Three Little Monkeys

Guest post courtesy of Theo Lu, master storyteller and husband extraordinaire.  

Once there were three little monkeys:  John, Don, and Ron.  They were great friends, but they liked to out do each other.  John was the leader, and he always went first.  Don always went second, and Ron always went last.  If John ate one banana, then Don would eat two bananas, and Ron would eat three bananas. And so it went between John, Don and Ron.

One day as they were frolicking through the jungle, they came upon a sleeping tiger.  John said, "Watch this!" Very quietly, he crept up behind the tiger and brushed his hand against the tiger's tail.  Then he slipped away without waking the tiger.

Don said, "That's nothing!  Watch this!"  Very quietly, he crept up behind the tiger and he gently grabbed the tail.  Quickly and quietly, he crept away without waking the tiger up.

Ron said, "You think that was something?  Watch this!"  Quickly and quietly, he crept up behind the tiger, grabbed the tiger's tail, and shook it around.  The tiger woke up.

And so, now there were two little monkeys:  John and Don.  They were great friends, but they were always trying to out do each other.  John liked to go first.  If he ate a mango, Don would say, "That's nothing!" and eat two mangoes.  And so it went between John and Don.

One day, as John and Don were swinging through the jungle, they came upon a river in a canyon.  John said to Don, "Watch this!"  He swung over to a narrow part of the canyon, grabbed a vine, and swung once and then twice.  The third time, he let go and flew over the canyon, landing safely on the other side.

Don said, "That's nothing!  Watch this!"  He went to the widest part of the canyon.  He grabbed a vine and swung once and then twice.  The third time, he let go and flew over the canyon, landing safely on the other side . . . almost.

And so, now there was one little monkey.  His name was John.  And he was a very careful little monkey.

The End.

Lost Sleep

Can I tell you one of the things that keeps me up at night?

It's embarrassing, it's often prompted by Facebook, it's prominent when I'm overtired, and it's real:

I'm worried that I'm not going to matter.  

That I will live my life and dream my dreams and have grand visions, and at the end of the day . . . I'm only going to have done very normal things.

And there is this imaginary crowd in my head that is going to say,

"She had so much potential, but . . ."

"If only she'd made that decision differently, then . . . "

"I always knew she'd never do it . . ."

When I am less tired, less comparison-oriented, less focused on me, I realize that this "crowd" is bent on making me the unhappiest person on the planet.  Because all those voices that tell me that I'm not going to matter . . . what do they know?

What if my limits are like guardrails from God . . . directing me into the path of grace, pointing me toward my purpose?

This past year has been one of the most challenging of my life.  I had two babies under two at the start of it.  My work had seen better days.  My thank yous were six months behind, at least.  I'm not going to list the rest of the issues.  Suffice to say, it hasn't been pretty.

This past year has also been one of the most beautiful of my life.  People have been phenomenally good to me.  Unsolicited grace has decorated my days.  Effort, my lifelong idol, has been replaced by something far superior.

And I have these two amazing little boys and their devoted father reminding me day in and day out of gifts, blessings, love.

And it is all so normal.  So blessedly normal.

What if significance isn't so much what we do but how we perceive? Experience?  Share?  Accompany?  Acknowledge?

Witness?

What I have witnessed this year has been extraordinary.

Significant.

Divine.

Normal.

Thank you, all of you, who have blessed me with eyes to see. 

Sweet Joy and Loving Kindness

A birthday message to my boys:  Collin, age 3; Connor, age 1

My dear, sweet, silly, and above all precious boys,

Happy Birthday to you both!  I planned to set aside a day every year to write to you individually before your birthday, but it hasn’t worked out exactly as I planned.  I won’t make excuses.  I also won’t dwell on the undone, because I have learned that God has a way of orchestrating EVERYTHING, even the flops and delays and not-good-enoughs, for his glory.

It just so happens that today is two days before Easter (yes Collin – it is your birthday cake that is in the oven today), and my message for you both this year is an Easter message.

My children, I will let you in on a secret.  Life is like a series of Easters.   You will have seasons of triumph, seasons of betrayal, seasons where the very hands of God wash your feet, seasons of cross-bearing, and seasons where God and his promises seem fraudulent, false, dead, crucified.  There will be moments when it seems that the darkness has won.

My darling boys, we are all human, and your emotions will tempt you to believe that the season you are in is the only season.  But it is not.  Because always, always there is the resurrection.

When you are tempted not to believe this, look around.  Nature, the seasons, our life spans, the birthing process . . . everything is designed to reflect this truth.  Resurrection is printed on your soul’s DNA.  

So when you make decisions, my children, make them with this truth in mind:  the resurrection is real.  Joy will come in the morning.  New mercies await around each corner.  Love can be beaten and nailed to the cross, but in the end, it will triumph.  

What does this mean? YOU ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ACHIEVING YOUR OWN HAPPINESS.  Don’t be fooled – you will never sustain any lasting contentment based on your efforts.  You are simply responsible for beholding the resurrection with eyes and hearts wide open, witnesses to grace, recipients of love.   If you do this, joy will find you.  Loving kindness will find you.  Purpose and peace will find you.   

And your heart will be glad.

What bigger prayer could I have for your lives?  What bigger hope?  

When the darkness descends, keep your eyes open.  

Hope is on the way.

I love you, my children, always and forever.

Mama

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.