How-To: Love your Husband

Recently published by MOPS International:

Cade's Letter to God

The upcoming movie, Letters to God (from the creators of Fireproof and Facing the Giants), is about a stack of undelivered letters, addressed to God by an eight-year-old boy battling cancer.

At the end of the private screening which we attended last night, Director David Nixon stood to present his passion-- that people who have been directly impacted by cancer (everyone!) would address God. He said that our promotional packet included stationery, on which we could write our own letters to God.

My kindergärtner Cade, who watched the film intently, leaned over to me and said, “When we get home, I'm going to write my very first letter to God.”

Perched on a kitchen barstool, here's what he wrote. (I'm sharing this with his permission, but I've taken the liberty of improving on his spelling!)

Dear God,

How will I do what's right?  Sometimes I feel bad.  I do not like what I have done.

Love, Cade

You'll notice that the stationery's subtitle reads, 'hope is contagious'. Some might think this is a sad little note, void of hope. But for me, the Mommy of the letter-writer, every line contains hope!

I have never cried in desperation over the cancer filled body of my child. But I have begged God to remove something even more malignant from my child—an unrepentant heart. Though I can get Cade to rattle off correct answers about salvation, the repentance which God requires, is not something I can inject into his heart. And so, seeing the seeds of repentance sprinkled through Cade's letter brings me such hope that God is at work in my precious boy!

“...I rejoice, not because you were grieved, but because you were grieved into repenting.... For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation...” 2 Corinthians 7:9-10

May Letters to God deliver contagious hope to many!

Fat Phil

First, I have to explain why our dog has two names.  His given name is Theo, but when Cade was little, his version of ‘Theo’ was indistinguishable from his version of ‘Phil’.  He said, “Feow” for both.  So, we began using the two names interchangeably.  But Theo and Phil are one and the same dog.

That said, Theo is getting really fat.  My husband, who likes to make up silly rhymes about such things, (which he delivers in a semi-rap style), affectionately created the following poem/rap/rhyme in honor of our portly hound:

He’s fat Phil

Can’t get up the hill

‘Cause he’s fat Phil

He’s fat Phil

He’s fat Phil

Garbage is his thrill

He’s fat Phil

He’s fat Phil

The boys, of course, think this is hilarious, and sing/say it constantly.  They sing/say it so often that I don’t really hear it anymore. It just blends into the background noise like the whir of the dryer.  In fact, the rap has outlasted Cade’s lisp.  (He can now say both Theo and Phil perfectly!)

Recently, I was getting my hair cut and Cade was chattering away in the background.  Our hairdresser, Missy, is the sweetest, kindest person ever, not to mention great at making our family look good (or at least better!). 

About halfway into my haircut, Missy asked, somewhat hesitantly, “Ummm… Who’s Phil?”

The Shooters on Our Street

“Mike?  This is Shannon.  Your boys did come down like you said, but I wanted to let you know that they did not apologize.  They told me that they didn't shoot at Cade with their air soft guns!”  I hoped my indignation translated through the phone. 
 
My neighbor calmly replied that his boys had plead their innocence of said crime to him as well… and he believed them.
 
What?!  My precious five-year-old had been subjected to the line of fire without eye protection, and this man was defending the shooters?!
 
I hung up, called my sweet babies to my side, and barked out new marching orders with resolution.  “Boys, from now on, when the Garvers have their air soft guns, you get away!  Those boys cannot be trusted!  I mean, Cade, they shot at you, right?!?”
 
Cade did not assume my incensed stance, as I expected.  In stead, he shifted from side to side, sucked on his fingers, and mumbled, “Uhhh… Well…”
 
“Cade! They did shoot at you, didn’t they?  That’s what you told me…”  Maybe I was wrong about who could and could not be trusted.  As the guilt on Cade’s face grew, so did my horror.  I had been the one doing the target practice!
 
Ten minutes later, as my tearful little fabricator and I approached our neighbor’s doorstep, my indignation was swapped for mortification.  Where before I was pointing and squawking, I now wanted to slink and grovel.  Boy, had my posture changed!    
 
Paul said that a thorn in the flesh was given him to keep him from being conceited (2 Cor. 12:7).  I think God allows me to brush against thorns of all sizes to pop my ever-inflating conceit, and reduce me to meekness.  The little thorns (like the shooting situation) prickle, and the big ones dig in and fester.  But every thorn helps collapse my smugness and reposition me to my knees. 
 
I have to agree with Paul.  Thorns are good.

$1 Sticker on the Windshield

Several years ago we gave an older vehicle to some friends who needed an extra.  To make the transaction legal, Ken asked them to pay a dollar.

Lindsay later asked, "Daddy, did you really sell our van for a dollar?"  Ken told her yes, he had.

She said, "Well... I think you could've gotten at least two dollars for it."  Her earnestness made Ken smile.

Today, even a $2 sticker on a windshield would indicate 'gift' to Lindsay.  She's learning more about how much things cost-- as am I.      

I knew, back when I accepted Christ's salvation, that I was getting an undeservedly good deal.  But I'm just starting to understand the magnitude of the sticker price, and the unlikelihood for me to receive such a gift.  Had our friends been the type to regularly spit in our faces, we wouldn't have given them even our rusty, stained van with cracks in the windshield.  But though I regularly offend Christ in the most horrifying ways, he tossed me the keys to a blood-bought, shiny new vehicle with VIP tags dangling from the mirror and the GPS's 'home' set to the Father's throne. 

I'm still quite child-like in the way I think about the value of this gift.  But I think it brings him honor when I ponder its worth. 

Too Short

On a recent Sunday morning, one of my children came down the stairs, dressed for church.  His pants had the ‘capri' look.  And his shirt sleeves ended about 3 inches short of his wrist.  Yes, I had laid these clothes out.  It's a ritual that I perform each Saturday evening, as I picture my beautiful family entering our place of worship in our Sunday best.  But I had envisioned one of my other children wearing these particular clothes.  A younger and shorter child.   
 
When I called his attire into question, he asked, "What?" with an ‘I-did-what-you-told-me!' sort of look. 
 
This didn't surprise or annoy me.  I've resigned myself to the fact that I may spend the rest of my life trying to protect my child from fashion faux pas.  But what did surprise me just the slightest bit was my husband, who walked in at that moment, sized up the ''capri' outfit our son was wearing, and also asked, "What?"    
 
At least I know where it comes from.   
 
I'm pretty sure that God doesn't care how stylish I am while I worship him.  He doesn't measure how far from the floor my pant legs fall or how far my cuffs fall short of my wrists.  The only thing he measures me against is his own glory.  And I, like every other person who has ever dressed for a worship service, have fallen short. 

"...for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift..."

Romans 3:23-24

Look, Mom! Two Hands!

These are the eight remaining mittens in the bottom of our closet.  Some are black, others navy.  Some are large, others small.  Thankfully, there are a couple of left-handed ones in the bunch.  

The two on the bottom right actually match each other, but their purple stripe renders them useless to Cade, who will not wear 'girl colors'.  Non-matching mittens are also a problem for Cade.  They must be identical.  And when Cade cannot locate two boy-colored, matching mittens, his problem becomes my problem.  

I feel this heavy maternal responsibility for the temperature of my child's hands.  He insists that he can go to school mittenless.  His hands will stay warm.  But what sort of mother puts her kindergärtner on the bus with no mittens?  Not wanting to be that sort, I scrounge in the closet, search the lost-and-found, and return to the winter-wear aisle at the store.  He is sent off each morning with warm hands and kiss.  But alas... when my young son steps off the bus, he is usually, again, one mitten shy of a match.     

Which creates a rerun of the same show the next morning.  "Cade, let's check your backpack for your mittens.... Where is the other one?  Did you remember to look at school?  Ok... Let me see if we have some here..."  The pre-bus minutes seem to accelerate when I am on a matching mitten hunt.  It is incredibly stressful.  Yet my children find this to be the perfect moment to tickle each other or chase the puppy.  Which, of course, adds to my stress.  No one in my family understands how frustrating this is to me.   

No one, that is, except my mother.  She says that she knows just how I feel.

Look mom!  Two hands... wearing the exact same mittens I had in October!  (Good thing they're a girl color!) 

There is hope.

My $7 Glue Gun

I'll never forget the day I became its owner--over fourteen years ago.

Two moms had come into my classroom that day to help my fourth graders assemble a craft. A few minutes into the project, one mom said, "This glue gun isn't working."

I said, "Oh, that one's mine. It doesn't get very hot, but I think it's still usable... isn't it?"

She said, "Well, it might cost us a lot of time. I'll run get a new one." So she did.

Just before leaving, she said, "The glue gun was $7, when you get a chance..."

Seven dollars! I had just figured she was buying it for herself.  I would've labored into the night to save myself the pain of parting with $7.  Especially $7 for a glue gun, of all things! I was a single Christian school teacher, with a school loan and a tiny salary. After the rent, electrical, and phone siphoned off their shares, I had about $20 a week for groceries and spending money. $7 really hurt.

That mom was one of the kindest and most generous ladies that I've ever had the pleasure of working with. I'm sure that she never even once considered that a $7 purchase would create a hardship for me. Now, I've stepped into her shoes. I'm the mother of a fourth grader and I spend $7 almost unconsciously, as I round the McDonald's drive-through curb.

I decided to leave the glue gun out for a while. It reminds me how much $7 really is, and how much God has entrusted to me. It also reminds me to be considerate and generous toward others.

Titus 3:2 "...show perfect courtesy toward all people."

A Purple Smudged Valentine

Cade used a purple marker to address his Valentines, and insisted that he did not want or need my help.  Now, I was at his side helping him decipher the purple smears on the glossy paper.

It was tricky because he could only fit about three purple letters in a row under the "TO:", and then the rest of the letters were placed randomly below.  You had to really rely on those first three.  Somehow, any trouble deciding whom a particular Valentine belonged to seemed to be my fault.  

We were stuck on Kat...  I decided it had to be Katelyn because there was definitely a 'Y' among the letters below.  "Katelyn?  Do you have a Katelyn in your class, Cade?"  No.  He didn't. 

I tried again.  "Kathryn?  Is there a Kathryn?"  Nope.  No Kathryn. 

I held the Valentine up under my nose while Cade tugged impatiently on my sleeve.  I said, "Cade, it's got to be Katelyn.  There are all the letters for 'Katelyn'.  Are you sure you don't have a Katelyn?"

"Mom.  We do NOT have a Katelyn in here," said my all knowing kindergärtner through his clenched (with one missing) teeth. 

Just then, Cade's teacher walked by.  I asked if he might possibly know of a Katelyn in the room.

"Yup.  Right over there."  He pointed to poor, sweet Katelyn, who was sitting right where she always sat.  Cade said, "Ohhhh... yeah.... Katelyn."  Apparently he rarely looked over in that direction.

Cade reminds me so much of myself.  I glance at my purple-smudged life notes and feel that I can speak decisively about my world and the people in it.  But there are people right beside me whom I don't even see.  Jesus, however, knows every soul exhaustively.  His Valentines were addressed before the beginning of the world... with each name spelled perfectly.  

Good-Bye Kisses in the Dark

My husband, Ken, has kissed a sleeping wife goodbye every weekday morning for the last thirteen years.  That is, thirteen years minus the first week after our honeymoon. 
 
That first week in our cozy little apartment, I got up to fix his breakfast, make his lunch, and kiss him goodbye at the door.  Unfortunately, this was a very short lived glitch in my sleep-till-the-last-possible-minute routine.  Nowadays, I stock pile instant oatmeal, portion off little ziplock containers of leftovers for his lunch, and try to at least whisper, ‘Bye, Hon’, when he leans down to kiss me goodbye. (Just to clarify, it’s still dark--only about 5:15 a.m.--when this occurs.)
 
Poor Ken.  I’m not sure if we ever had a pre-marriage discussion about whether we’d eat breakfast together.  But I’m thankful that he loves me, even if our mornings might not be quite what he once envisioned.
 
What’s shocking is that Christ chose me to be part of his Bride, knowing every negative trait I would ever have.  I know he didn’t choose me because of who I am, but I’m amazed that he chose me in spite of it.

Making the USPS Look Good

I can't imagine anyone would want to intercept this on its path to my child's teacher.  Nor can I imagine that the teacher will hug the thing (what's a few more crumples?) and say, "Really??  For me??" 

God bless teachers.  Especially the ones who bless little boys.

A Map Home

I forgot to tell my daughter how to get home. 

The plan was to drop her off at Heidi's, when I picked Heidi up for the shower.  She would watch Heidi's kids until Heidi's inlaws could get there, and they would bring her home.  Only Heidi's inlaws didn't know how to get to our home.  And neither did she.

Poor Lindsay.  At the end of the driveway, Heidi's father-in-law said, "Which way?"  In surprise, Lindsay responded, "Oh!  I'm... not really good at directions."  For the eleven years of her life she's been riding around looking out windows with no thought of how the roads lead toward home.  She only knows that eventually she gets there.  Only, now she wasn't so sure she ever would.

They picked a direction and drove, looking for something that would jog her memory.  A familiar corner?  A recognizable business?  A street?  A sign?  A hint?  Nope.  None.  For an HOUR they continued on this aimless trajectory. (This has to be one of the most patient men ever created by God.)  Then she saw it.  The high school!  Shining in all of its glory.  She had her ticket home.  (We drive to and from the high school most every night for swim practice.)

Oh, how I wish I had drawn her a map.  I felt so incredibly inconsiderate!  I felt totally responsible!  I had wasted a stranger's Saturday afternoon, and my daughter's confidence. 

I'm sure there will be other times that I forget to draw her a map.  No parent maps out every situation that her daughter will encounter with painstaking perfection.  But if she's to go out into the world, I must fervently teach her how to get home.  Home to the support and advice and perspective and love that only parents can give.  Home base is where tears can be loosed, guards let down, and feelings exposed.  Home is where we can put it all together again.  Lord, please keep her coming home. 

The Fry Lifter

One day, when Cade was three, we met Daddy for lunch at his work’s cafeteria.  Halfway through the meal, Cade wandered over to the table next to us, and began chatting with a couple of Amway executives, who were also having lunch.  We could see them graciously smiling and nodding toward him as he chattered, so we weren’t too worried, but we did look for the right opportunity to call him back to his seat.

Then we saw Cade reach—mid sentence—and take a French fry from one man’s plate, dip it in his ketchup, and eat it.  I immediately darted from my seat, scooped him up, and told him, “Ok, Buddy… Say, ‘Bye bye!’”. 

Back at our table, it was difficult explain to Cade the error of his ways, since we had just allowed him to snitch every last fry from our own plates (which was probably why he wandered over in the first place). 

Our kids learn right from wrong in the context of our family.  Fry lifting, manipulating, ingratitude, rudeness, and taking advantage of people… all of these are categorized as ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ simply by what Cade sees in our home.  Parenting holds some weighty responsibility... with a lot more than fries at stake! 

Puffs of Powder & Pastor Austin

When I was in middle school, my youth group went skiing.  Pastor Austin, who loved all things fast, was our slope mentor, darting from one new skier to another.  If you happened to be lying on your back with your skis and poles looking like a pile of Pick Up Sticks, he would shwoosh to your side, put out his hand and instantly pop you up in the right direction (remember… I was living in a tiny middle schooler body at this point).  He’d give you a pointer or two, grin, then take off.  You could spot him all the way down the hill by these little puffs of powder with each zig zag he made.
 
I couldn’t really get the zig zag thing.  Directing my skis toward pine trees or steep looking cliffs made me nervous, so I tried to keep them in parallel lines, pointing toward the bottom of the hill at all times.  This worked beautifully on the hills that were (as another new skier wrote this week) the size of a pimple.  But then I took this approach to the mountain. 
 
With ski tips pointed toward the lodge below (which looked like a Monopoly-sized hotel), I was shocked at how quickly my velocity doubled and then tripled.  The wind whipped my eyelids back into little squints, so that I could only barely make out a skier just ahead.  It was Pastor Austin.  I was gaining on him and knew nothing else to do but yell out, “I’m commmmiiiiiiiiing!” 
 
He immediately widened his skis and made a triangle out of his legs so that I could hunch into a little ball and ski right through!  Some skiers on the lift above us cheered, as if this were a perfectly planned stunt, rather than a miraculous feat of wonder.
 
Good pastors do what Pastor Austin did.  When you’re on your back, they shwoosh to your side, and help you pick up your sticks and lay them straight.  But when you pick up so much velocity that you risk trampling others, they make a triangle, not a roadblock.  A good pastor zig zags gracefully, with balance.  He invites you to do the same. 
 
Do you know any good pastors?

Sighs and Smiles

In the car yesterday, Younger grumbled about several things in a row.  So, as I often do, I asked him to name ten things he was thankful for.  He mentioned Older in at least half of his thanksgivings.  "I'm thankful that Older plays Sorry! with me... I'm thankful that Older plays in the snow with me..."  Younger is greatly enamored with Older, and unfortunately the feeling is not quite mutual.

After Younger finished his list, I announced that we would be stopping for a quick lunch.  "Will you buy us pop?" asked Older.  No, I wouldn't.  "But will you let us buy our own pop?" asked Older.  Yes, I would. Older rejoiced, but Younger was sad because he did not have any money.

After a mile or so of silence, Older sighed heavily, and said, "I will buy your pop, Younger."  This was a nice gesture, but the words gave the impression of one being trapped beneath weighted objects.  Later, I asked Older privately, "Did you feel like you needed to buy Younger some pop because he said all of those nice things about you?"  A very burdened "Yes" was the response.  Apparently, Older valued each compliment at about $.25, and heaped together, the financial burden was staggering!  

When Older plunked down five quarters for the pop, Younger could sense that it burdensome.  We all could.  Younger wasn't sure if he should smile or frown.  Would a compliment about Older's generocity help?  Or just create more obligation for Older?  None of this really made Younger feel special or honored.  He wished that Older would've just smiled at the compliments; not sighed.

When I consider what Jesus has done for me, I sometimes feel a weighty debt pressing on me.  With heavy sighs, I visit some shut-ins and then teach Sunday School.  The more I consider Jesus' kindness, the more heavy and burdensome my debt feels.  Of course, I can't ever repay Jesus, but I feel that I should sacrificially pay down my debt in weekly increments. 

It would be more honoring to the Lord if I simply smiled... not sighed.  Jesus came to pay my debt, not create a debt for me.