up. 
 
Daycare, however, required a different analysis.   
 
Unlike the infant room, our son's toddler class at daycare observes a "community wipes" policy.  Every 3 months or so, each of the kids' parents bring in a big box of wipes, and the daycare staff  use those wipes on every child.  I began to notice that some of the other parents had switched to generic wipes for the toddlers, and I thought, "Hmmm, maybe we should try that too." 
 
The next community wipes time, I instructed my husband to go out and purchase cheap wipes.  He did so and I proudly sent them - unopened and untested - with my son to school.  They might not be the best, I reasoned, but at least our oldest will continue to get the "good ones" at night and on the weekends.
 
One day, we ran out of the Pampers Sensitive.  My husband had just picked up another box of the cheap wipes for daycare, so I tore it open, popped open a purple lid, and pulled out a wipe.
 
Much to my dismay, I quickly learned that there was a reason for the price difference.  These sheets were more like moist paper towels than wipes.  They felt sticky, wet, and scratchy on my hands and - I can only imagine - on my son's previously pampered hiney. 
 
It was a moment of guilt-inducing self-awareness.
 
I am not against generic brands.   I am not against savvy shopping.  But there is something about this particular scenario that bothers me.  I think there is a part of me that knew those wipes were not going to be up to par, as evidenced by the fact that I still used the premium brand at home.  Despite this gut feeling, I never checked the new wipes to make sure they were sufficient.  Instead, prodded by the perception that some of the other parents were getting off cheap, I decided to jump on the bandwagon.  It wasn't until I had to experience the difference myself that I realized that this was not good for any of the kids . . . including my own son.
 
I love my sons.  I take joy in their blossoming friendships at daycare.  I wish only the best for all of those children, who are almost like siblings to mine.  If I had any of those sweet babies over to my house for a play date, I would never use the cheap wipes on them.  I would be embarrassed and ashamed.  I’m pretty sure someone would leave with diaper rash. 
 
If this is true in my own home, why would I treat those children differently in the community context?  What is it about the “community” policy that caused me to cheap out, turn my head the other way, and hope for the best?
 
There is a lot to ponder in these questions, so I think I’ll leave this story here for today.  If you’ve ever found yourself in a similar situation, I’d love to read your comments.

Good Times

Heart Squeeze

There is nothing easy about parenting.   Parenting full time.  Parenting part time.  Parenting together.  Parenting apart.  Parenting one.  Parenting multiples.  Parenting from a sick bed or by a sick bed. Parenting with lots of resources.  Parenting with no resources at all.  Every variety of parenting brings its own challenges. 

I am currently facing the relatively minor but heart-wrenching challenge of "full-time working mom returning from maternity leave."  Last week, I had to send my newest baby to daycare for the first time.  I had a migraine the day before I sent him.  I cried when I walked through the door to his classroom.  It took every bit of resolve I had that week to stay at my desk at work.  Every bit.  If I didn't absolutely have to keep my job, I would have quit on the spot.  Unceremoniously.  Without consulting my husband or even taking a night to sleep on it.

I'm not sure if I would make a good stay at home mom.   Right now, I don't have to decide.  What I know for certain is that, while I am at work, I am missing out on something precious that I am not going to get back. When I pick my babies up from daycare and we spend their last waking hours together, all of us exhausted and none of us at our best, my heart literally aches for what wasn't in our day.

But even though my days right now can't be full of tiny hugs, noisy tantrums, and physical closeness with my children --- they are full of love, so much love.  There is love in the chaotic morning rush out the door.  There is love in the dropping off at daycare.  There is love in the discipline of going into work.  There is love in the staying on task once there.  There is love in the eating of cheap sandwiches hastily constructed from home.  There is love in the hurried emails to my spouse about bills, schedules, and things we can't change.  There is love in the picking up at daycare.  There is love in the tired and hungry cries in the car.  There is love in the toddler meltdowns at supper, bath, and bed time.  There is love in the tucking in, and there is love in the midnight checks.  There is even love in the angry, 3 AM jabs at my snoozing husband.

Parenting isn't easy, and my version doesn't often look the way I imagined it.   I can't always do what I think is best for my children.  Sometimes I have to settle for good enough and pray for grace to intercede.  But --- those less than ideal circumstances give me the opportunity to perfect love in a purposeful, though sometimes painful, way.   And - at the end of the day - that is probably what my children need most of all.

Mrs. Hulsey

In fourth grade, I had a teacher named Mrs. Hulsey.  She was always a great teacher, but I have a couple of memories of her that really stand out.

The first really memorable experience occurred in her class during a spelling test.  I was the winner of the previous day's spelling bee, so I earned the right to call out the spelling words to the rest of the class during the test.

Everything was going swimmingly until I got to the word "tidy."  Despite my dad's best efforts to persuade me otherwise, I was convinced that this word carried a soft "i."

Confidently, I announced to the class:  "The next word is . . . tiddy."

EVERYONE started to laugh, and one of the boys said, "Mrs. Hulsey, she said TITTY!"

At that moment, I realized my terrible, terrible mistake. I turned to look at my teacher, always the picture of poise and propriety, and I saw that she was laughing so hard she was shaking, with tears running down her face.  I wanted the floor to swallow me up.

After I graduated from fourth grade, I generally avoided Mrs. Hulsey - embarrassed because I was sure that she had either forgotten me or remembered me only as the titty girl.

My junior year of high school, I won my school's pageant.  I had about zero self-confidence at the time, so it was a really big deal to me.  However, perhaps even more memorable than winning the pageant was what happened the next day.

I came traipsing down the stairs and my mom informed me that I had flowers.  I looked at the card and saw that they were from none other than Mrs. Hulsey, congratulating me in the nicest kind of way.  It turns out that she had neither forgotten me nor defined me by my one terrible (and now funny) goof up.

It was one of those gestures, completely undeserved, that made me see myself in an entirely different light.

Humble Pie

One of my son's very first words was "Bible."  His great grandmother, grandmothers, and church have all given him various versions of this book, and he loves to thumb through them and look at the colorful pictures.  About a week or two ago, he took it to the next level, demanding that we put him to bed with his "Bible book" and crying when we won't let him take one of them into the tub.

I have to admit, my parent's heart swells with pride at these moments.  My toddler knows what the Bible is and wants to sleep with it, I have thought to myself.  Clearly, I am doing something right.

Well -you know what they say about pride.  Two nights ago, my husband pried the Bible book away from my son and pointed at the cover where Jesus is standing in a circle of children.

"Collin," Theo asked gently, pointing at Jesus. "Do you know who this is?"

Our son didn't miss a beat,

"SANTA," he shouted, hugging the book back to his chest.

I guess it's safe to assume our work isn't done yet.  

"Agenius"

When I was in first grade, my Aunt Linda gave me a huge book of questions and answers for Christmas.  The book had great pictures and lots of facts that were supposed to be interesting to kids.

After Christmas, my dad started bringing the book upstairs with him for story time.  My big sister, little brother, and I would sit on my bed in our pajamas and try to guess the answers to the questions in the book.

It didn't take me long to figure out that I could know the answers if I read the book ahead of time.  So I started studying it every chance I got.  When my dad read the questions, I could whip out the answers while my brother and sister looked mystified.

I am sure my dad knew that I "studied" for these nightly quizzes, but he never let on.  Instead, he always made a huge deal about me getting the answers right.

"Whoa!," he would exclaim.  "How did you know that?"

And then he would say my favorite . . .

"Missy, you're a genius."

I wrote about those nights in my diary as a kid, making "agenius" one big word.

I may not have been a genius, but my dad made me feel like a million dollars

.

Legacy

I often think and sometimes write about what a tremendous husband and father my spouse is.  I am thankful every day for him and for the support and love he gives his family.  I know, however, that no man is self-created, and I am thankful for his parents who passed on to him gifts that withstand the test of time.  Below is an email his mother sent today to her children and me (who she always includes in her emails).  It was sweet and sums up so much:

"Yesterday after CBS (Community Bible Study) I talked with one of the ladies and she told me that she had a very interesting talk with her friends about how much it will cost you to raise a child from birth until he or she finishes high school.  She said that one of her friends said, "Don't forget to include how much damage the kid will cost you - like the broken window, the furniture, the carpet, the bike, the car . . . ."  I just laughed and said to her that I don't remember the small things but I remember some big things.  She asked me what big things, so I said the bay window, the new kitchen counter top, the wall, the door, the car and . . . . . :)

Wondering if you remember all these? Anyway, whatever damage you did just becomes an interesting thing to talk about because we love you, no matter what.  We love you all and wish you were here.

Love,

Mom

It is a blessing when parents give children a good example to follow, and something to celebrate when that example is one of love.

Holy Ground

Most nights, my toddler goes to sleep without any problems.  We read a few books, say our prayers, tuck him in with his Santa Bear, his blankies, and his giraffe pillow, and he quickly falls asleep.  But - every so often - he needs a little extra attention.  After tossing and turning for a few minutes, we will hear his cry on the monitor:

"Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma," 

and then - if I don't come immediately:

"Eppie, Eppie, Eppie . . ."  (did I mention that he really loves our dog?).

Against the advice of every sleep training book that I have ever read, I almost always cave quickly and come to the rescue.  My son knows this about me and - most of the time - is ready for my arrival.  I crack open the door to his nursery and he is usually standing in his crib, his arms full with all of his crib friends, his face streaked with tired tears.  

"Up," he will say to me, and I will reach down and grab him and his many comfort items and tote them all to the faded blue couch that has replaced the rocking chair in his room.

Although I don't always relish the interruption in my evening routine, I like this time on the old blue couch with him.  It is one of the only times that my little live wire is content to be held, and I soak it up - knowing it won't last forever.  I stroke his hair, kiss his forehead, and feel our unborn baby kick against him --- always excited to be near his big brother.  I smile, and remember how I snuck into my big sister's room on nights when I couldn't sleep and kept her awake with incessant chatter, talking about anything I could think of so I wouldn't have to be alone.  I always hated falling asleep by myself . . . something my son obviously inherited.

It is in these quiet moments when my son is falling asleep against me that I often hear God speaking the loudest.  I think there is something about the stillness, the quiet in my heart, that allows me to hear what is probably always there.  There have been many times in my life when I have been skeptical about God, let alone the ability of God to speak in any modern day context. But - there is something so deeply personal about those encounters, something so powerful and peaceful and profound, that my heart cannot find a foothold to question their authenticity.

I wish I could share some enlightened revelation about these times, but I have concluded that some things and experiences are a gift --- too mysterious for me to understand, too wonderful for me to know (Job 42:3; Ephesians 5:32; Isaiah 55:8).  That God could make the mundane terrain of my life holy ground . . . what a miracle to behold!


 

Abundance

It is a travel-for-work night, and I am missing my family.  To get my mind off my worries, I tried listening to my first Andy Stanley sermon to see what all the hype is about.  It was a good message with many wonderful take aways.  However, the point that stood out to me the most was - I am sure - completely unintentional.

In the sermon, Andy Stanley made the remark that telling your wife that she is a good mother is the equivalent of clearing the dishes out of the dishwasher without being asked.

It occurred to me that I have never once - in our entire marriage - asked my husband to empty the dishwasher.  He empties it almost every single morning while our son eats his breakfast in his high chair.  I probably empty it only once a week or so. 

This type of behavior is so typical that it has never crossed my mind to be thankful for it. 

I lead an abundant life.

The Power of Positive Thinking (I Happy Part II)

At dinner last night, my toddler sat in his highchair and began reciting a strange litany of words:  

"Elmo, Nemo, Jeeta (Santa), Pasta, Chocolate Milk, Dada, Eppie (our dog)."  

He paused for a moment, and then, with a big smile on his face, started again:  

"Elmo, Nemo, Jeeta, Pasta, Chocolate Milk, Dada, Eppie . . ."

After saying this list of favorite things several times, he looked at me and said, 

"I happy, Mama."  

I smiled back at him, thought of my own not-so-positive thought patterns throughout the day, and remembered Phillipians 4:8: 

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is fair, whatever is pure, whatever is acceptable, whatever is commendable, if there is anything of excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy - keep thinking about these things."  

I would do well to learn from my twenty month old. 

Christmas-O's

Christmas Eve 2012.  My seventh adult Christmas - one without a month off school, one spent away from my family of origin, one marked more with logistics than joy.  And it wasn't starting off pretty.  My husband, Theo, and I were both tired and stressed about a day full of travel.  He made some smart comment about the excessive amount of ice that I was dumping in the blender for smoothies, so I glared at the back of his head, poured in some more, and considered spending Christmas by myself in a hotel.  Knowing that wasn't a realistic option - I left him with our toddler, took my watered down smoothie upstairs, and turned on the shower where I hoped I could escape for 10 or, preferably, 30 minutes. Let me emphasize again: we were both very tired.

Once in the shower, enveloped in steam and doomsday thinking, it hit me: this was my seventh married Christmas. Isn't seven the unlucky number in marriage? We had one baby who was wearing us out and another due in two months: maybe this Christmas drain was just a sign of joyless, logistic filled life to come. And so I prayed. I prayed that God would protect us - or at least this day - from the one who came to steal, kill, and destroy. I prayed that God would bless us with mercies throughout the day, and that he would even grant us joy in the travels that awaited. I prayed that he would help us be nicer to one another and not use exhaustion as an excuse for rudeness. I prayed for patience. And I prayed again for joy.

I wish I could say I prayed all this confidently, but the truth is - my assurance that God would answer my prayer was not high. I knew the reality that awaited: the packing of the car, the dropping off of the dog, the 1.5 hour drive down to the airport, the security lines and the joy of navigating the airport with a stroller, the stress of having a peanut allergic toddler on an airplane, the wait for my in laws at the airport, the prospect of Christmas Eve without the traditions of my youth and Christmas morning so far away from my parents. The idea that joy or any element of the Christmas spirit might exist somewhere in between those activities seemed ridiculous.

Oh how wrong I was!

This is how the day unfolded: After a shower that lasted 35 minutes, I came downstairs to find that my husband had cleaned the blender and gotten our child dressed. He-who-had-graciously-showered-the-night- before then whipped out the door to take our dog to the sitter and run a couple of errands that I was sure would take an hour or more. Thirty-five minutes later, he was back, the car was packed, and we both looked at the clock in awe. For the first time in our entire married life, we were ready to go EARLY --- by over an hour. We looked from the clock to each other with raised eyebrows and decided we should just go before anything happened to spoil our success.

 In the car, our son - who almost never sleeps on the road - closed his eyes for an early nap. I quickly followed suit, expecting this nap to last only 20 minutes or so. An hour plus later, he was still asleep and we were rolling into Atlanta. With plenty of time until our flight, we decided to stop to eat. The diner that we originally chose was closed so we pulled into a chain restaurant that was decidedly more upscale than we expected.  By the time we realized the atmosphere, we had already placed drink orders and so - with worried glances at our toddler in this child-menu-less establishment - we decided to stay.

We shouldn't have worried. Our son charmed the wait staff and the patrons by saying hi and hey and bye and thank you to every person that passed his way. He ate his fries (which he called chi-i-i-i-ps) with gusto and shared his fancy chicken fingers with us. We ate a sandwich and salad that were actually good enough to justify the price and reminded us of pre-child meals, and we joked about making a fancy restaurant a Christmas Eve tradition. Our waiter delivered our check and we were back in the car - amazingly - 6 minutes ahead of schedule.

When we got to the airport, a shuttle was waiting to take us to the terminal. In security, there was absolutely no wait. Our gate was the one closest to the escalator, so we didn't even have to traipse down the long corridor to catch our flight (a huge bonus for a pregnant lady!). We were still an hour ahead of schedule, so we set up camp outside the gate. My husband - angel once more - firmly told me to sit, and stay seated, while he chased our son.

And then he spotted them: Santa and Mrs. Claus, in full regalia, on the back of one of those carts for the elderly and/or disabled, whizzing through the terminal. Theo whisked Collin into his arms and took off, catching up with them in the center of the concourse.  Five minutes later, they were back - triumphant smiles on both of their faces.  Collin had a brand new stuffed animal in his hand, one of those tacky souvenir bears with Atlanta across its stomach, and was yelling "Jeeta, Jeeta" (translation "Santa, Santa").  Theo had a picture of Collin, looking only slightly apprehensive, with Mr. & Mrs. Claus.

It was the highlight of Collin's Christmas.  Once on the plane, he had to tell all of our neighbors about his "Jeeta Bear."  As we sped off the runway, he called "Bye Jeeta.  Dank you Jeeta."  On the flight, he continued to cling to his new favorite toy and whisper "Dank you Jeeta!  Dank you Jeeta!"

After an amazingly peaceful flight where fellow passengers complimented us on our well behaved child (no kidding), we arrived in Dulles where Po-Po (Chinese for grandmother) picked us up  and took us home.  We were all tired, so the rest of the evening flew by.  We put Collin and Jeeta Bear to sleep in the big walk in closet in our room and prayed for a restful evening.

Unfortunately, the new surroundings really threw our little boy off.  He woke up first at midnight with a wet diaper.  At 2 am, we once again heard his cry and stumbled out of bed.  At 2:30 am, again for no apparent reason, he was up.

"I've got it," Theo mumbled groggily, and managed to settle him back down again.  Predictably, however, Collin's little, unborn brother - now awake as well - was demanding to be fed, so I stumbled out of bed and to the kitchen.

While I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, I heard yet again the cries from upstairs - and it hit me.  Maybe he was hungry too!  I grabbed the box of Cheerios and headed up.  When I got there, a very tired Theo was rocking a very tired Collin in his arms.  I held out the box of Cheerios, and Collin lunged for it.  There was our answer!

We switched the lamp on and settled down together on the floor next to the bed for our "picnic."  Theo passed the box of Cheerios back and forth from me to Collin as we both took delirious handfuls and shoved them into our mouths.  I thought of the early morning Christmases of my childhood, looked at Theo, and asked, "How many Christmas mornings do you think we'll be up at 3:00 am?"

He shook his tired head and smiled, both of us realizing that we have many, many more of these in our future.

Collin was still clinging to his bear with one hand as he shoveled Cheerios in with the other, and we asked him where he got his bear.  "Jeeta," he said with a sleepy, satisfied smile.

While we waited for him to finish his midnight snack, Theo and I looked at each other across his head - and I realized that even this mid-night wake up call was an answer to my morning petition.  I prayed for joy and - though I couldn't articulate it - the sense of family that I was afraid we were losing in all the traveling and have-tos.  Here, at 3:00 am, God gave me just what I was afraid I would miss:  a private moment with all three of the boys I love best on early Christmas morning.

The Kind of Friend I'd Like To Be

In college, I had a friend named Shea.  She wasn't like most of my friends.  We met while we were both youth leaders at a local church:  she being one of the best, I being one of the worst.  I was leading a double-life:  immersed in sorority sub-culture at one end of the spectrum, trying to be a spirtual mentor on the other.  Honestly, I needed to be IN a youth group, not leading it.  I think God knew that when he gave me Shea as a friend.

Shea wasn't in a sorority.  When I first met her, she was in charge of a girls' dorm hall.  When we graduated from college, she was employed as a bus driver for the University of Georgia.  In other words, she did jobs that other girls were terrified of.  Naturally, this made her one of my coolest friends.

I am ashamed to say that I don't know as much about Shea as I wish I did.  At that stage of my life, it was all about me. The really amazing thing is: even though I can see in hindsight that I was a lousy friend, Shea  never made me feel guilty or even aware of my inadequacies.  She didn't keep score and somehow found ways to bless me again and again, despite my selfishness.

It seemed like the entire time I knew Shea, I was going through one low spot or another.  During those times, Shea was the friend that asked me to spend the night with her in her dorm room when it was obvious that I needed a break from whatever early-20s drama I was involved in.  She introduced me to great movies like "Ever After."  She prayed for me.  She bought me raspberry sorbet at my apartment to cheer me up.  I don't even like raspberry sorbet, but I still love eating it some days because it reminds me of her and her generous acts of kindness.

After college, we lost touch.  When I was getting married 3 years later, she was on the top of my list to be a bridesmaid.  The problem was: I had no idea how to find her at the time.  That was probably God's way of looking out for her --- who needs another bridesmaid's dress?  The point is: when I looked at all the people I'd ever known - she was one of the ones who had exerted the most profound influence on my life.

Now - a decade after college, that still hasn't changed.  In my life, I haven't known many people who are as selfless, as giving, and as completely awesome.  She was an undeserved blessing in my life, and I am still thankful for her to this day.

Slugs and Snails and Puppy-Dog Tails

My son is lying on his changing pad, uncharacteristically still.  I unfasten his diaper, grab his feet, and pull them towards his head.

That's when it happens:  he lets one rip, loud enough for our condo-neighbors to hear.

He looks at me for a minute, and bursts into laughter.  He is laughing so hard I have to quickly refasten his diaper until we can both get it together.

He is 20 months old.  Who taught him farts are funny?

I guess some things are self-evident.

That, or boy-nature prevails.