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.
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.
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!
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?
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.
This weekend, Ken took Cole on a father/son retreat. On Friday night after the kids were in bed, I was sitting in the living room downloading some iTunes, when suddenly I had a strange feeling. It wasn’t so much that I missed Ken (though I did); it was more of an acute awareness that he was not there.
“What’s the difference?” I asked myself. Often Ken goes to bed before me (he also gets up WAY before me), and so it’s not unusual for me to be alone in the living room after dark. Suddenly I knew what it was: It wasn’t dark! In fact, it was very, very light. The two story entry lights were burning, along with the living room, kitchen, laundry room, and hallway lights. This display of our electrical output capacity is something you’d never see if Ken were home. He turns off lights constantly.
More than once, I have found myself in the storage room, completely blinded because Ken has, unknowingly, flicked off the hallway light. Just before guests arrive, I often walk around turning on lamps to create an inviting atmosphere. Unless I say something, Ken trails behind me turning them all off. If you’re not using a light bulb to see something in particular, he sees absolutely no reason for it to be consuming energy.
So there I was, all by myself, in a completely lit house. Out of respect for my dear husband, I quickly turned off all but the lamp beside me. But I had to laugh at the conspicuous difference in our home without Ken. Father of lights, he is not.
Ken and I are as different as night and day… or in this case, light and dark. Only light or only dark would bring catastrophe to our world. God combined light and dark to make a very good day, and he combined Ken and me to make a very good couple.
When Lindsay was almost three, I was practicing her alphabet flashcards with her. My maternal pride swelled with each letter that she named correctly: P, S, L, T.... But when I showed Lindsay the letter "U", she said, "Me!"
I said, "No, honey. That one's 'U'."
She said, "Yea! Me!" Her confident grin was contagious.
I have the same problem that Lindsay did. I hear 'U', and think 'me'. If U let your baby eat on demand, I second guess me, with my feeding schedule. If U go back to work, I wonder about me, still at home. If U decide to homeschool, I fret about me, with my kids in public school. If U lose every extra pound, I pinch me, and find more than an inch. I hear U, but I think ME. Me, me, me, me, me...
Peter once asked Jesus what was going to happen to John, who was tagging along behind as they walked. Jesus said to him, "What is that to you? You must follow me." Two people, both following Jesus, will not walk the same path. Our Lord charts out personalized courses for us. He says, "U must follow ME."
When I was expecting our first child, Ken and I spent a weekend caring for our friends' three-year-old twins and two-year-old. I thought, "This will be a good opportunity for Ken to practice his soon-to-be-employed 'Daddy' skills."
Saturday morning, I made breakfast, and we all sat at the table, ready to eat. Ken said, "Let's pray." He folded his fingers at his chest and leaned forward earnestly, with his eyes crinkled shut. "Deeeeaaaaar JESus," he began, quite loudly in a babyish voice, with great expression. "Thaaaaank you foooor this deLIcious foood that YOU have proVIDed." When I opened my eyes to peak, I almost burst out laughing. All three kids were staring at him with puzzled expressions and their mouths hanging open. They looked as if they wondered, "Does this guy think that Jesus is hard of hearing, or that He's just learning English or something?"
Of course, Ken doesn't always pray this way. He was trying to adapt his prayer for the sake of our young friends. Apparently, he simplified it a little too much.
Though I now have twelve years experience in parenting, I still struggle with trying to make this faith of mine child friendly. I certainly don't want to adapt God and give my kids an unbiblical view of Him, but I wrestle with wanting to simplify God. I want to protect my kids from troubling questions like, 'Why did God make sin?' or 'Why does God create people that he knows will reject Him and will be punished in hell?' But then, these very questions have drawn ME closer to God and caused me to bow to His glory, which is exactly what I want for my children.
I think a key in making my faith 'child friendly' is to not adapt my prayers in their presence. I want my kids to overhear the way I speak to my Father--to hear the respect in my voice and the adoration in my words. If I pray as if Jesus can't hear me or that he's not able to comprehend my struggles, I know I have simplified too much.
My Aunt Jo and Uncle Era told me this story—an interchange, which a friend of a friend claimed to over hear. I can’t verify that it’s true, but I sure hope so, because it cracks me up every time I tell it:
A traveling couple stopped at Burger King to stretch their legs and grab a bite to eat. When they finished eating, they decided to consult their map before going back out to their car. The town which they had stopped in had a very long, hard-to-pronounce name.
Curious, they brought the map up to the counter, pointed to their location, and said to the young man behind the cash register, "Can you, very slowly, tell us where we are right now?"
The boy replied, "Burrr-gerrr Kiiiing."
As a college student, I helped out with my church's youth group. After the evening service, one snowy Sunday, I went out to my car to grab my casual clothes, so I could change out of my church clothes before the youth event. (Waaaay back then, these were two separate sets of clothing). As I approached my car, now covered with a thick blanket of snow, a brilliant idea came to mind! I could climb in and get changed in the privacy of my snow shrouded vehicle!
Pleased with my own ingenuity, I turned the car on, let it warm up a bit and then started changing. Halfway through this process (when the church clothes were off and the casual clothes were not quite on), I was shocked to see a tiny snow-less patch forming in the corner section of my windshield. In horror I watched the patch lengthen and stretch higher. It was growing far too quickly for me to dress, so I pulled my jacket over me and sat huddled beneath, smiling sweetly at the mannerly young man who had created my predicament.
He was one of the other youth leaders. He had scraped off his own car and, seeing mine running but still buried, had decided to be a gentleman. He had no idea why I was not more grateful!
At times, I've been the one with the ice scraper in hand. I’ve seen a need and gone scraping away. But the person I’m trying to shovel out feels exposed rather than grateful. I’m learning to be more gracious when I try to help. There may be more (or less!) underneath than I suppose.
Just before our guests arrived on New Year's Eve, I gathered my family into the kitchen and asked Ken if he'd like to lead us in preparing to be good hosts. In doing so, I observed three things:
- Ken is our family's leader, not me. Sometimes, I have to remind myself of this, since I constantly give directions in his absence. It would've been very natural for me to call the kids in and remind them to use their manners, and not even involve Ken. But as we gathered on the kitchen barstools and Ken asked us to individually consider our biggest weakness in hosting, it was exactly what we needed. I was amazed at the transparency and open hearted prayers that followed.
- Ken does a better job of leading our family than I do. I was so distracted by food prep and lighting candles and getting the dog in his cage, that my attempt at preparing our hearts to serve would've been reduced to a 30 second lecture. Rather, I was gifted with a moment to self reflect, and pray that God would give me the desire to be hospitable, not entertain.
- I make a good helper. If I had not gathered our family, this little moment which added so much flavor and direction to the evening, might not have happened. My job is to set my man up to lead. I compliment him and help make him a better leader.
In 2010, I want to excel in this role that God has ‘cast' me-the supporting role of ‘helper'.
"I want to meet the Claus's," said six-year-old Cade emphatically. "They are such nice people!"
I thought this was a very sweet thing for my boy to say. Rather than just happily collecting whatever is placed beneath the tree tonight, Cade would like to meet the guy who dropped the stuff off. He'd like to meet his wife, too. Get to know them a bit. They're probably really nice people. Generous, for sure!
I wonder how many Christians-those who have collected the Gift distributed by Jesus-are anxious to meet Him. Are we simply pleased with his generosity? Or do we anticipate with deep longing, the day that we'll see his face?
I wrote recently about my husband's uncharacteristic sentimentality toward his 20-year-old stereo. But I learned today that he has company. Listen to the emotion in these guys' (no women... I sense a pattern) email responses to our ad: 
Having been a Craig's list electronics junkie for the past 1/2 year, I can honestly say your ad was the most exciting ad I've encountered. I have never before seen B&W, or Rotel listed. Adcom amps are shown occasionally... The excitement of having a chance at this equipment had my pulse up with anticapation. I know this equipment is worth all you can get for it and even though I have to bow out at this time, thanks at least for the excitement. Merry Christmas
* * * * * * * * *
I wanted to share that I'm a college student [is he even as old as the stereo??] who has been dreaming about owning system like the one you have for sale. Owning B&W speakers, having a Rotel Pre-Amp and driving the B&W's with the Adcom, I will be so happy. Please sell this system to me, it would make my Christmas... seriously. Thanks again.
* * * * * * * * *
These were only two of the 25 passionate buyers. And the ad was only up for five hours. A few have bowed out, but the others are tripping over each other with bids on my husband's stereo. I had to bite my tongue when he started talking about choosing the ‘best home' for the thing. I'm going to step in if he starts asking bidders about music preferences.
Ken's head is high and his shoulders are back. I'm not sure if it's because his taste has been validated, or because I have been forced to concede that the stereo holds more than just sentimental value.
Either way, we all win. I get the stereo off of my dining room floor. Ken gets to say that he had the most exciting ad of the year on Craig's List. And some lucky bidder gets a twenty year old stereo.
One woman's junk. Many men's treasure. I hope these guys are aware that this stereo has no docking station.
We have a friend whose trajectory in life seems to always be on a steady incline which never dips. Some years ago, he criticized my husband and me because our plotline was, at that point, tanking.
This was less than encouraging. It didn't make us feel good. We didn't like it. So, with no further ado, we slid him over to the ‘Christmas Card Only' friendship category-meaning, he gets no more and no less than one contact a year from us. And it's about that time.
But I'm rethinking this. We live in a consumer oriented world. Relationships are like deodorant. If performance dips, we cross that brand off our list and shop for an upgrade. Reconciliation isn't something we work very hard at, and at the rate of one Christmas card per year, it won't happen on its own.
Dialing this guy's number wouldn't play prelude to a cozy, fireside, Christmas moment for me. The idea makes my stomach churn. But such a call would represent the first Christmas well. Lying in scratchy hay amid bleating animals wasn't cozy either. But my Jesus lavishly spent his comfort on reconciliation. Now, he motions for me to come and taste the joy of reconciliation... at Christmas.
In Hobby Lobby today, a mom and her kids were looking at some little ceramic nativity sets-the kind that you paint. She said, "Oh, let's get this set, you guys! We can all work on it together! Look-there's a baby Jesus, a Mary, a Joseph..."
"No... ‘Cause I want my own baby Jesus," said the older girl.
"Me, too!" chimed in the little sister. The baby brother was trying to grab the ceramic Jesus from big sister's hands as she held it out of reach.
I thought it was sweet that they each wanted a baby Jesus of their own. But, I tried to picture their mantle, all lined up with five little baby Jesuses, each embellished with the flair and personal style of the individual painter.
It reminded me of what we have done with Jesus. Rather than intently gazing into the Scriptures to study Jesus' nature, we've crafted our own Jesus, according to personal taste and preference.
May your home be graced with only one Jesus this Christmas-the one depicted in the Gospel.
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