On Being Last

I look back over my life and I see that in some areas, I have a trend. It’s called “If I can’t be the best I don’t want to play.” Some of you may also suffer from this syndrome. I wasn’t good at sports….so I stuck to dance and cheering. I loved them. But the year I blew my knee out and got moved to the back row of the recital, I quit (I feel like such a schmuck admitting that). Student teaching was hard and I figured out I REALLY didn’t want to be a teacher (much love to you teachers, it’s a calling for sure), so I changed my major – in the middle of my senior year of college. I could have stuck with it, should have stuck with it. But it was hard, and I didn’t like it. My mom and dad were good about pushing us to keep our commitments, to learn about doing what you said you would and the importance of it. But I see that when I could get away with it, I stepped away from things that were harder for me. I know this sounds petty – are these things hard? Really? No, in the grand scheme of things, they aren’t. But I’m learning, at 36 years of age, that even on the small stuff I don’t want to be like that anymore.

I started running a month ago, if you want to call it running. It’s really more of a power walk with a bounce in it. Let me lay the stage for you :

I HATE RUNNING.

 I have hated it since Jr. High when (big surprise!) I was dead last in every race…and I quit. But I’m part of a mom’s group and they make this running group sounds so good. They look good, they feel good, they have so much fun, they have coffee after early morning runs. It seems beautiful, and serene, and inspiring. There are beautiful sunrise pictures. So I got conned into a 5K.

 

They roped me in because they serve champagne after the race. Nobody told me there was actual running.

Here’s how I thought this running thing would go down. It would be hard for a week or two, probably really hard, but I would persevere. I would discover my inner runner and finally, after all these years, I would get what all the crazy runner people are going on, and on, and on, and on (y’all know you do) about. I would lead the pack, lose 40 lbs, and become a natural runner that loves to get up on Saturday mornings and greet the sun. We are one month in to run training. I missed a whole week because my shins tried to tell me this was a bad idea by pulling away from my bones. So I bought new shoes and compression socks (those socks and I have a history, anyone else get to wear them while prego?). It became less painful on the shins, but now I’m a week behind. I’m on 2 minute intervals and everyone else is on 3. This is becoming not as much fun. I seriously CANNOT STAND to be behind. So I skipped 3 minute training and jumped to 4 minute tonight on our group run. Oh, and added another interval. No big. I’m going to rock it , right? Except not.

Two intervals in I've decided that I will die soon. I can’t breathe, my back hurts, there’s a whole lotta shaking going on, and I am counting the seconds until my walking interval. Some people say they zone out and forget about running while it’s actually happening. I don’t know what they smoke before but I want some. I am counting every second of this agony until I can stop. Sometimes even the half seconds. About halfway through I realize I can’t do this. I’m going to pass out, or vomit, or maybe pee my pants (I’ve had two kids you know, these things happen). I start to run 3 minutes (bouncy power walking – not breaking any land speed records), power walk a minute, and walk a minute. I mean, I can walk just about as fast as I can run, so what's the difference? And then I realize – I am dead last. Visions of 8^th grade track and being the slowest one out there are spinning through my head.  I’m thinking, “What the hell am I trying to prove? I hate this. I’m going to quit.” A tiny little voice in my head said, “Pray about it”. In a fit of irritation, because I didn't want to ask for help, I wanted to quit - I asked for help. If God was there with me and if he cared about this running thing, to give me wings. Renew my strength or something. And you know what? He so didn’t.

Instead my instructor Maria notices me flagging (she has a sixth sense about people about to quit – it drives her mad) and she drops back. I may have f-bombed her and pleaded with her to run ahead of me. Because I knew, if she ran with me, she wouldn’t let me quit, and my pride wouldn’t let me quit. And I really, really, really wanted to quit. I mean, we're talking "back row of the recital" want to quit. Instead she talked my head off trying to distract me and we walked/ran the last intervals together. She prompted me “run to that tree” and I would do it, and say, “we can walk now?” and she would say, “no, run to the next one.” She’s mean like that. J

And as we finally finished… I was still dead last. I was still fighting back tears and considering vomiting. I felt slow, stupid, and like it was a waste of time for me to even try this. I mean - I was last - did I mention that? People walk faster than I run. I was last, and I still felt like vomiting because it was so hard. I’m not good at this. I’m not anywhere close to the front of the pack and I don’t think I ever will be. My inner runner is silent, perhaps because she does not exist. My natural inclination is that I’m not going to excel, so I don’t want to play. I stretched and came home, and couldn’t sleep because my calves were on fire. So I started thinking, and I made a decision.

I’m not going to quit.

I have a few reasons why but these are the biggies.

1.       I need a good, fat dose of humble pie. Does the world care if I can run fast? Do I really think all the other moms felt sorry for me? Yeah, actually, for a minute I did. And then I mentally punched my self-centered ass. I run with the most amazing group of women. They cheered because they’re proud of me. They know it’s hard for me, but I didn’t quit. I ran 3 miles. Yes, I was at a 12:43 per mile, but that’s the first time since 8^th grade I’ve run 3 miles. Maybe the first time ever. I cheered for them and I meant it. I would never feel anything but pride for someone else who kept trying. I made a commitment to them and to myself to run this race. It may be the only race I ever run, or I may learn to tolerate it (notice I didn’t say “love”), but I will finish this one with these women because we support each other.

Lighting it up blue for World Autism Awareness Day to support our mommy friends

2.       If this is what I do when it’s hard to do something as simple as running, I need to take a good hard look in the mirror. Am I so juvenile that I’m going to take my toys and go home until my friends are ready to play a game I like? (Yes, I kind of am, but I’m working through this). This is nothing. This is easy. Life throws some ugly curve balls. I see people every day and I think I could never do what they do. Humans are amazing. The amount of crap we can put up with and keep smiling is simply a miracle. I have only this one body. And if I quit the minute something is hard, or I feel discomfort, then I’m not the woman I thought I was. I want to look at running as a metaphor for all the hard things in life. It’s not supposed to be easy, you’re just supposed to put one foot in front of the other, and eventually, you cross the finish line.

 

 

3.       My kids are watching, especially my 4 year old. Every Tuesday when I get home from running group he wants to drink out of the run belt water bottles. He says they have “running power”. He tells me goodbye at least a 100 times and to have fun and that he will miss me. He cheers for me when I run. He knows I love to go to “exercise with the mommies”. If I quit, he will watch that too. Even if I am dead last in the race, he will see me running across the finish line and know that Mommy did something that was hard for her.

 

"Magic water with super running power"

4.       God answered my prayer. I asked for strength (I was hoping for an angel to push me from behind or something, is that too much to ask?). He didn’t give me strength, he gave me a friend. A coach to push me. I choose to believe it was a gentle, “Don’t quit, and here’s someone you might cuss at right now but she will help you.” (sorry for the f-bomb MariaJ) He’s listening, and he cares, and my friends care, and that’s enough reason to go past as many trees as I need to. Clearly, I have some things to learn, and perhaps running can teach them to me.

"Even youths grow tired and weary,
    and young men stumble and fall;
but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint."

Isaiah 40:30-31



 

I am stronger than I know. This has become, in the last hour anyway, about more than running. I have to believe I can do hard things, things I don’t necessarily enjoy. I have to believe I can show my kids I can do them, so they believe they can do them. I have to show them, and myself, that we keep our promises and finish the race, whatever form that may take. I have to get out of my comfort zone. I have to accept that I will not always be the best; that in fact I might be last, but I can always be a finisher.

12:43 a mile. Owning it. Let’s do this, feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let the Children Come to Me

 

 

 

Lately there have been a lot of blogs going around Facebook about giving grace to little kids in church, or how parenting toddlers is like managing little dictators. Those are all good words and great advice, and I’ll be the first to stand and applaud when they are said. It’s hard being a parent. It’s often lonely and frustrating and I always feel like I’m getting at least half of it wrong. But it’s one thing for me to look at a struggling friend and say, “Hey, it’s ok. He’s fine. He’s a kid! You’re doing great!” – it’s quite another for me to say that to myself. I’ll be the first to give grace to another’s child that is screaming in the floor, but I rarely give it to myself.

Since our second boy has been born, we’ve been struggling with his big brother. My big boy is a three year old, rambunctious, loud, strong-willed, too-smart-for-his-own-good kid on a normal day. When you add in the turmoil of emotions that older siblings experience with the birth of a new baby, it gets crazy REAL fast. We are working through these things. But even before our current turmoil, I caught myself projecting my own insecurities onto my kid. If he had a less than stellar report at school or acted up at church, or maybe didn’t play so nice at the playground – I took credit for that. I wore that on my shoulders. I’m not disciplining right. I’m not controlling my kid. If he had a great day, I also took credit for that. I saw this “mothering list” from LysaTerkeurst awhile back and thought it was great advice:

1.  Don’t take too much credit for their good.

2.  Don’t take too much credit for their bad.

3.  Don’t try to raise a good child.  Raise a God-following adult.

I thought I was following this, but I wasn’t. I was trying so hard to shove my child into a “perfection mold”, the very same mold I always try to shove myself into and never succeed. I didn’t realize it until today when I picked him up from church camp. We’ve been working on good behavior and not acting out. I told his teachers that he was going through the adjustment with the new baby. But I could tell he was stressing them out. I could tell his behavior had been less than stellar. Maybe they weren’t used to boys. Maybe they had expectations that were a little unfounded. These ladies are volunteering their time at a church camp so whatever the dynamic, I want to give them some grace. They don’t know my child and haven’t been in our home. With trepidation today I picked him up and as he ran to me with a big smile on his face, I saw the teacher with a not big smile on her face behind him. My heart fell. As I had to tell him he didn’t “do good”, his face collapsed. My face collapsed. We both walked out in tears.

In my quiet time last night I came upon the story of Jesus telling his disciples to “let the little children come unto me.” There is an account of the story in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, so obviously this was an important moment. Here is the account from Mark:

People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”  Mark 10:13-14

In my head for all these years, I’ve pictured that scene as something like this – Jesus is seated, possibly surrounded by a halo of light, and mothers are bringing their children to Jesus. The children are sweet, clean, quiet, and patiently waiting in line. Sort of like Santa Claus, but better.  The mothers are patient. The children are cherubs. It’s possible choirs of angels are singing softly in the background. And obviously the disciples, who are always screwing up, are just children hating jerks.

As I read this, now that I’m a mom, I realized it probably didn’t look like that at all. Maybe Jesus was teaching, and the kids were crying. Maybe the disciples were afraid he would be distracted by mothers correcting their kids, shushing their babies. Maybe one kid was fighting with his brother and wiped a booger on one of the disciples’ robes. Maybe someone whined, “Is it my turrrnnnn yet??” Probably someone said, “I’m HUNGRY mom!! Did you bring any snacks?”  And for sure someone yelled, “I need to go potty!!”  It was probably hot, and everyone was sweaty, and tired, and definitely cranky. Some of the moms may have yelled,  some may have cried in frustration.

To me, that’s a more realistic picture. Jesus was just some guy their parents wanted them to meet. Children aren’t born with a sense of reverence and understanding of God like we think they should be, at least mine weren’t. If they were then babies would never cry during baptisms, toddlers would never throw things in church, and my niece wouldn’t have loudly announced during the Thanksgiving prayer one year, “I don’t WANT to talk to Jesus!!!”

What I love about this is in the midst of all this, Jesus rebukes not the children, but the disciples as they try to send the children away. He says, “Let the little children come to me.” And they come, just as they are. Don’t you know some of them cried as he held them? Don’t you wonder if a baby spit up on him? I know at least one of them was shy and hid behind her mother’s skirts and refused to get in his lap. Yet he loved on them, and blessed them, and said that they would inherit the Kingdom of God. He said we should all be like them. We should all be real - we should all be who we are. After all, it’s how he made us.

I don’t mean to say that children don’t need correcting and discipline. I’m not about to stop shushing my child in church, or taking away privileges if he hits or kicks. And heaven save me from the tattling! But I want to stop expecting my child to be perfect, and by extension, expecting that I have to be perfect. I’m not. I’m just a mom, struggling to do this right. And he’s just a kid, experiencing a big world that’s exciting and scary and always changing. And if I always beat him down and never tell him good job, he’s going to be more and more afraid of it. He’s going to start to feel like who he is isn’t right somehow. And I’d rather get a thousand bad reports than do that to him. There is a time and a place for correction, and there is a time and a place for just letting your kids come to you, and telling them you love them. God created my son to be headstrong, and rambunctious. Someday those talents will serve him well. While I need to teach him to respect authority and how to live in our social world, how to play well with others, he doesn’t have to get it down pat at age 3. He is who he is because my God created him, knit him in my womb and knows the number of hairs on his head. He loves Sammy. He loves me. I’m pretty sure he knows we’re not perfect.

I sometimes wish that the bible had more details. I’d love to know what it was really like the day those children were waiting to see Jesus. But at least in this case, I know why God chose to let those tidbits be left out. Can you imagine if your child was immortalized in the Bible as the one who threw a tantrum at the feet of Jesus?! God loves us moms too much to do that to us. He doesn’t see tantrum throwers, he sees children, whom he loves so much he calls us all to have faith just as they do, even when this happens at the family photo shoot:

 



Mac and Cheese Miracles

There is a place in Houston, in the 3^rd ward to be exact, where miracles happen every day. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. God is working at a little school called Generation One. I’ve had the privilege to be part of a group that provided lunch for these kiddos and the staff every Friday for 6 weeks. It is a small, peripheral role, but I really thought I would be helping and blessing these kids even with this limited involvement. But as often happens with these things, I was totally wrong. In doing nothing but walking in, saying hi and delivering sack lunches, I was helped and blessed more than I could ever give back. It all started when a friend of mine decided that she could get together a bunch of women out here in Katy, TX, and provide lunch for this small Christian school. In doing so it frees up a chunk of the school’s budget and makes a place for a few more kids. Gives a few families a little more hope for the future of their children.

On the second to last week my group decided to do a hot lunch. It was nothing fancy, baked macaroni and cheese (recipe courtesy of the Pioneer Woman – thanks, Ree), baby carrots, homemade bread, and juice boxes. My friend and I headed down to Generation One armed with what we thought was plenty of food to feed about 56 hungry mouths. Ya’ll should know that I’m a worrier by nature. Each week I count and recount lunches and check and re-check names against the roster. The minute we unloaded the food in the kitchen and started heating, I looked around and knew we didn’t have enough. It just wasn’t as much as I thought it would be.  As my friend Shannon drove the first set of lunches over the building that housed Kindergarten and 1^st grade, I was near tears in the kitchen praying. In this neighborhood there isn’t a drive thru you can run to and pick up extra lunches. There isn’t even a grocery store. If we didn’t have enough, it would be disastrous. We could go get more food, but someone would be eating late after we’d had to drive down the highway, and it would be obvious that someone got left out.

About that time a staff member came over and had a request. There was a small business meeting at 11:30; could we make 5 extra plates? In despair I knew there was no way we had five extra plates, but I didn’t have the heart to say no, so I said yes and prayed this would somehow work out. I don’t think I’ve ever chanted “loaves and fishes God, please just give me loaves and fishes” with that much fervency. I’m sure you can guess what happened next. We filled every plate for every class, every teacher, and every staff member. I looked up and we had a half a loaf of bread left and a half a tray of macaroni – just enough for 5 extra plates. And as it so happened, I had just enough extra scripture verse cards that each plate also carried a “love note” from us (what the kids call the daily scripture they get in their lunches). But God didn’t even stop there – there was enough bread for everybody in the meeting to have not one, but two slices of homemade bread. I had been the most worried about the bread, because I made it, and I was terrified my offering would fall short. What kind of God pays attention to those kinds of details?

Miracles – they happen.

As we were finishing up plating a young man I’d seen walking around the school came in with one of the school leaders. When I say young man I mean he couldn’t have been more than 17. I assumed he volunteered there, worked there, was delivering something, etc. But no, he was introduced to us as the father of a precious little girl in the preschool class. He had come to the school to conference with the staff because he was worried about his daughter and wanted to know how he could help her with her schooling at home. He wanted to know how he could be more involved. Here’s a boy, no more than a kid himself, who lives in a neighborhood with very little hope and desperate poverty, and he’s showing up to be a dad to his little girl. It made me wonder if I could be so strong in the midst of such circumstances.  What kind of resolve does it take to be a responsible, 17 year old dad in a neighborhood where such a thing may not always be valued? I have prayed for that young father every day since. He looked at our plates and asked what we were making. When I said mac and cheese his eyes lit up. Doesn’t mac and cheese affect everyone that way? There’s just something good about it. We offered him a plate, because of course, no surprise by now, we had enough for one more. I don’t know if he took it after we left, I hope he did. If anyone deserves a hot lunch made with love, that young man did.

Miracles – they happen.

I tell you this story to remind you of a few things. God is alive in our world. He’s working hard in places we never see. Every time I leave Generation One I feel unworthy. I couldn’t figure out exactly where that feeling came from, until a friend of mine explained it – because that’s where Jesus is. In a small school, in a poverty-stricken neighborhood, I’ve been in the presence of Jesus. I am unworthy to be there, but by his grace I can be. I can be blessed by more thank you’s and Velcro hugs and delighted smiles from children than any one person deserves.

Second, as you celebrate Thanksgiving this week, give thanks for this moment, right now, and let go of your worries, even if just for a day. Don’t think of what you will buy at black Friday. Don’t worry about what Santa will bring. For your life just give thanks. We have so much. We have no idea what poverty is. We have no idea what goes on in the corners of the world, even in our very community. Until we see it, we sometimes can miss the light God is shining in those corners. The light he wants to shine on us if we but give him the chance. So don’t worry about tomorrow, just live today and every day in gratitude that there is a loving Father who makes sure everyone has a plate and a place at the table. If you get a chance, give something to someone else. It really is in giving it away that the biggest blessings come.

And even if your table is not the turkey feast that many of us associate with Thanksgiving, even if you have nothing but simple fare, give thanks. Because I’m here to tell you, God can do some amazing miracles with nothing more than mac and cheese.

"People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God. Indeed there are those who are last who will be first, and first who will be last.” Luke 13:29-30

If you'd like to learn more about or support Generation One, please go to https://www.generationone.net/donate. Or if you're in the Houston area and would like a tour or would like to get involved in the lunch program, please contact me. We would love to have you. :)

The Morning After...

This morning following (and leading up to) the Presidential election, people are being so ugly on both sides of the fence. Jen Hatmaker took a beating on social media last night for trying to be a voice of reason. I unsuscribed from and hid from my news feed on Facebook friends from both sides of the aisle, because I simply could not stand any more vitriol and hate. Talk of secession, assasination (yes, from normally semi-reasonably intelligent people), gloating over republicans and rubbing their faces in it, calling people bigots and gay-haters because they happened to support Romney, and worst of all, claiming you couldn't be a Christian if you stood on one side or the other, depending on who's viewpoint you agreed with. It's all too much. I'm seriously considering a Facebook fast. 

I want to ask people today, what changed, really? Our house is still here. Our mortgage is the same. Our bank accounts, precious little though they may be, are the same. My car still works and the back end is still wrecked. There may be economic change in our future. I hope there is. But it's not happening today. And nothing we can do will change the Kingdom calendar anyway. It's a matter of faith. 

Many other things remained unchanged that have nothing to do with the economics of you and me. People still live in tent city in Haiti. Children in the 3rd ward of Houston are still hungry and their parents are still without hope. There is still work to be done, and most likely it won't be done by any one government or president. It will be done, or not done, by you and me. But mostly, I am thankful today. This beautiful morning I woke up and the sun rose. My son is sleeping in after waking me up at 5:45. I spent a long time in prayer and thought because of that early rise. I'm thankful for everything, down to cats that live a long time and sit next to me while I pray. I'm thankful for my marriage, my family, my home. Tim still has a job and today I'm still a stay at home mom. I'm thankful for our country, for the men and women that defend it. I'm thankful that in our country, change can and does come. I'm thankful that I'm not in charge of that change, in any way shape or form. 

I prayed for our president. I prayed for humility, kindness, understanding, acceptance, wisdom, and love - both from him and for him. I prayed for his children and his wife. I prayed for his marriage. I will never forget Dr. Mann preaching at Riverbend after he had prayed at the National Prayer Breakfast when Clinton was president. It was right in the middle of the scandal and he said Clinton looked like a broken man. Dr. Mann said he walked over to him, put his hand on his shoulder and said, "Mr. President, I believe in you. I have faith in you, and I pray for you every day." He said Clinton got tears in his eyes and hugged him, and could barely get out the words, "Thank you." Presidents need our prayers. They have feelings and desires and hopes. They want and need people to believe in them. In my heart I believe they all really want to change the country for the better, and they all aspire to do so because they love America.

We are all just people, even those in power. We are all loved by God, created by Him. Not one of us is more right, better, more loved, or has God's ear more than the other. I wish I could find a way to say that on Facebook so that people would listen, but I know they won't. So I prayed for healing and a settling down. I'm sure every election year is like this. I'm sure the people who hated Bush felt the same way when he was elected as those who hate Obama. There is always a winner and loser and if you live long enough, your side will lose. We forget how to be gracious winners and losers in our adult lives. We teach our children to congratulate the winning team, shake their hand, and keep their heads up in defeat. My dad always taught us to be gracious in defeat and in victory. Somehow as adults it's become ok to forego basic human courtesy and decency. I hate the lines that we draw in humanity. Racial, sexual orientation, religious, economic, political party. Jesus doesn't draw lines, he never has. He just came to love us all, and that was his greatest commandment to us before He ascended to heaven. That if we were to call ourselves His followers:

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." John 13:34

"I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for all people— for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.” 1 Timothy 2:1-2 NIV

To All the Moms Who Loved Enough to Say "No"

This is for all the moms out there who said “no”, but most especially for my own.

When I was a teenager, I swore I would never be like my mom. I would give my children so much more freedom and would not nag them so much. I would nurture them more and scold them less. In my narrow minded 16 year old view, my mom stunted my creativity and kept me far too confined. She, quite simply, did not understand me.

Me at about age 16, brimming with wisdom

Now, however, I am a parent.

My son Sammy, happily drooling candy I just told him not to eat

Although my son is only 2, I already can look ahead and know that I will be everything like her. I can look back and see what an ungrateful wretch I was and feel a burning need to apologize. I suppose that God allows our children to be just like us as a reminder of what we put our mothers through. I know my grandmother used to say that to my mom, and now she will say it to me, and I will say it to my kids someday. But even more than saying, “I’m sorry”, I want to say “thank you” to my mom, and all the moms out there, for a few things I never thought I’d be grateful for.  (I tried to keep the list to a nice, rounded, Top 10, but there was too much I wanted to say):

1.       Thank you for giving me a curfew. I thought you were keeping me too controlled, but in retrospect I see you were trying to give me the most out of life as possible while still keeping me safe. It’s true, nothing good happens to teenagers after midnight.

2.        Thank you for forcing me to have a childhood. I wanted to be a grown up way before I was ready to be one. Now I look back on those years with a fierce gratefulness. Thank you for creating memories that later on I would treasure, when in my eagerness to grow up, I might have missed them.

3.    Thank you for making me study (I wish I’d listened more in college). In America one of our greatest blessings is an education for everyone. We truly can be whatever we want to be, but you have to grasp the opportunities presented to you.

4.       Thank you for broadening my horizons. You tried very hard to show me there was a big world out there, and that I was not the center of it. Valuable lesson.

5.       Thank you for forcing me to learn responsibility. I was expected to show up when I said I would and take care of business. You never allowed me to shirk things. It taught me integrity.

6.       Thank you for punishing me when I lied (which was kind of a lot there for awhile). Everything I was lying about was something I didn’t need to do anyway. It taught me honesty and accountability (Dad had a hand in this with the “talks” as well – but that’s another blog post!)

7.       Thank you for making it completely impossible to sneak around. I never tried to skip school because I would have gotten busted anyway by you or one of your 14 billion friends who worked for the school system.

8.       Speaking of your friends, thank you for bringing lots of other wonderful, loving, mother figures into my life. None of them ever hesitated to send me home when I needed sending. The lot of you were a bunch of tattletales when it came to each other’s kids. I hope I have friends that love me and my kids that much too.

9.       Thank you for creating a home that all my friends loved. Most of them thought you were awesome and didn’t really understand my pain. They loved our house, everyone did. I know now what kind of effort that took. Ours was the home everyone wished they had.

10.   Thank you for not judging me on the really big stuff. In those times, you knew it was more important to be there for me than to tell me how stupid I was (at least not right away…). :)

11.   Thank you for waking me up for church even when I really didn’t want to go. You were laying a foundation. Thank you for teaching me that worship is about God, not me.

12.   Thank you for teaching me that sometimes, the most love a parent can give comes in the form of the word, “No.”

Shortly after my son was born I called my mom and apologized. Once I held my child, I knew how much she loved me, and I understood. But I wanted to write it again on Mother’s day, to her and all the mothers out there who said no. You taught us how to be grown ups, how to be in the service of God, how to be parents. You created as safe a place as possible in the world for us to be children. Thank you for not believing us when we said we hated you. Thank you for not giving up on us after we wrecked the car….again. Thank you for believing we were going to figure it out someday, when often it really looked doubtful. Thank you, now that we’re grown, for laughing at the memories of our struggles. Even our mess ups can now be happy memories. My sister says that heaven is going to be our neighborhood. We will all have houses down the street from each other. We will ride our bikes together every night and eat popsicles and homemade ice cream on the driveway. The fact that she feels that way is not out of the clear blue - that was our childhood. Those memories didn’t happen by accident, my mom made them happen. Though a small part of me still believes I will never be as good at this as my mom was, I know in my heart I will be a good mom, because I had the one that was just perfect for me.

Hug a mom this weekend, we need it. We may do this motherhood journey in different ways, but we all walk the road with love.

 Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful mothers in my family, all of whom frequently told me "no" (including my sister). I cherish you all!

My sister, my mom, me, and my mother's mom (Dada) circa 1982

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My dad and his mother (Grandmommy) circa 1947

"Her children arise and call her blessed...." Proverbs 31:28

The Perfect Church

As I get older, I feel like God is working a softening process on me. Some might say that I’m just wearing rose-colored glasses more often, but I think it’s more than that, at least I hope it is. Over time I’ve come to lots of realizations, mostly through bible study and prayer, and I like to think that slowly, God is knocking the rough edges off me a little. It seems I don’t know everything, and I’m not perfect, and not everything I think is right. Who knew? :)

It was in this softened frame of mind that I found myself this weekend as I wandered through the basement of the little church I grew up in. My oldest friend was getting married and the wedding was going to be in our church. I’d been sent on a normal errand for the matron of honor, go get the groom’s ring so I could carry it through the ceremony. The fastest way to get from where the bride and her attendants were gathered to where I knew the boys were gathered was through the basement. It’s been awhile since I wandered the basement, but I knew exactly where to go, even though most of the lights were off.

I realized as I walked that I knew every inch of this church, from the Sunday School rooms to the Fellowship Hall to kitchen to the gym to the basement. I even know some of the ductwork (little girls can be very inventive when they’re hiding so they can skip choir). I know all the secret rooms - the rooms where you can access the organ pipes, the room with the controls to chime the bells, the back way into the Baptistery, the control room for the TV broadcast. But for a long time, even though I’m real familiar with the layout, I’ve not thought of myself as really a part of this church. To be honest I considered myself above it. I judged it. Being a part of a church as long as we have, there are bound to be good times and bad times. But when you’re in jr. high and high school and you are the smartest person that has ever walked the earth, you tend to only notice the bad. Not every experience I had at that church was good. I experienced some judgment and some meanness. Though that time is not generally at the forefront in my mind when I visit the church, it’s remained in the back of it for too many years. I realized this weekend, as I walked through the halls in a softened state of mind, that for holding on to the hurt for all these years, I’ve been a fool. I’ve been the man with a plank in my eye trying to point out the splinters in others.

Beth Moore likes to say that if you find a perfect church, and you walk in the front door, you just ruined it. The church can’t be perfect because people can’t be perfect. I have been every bit as judgmental, maybe more so, as others have been to me. I am not better than anyone.  Quite frankly, I am very, very lucky to have been a member of such a beautiful congregation. This weekend my friend walked down the central aisle in our beautiful sanctuary surrounded by stained glass windows and polished wooden pews that are way older than we are. That sanctuary has played a huge role in my life. I was dedicated as a baby up on that stage. I walked down that aisle to give my life to Christ when I was 10 years old. I was baptized there. I was married there. Every major milestone in my walk with Christ has been in that church. It can’t have been all bad if it represents all those memories for me. In fact, it must have been mostly good. The people of that church have loved on me and my family for at least 34 years that I know of, and longer than that if you ask my parents. No, it wasn’t always perfect, but who among us is?

In my grown up years I have learned a lot about myself and I hope that I continue to learn. I have judged. I have been petty. I have been mean. If anyone has done those things to me, then they are no different than I am. We are all flawed and I think that’s why we need each other. I have also been supportive. I have loved. I have been a friend. So many others have done those things for me, too. The whole is more beautiful than the pieces sometimes. If we can hang on and just remember that love can cover anything, then someday our children may walk through the halls of the buildings we call the church, and realize that it is also their home. They may remember Sunday School and VBS and Wednesday night dinner. They may remember baby dedications and baptisms and church camp and choir. They may be so comfortable with a place that they know every nook and cranny. They may attend the wedding of a friend and have their neck hugged by people who have known then since they were born, and hear them say, “It’s good to see you.” They may know what it is to belong to the body of Christ.

No, the church is not perfect, but it shouldn’t be, because then it would not be a true representation of those of us who walk its’ halls. We wouldn’t learn to both forgive, and to ask to be forgiven. There would be no reason for us to join together, if we all already knew everything we need to know. I think that Jesus knew what he was doing when he told us to band together and worship Him. He knew we’d be better together - that others would make up for our shortcomings and vice versa, and that community in His name would teach us how to truly love. I’ll forever be grateful that he plunked me down in a small church in a small town that nurtured my every milestone, and stands ready to welcome me home anytime I visit. What a blessing.

“Keep watch over yourselves and all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers. Be shepherds of the church of God, which he bought with his own blood.” Acts 20:28

"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:33-35

Thank you lists

Whenever I get sick of hearing myself complain (inwardly or outwardly) I try to sit down and come up with a reason why every single thing I'm griping about is actually something to be thankful for. It's not really all that hard, because most of what I find myself whining about is honestly, not that big of a deal. You could say it's my own way of giving myself a slap upside the head. Because I need those more than once, you might see me post "thank you" lists more than once. And some items on the list might appear more than once because I seem to need frequent reminders. So, here's today's list, petty as some of my worries may seem. And you'll be glad to know that always, always, after I sit down with God and write him a thank you note, my soul is replenished and  I am a walking bucket of gratitude once again. Try it the next time you're having "one of those days."

Thank you for the mountains of laundry that never seem to end. We have lots and lots of clothes, and I can get all of them clean without much work at all on my part. Many have only the clothes on their backs and a washing machine is something to only dream about.

Thank you for the rain that causes everyone (and the dogs) to track in muddy footprints on my clean floors. Our yard is lush and green and I’m growing a garden that my child will love to help me harvest. Many farmers are praying for rain.

Thank you for my anal retentiveness when it comes to a clean house. I worry sometimes it is too much, and I know that I must balance it. But that impulse also helps me provide a clean and organized home for my family to grow in. I’ve always liked to think there was a reason Jesus stayed with Martha – she kept a comfortable home. I’ve always had a soft spot for Martha. There is a place for both the Mary’s and the Martha’s in this world – we balance each other.

Thank you for just enough money to never have enough. You are teaching me to be a good steward and to prioritize where our money goes. Most in the world would consider our version of “not enough” as untold riches.

Thank you for the thousands of dollars we spend at the allergist. My child suffers from allergies, I am happy to pay to ease his suffering. Millions of mothers would love to have the money for a specialist.

Thank you for the terrible two phase that Sammy is in right now. He challenges me, does not like the word “no”, and is always into everything. He is smart, headstrong, and unafraid of almost any obstacle. Someday these traits will take him far in life.

Thank you for the ten pounds that I can’t seem to lose. I live in a land of plenty and can’t remember ever going to bed hungry. There are millions who don’t have the excess that we do. Help me to balance it and be thankful for it as well.

Thank you God for my animals so that I can complain about ridiculous vet bills and cat throw up on my bedspread. They show me every day what unconditional love is, while keeping me humble. I am never too good to clean up pee in the dog bed.

Thank you for the boot tracks that my husband tracks in every day, usually about 10 minutes after I get the floors clean. He comes home every night to his family and works hard for what we have.

Thank you for my gas guzzling car that drives me wherever I need to go every day, even if right now we can’t afford to fix the giant dent in the back. I have a good car, with plenty of room for our family and then some. Many would give anything for any kind of transportation other than their own two feet.

Thank you that never once in my life have I or my family had to wake up hungry, or know real fear, have serious medical problems, or ever question if we were loved, or go through a war, or poverty, or even go more than 24 hours without talking to my family and knowing that we are all safe, healthy, and prosperous. 

We are blessed beyond measure, and I have no more complaints. I have only things to praise God for.