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.