Our friend, Dale, called my parents this afternoon and said, "I heard you went deer hunting last night."
They didn't have to hunt high and low; just straight ahead. The deer was staring right into their headlights from the middle of the highway.
With a smashed front end and activated air bags to boot, they feel quite confident that they got 'im.
What they didn't get was a glimpse of Mt. Rushmore. After visiting my sister in CO, they decided the additional eight hours north would be worth it. But seven hours in, dear Mr. Deer set up a roadblock. And in the Bad Lands, after a storm has blown in and sent everybody scurrying to the rent-a-car place, it's hard to find transportation.
Me: "Mom, can't you just take a bus or a train or something?"
Mom: "No... Honey, you don't understand where we are. There's nothing out here."
As I write from my comfy couch, my parents are buckled into a tiny rental car somewhere on an Iowa interstate, on the lookout for deer.
Such a shame to go all that way and not see Mt. Rushmore. But while faces carved in rock are impressive, a brush with death causes you to crave those faces carved into your heart. Sometimes roadblocks cause you to reset your GPS to 'home'.
A couple years ago, there was a new administrative assistant in my husband's area at work. Ken had been introduced to her several times, but he's not always great with names.
He stopped by her desk and asked, "Hey, can I leave this with you? Thanks, Laverne." Then he hesitated, second guessing himself, and asked, "Or...is it... Shirley?"
She was not amused.
Aren't you glad that God knows your name? When he drops off a new assignment, he knows exactly who he's giving it to. And better yet, he's equipped you with past experiences and a strategic design which allow you to contribute in a way that no other individual on earth could (Eph. 2:10).
Doesn't that make you want to get back to work??
I was standing in the 3 foot end of our neighborhood pool, when four-year-old Cole said, “Mommy, look what I can do!” From the pool deck beside me, he did a perfect dive that arched straight toward the bottom of the pool.
Horrified, I yanked him up from the water in a panic. He was fine, but I wasn’t.
Like most moms, I try to protect my kids from peril, which lurks around every corner. But in this case, I'd never even warned Cole about diving risks because I didn't know he knew how to dive!
Sometimes, even when I do warn about hot stoves and electrical outlets, my kids don’t listen. Bottom line: I am not in control. I might think I am, but I'm not. The smaller my child, the more convincing the mirage that I have control over his fate. But whether he's crossing the street under my watchful gaze or dating an alcoholic behind my back, I mustn't hope in my ability to warn and control my child.
My hope is in the Lord. No matter how deep the dive, his arms are there, holding all things together for his purposes (Col. 1:16-17)
Cole is quite proud of the red bandanna pillow he made at Camp Calvary. Yes, my boy took the Sewing Class. He wanted to do archery, but apparently all the boys did. So he was assigned to Sewing, where there was ample room in the circle of fair maidens for one more seamstress... errr...seamster. He had a great time.
Just a few days before camp, Cole's button popped off his shorts. Not because they were tight; rather because he pulled them on without unbuttoning. Again. His button just gave up and let go.
I said, "OK. So now, you get to sew it back on." He hung his head, and headed off to gather the sewing stuff. A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen and found him, tugging the shorts--which he was still wearing--toward the sewing machine he had fetched. With the button in hand, he nodded toward the machine and asked, "How does this thing work?"
I'm sure you'll agree that Cole's pillow, which is embellished with several decorative buttons and was created without the use of a sewing machine, is a masterpiece!
This weekend, we drove by the apartment Ken lived in when I first met him, and reminisced about the day he was packing to move out. It had been my idea for him to move to the other side of town, so I was there helping him pack.
Surprisingly, he suggested a mid-afternoon break. There was a pretty park across the street, and he thought it would be nice to take one last walk.
At the door, he slipped on a jacket and mumbled something about catching cold. I said, "Oh! I didn't know it was chilly. Could I borrow a jacket, too?" I put on the one he gave me, but once we got outside I said, "This one's really big. Can I wear that one in stead?"
"No," he said.
"No?" I asked quizzically.
"No," he repeated.
He was walking on ahead, so I shuffled faster to catch up, the oversized sleeves flapping at my sides.
Now, fifteen years later, we laugh about the jackets. It would have been just like me to press for my way--to fuss and persuade and cajole him into trading with me. But doing so would have ruined the surprise. For tucked into the pocket of the jacket he wore was the most beautiful engagement ring I'd ever seen, completely designed and selected with me in mind.
Ken said ‘no' that day, not because he wanted to limit my happiness. Actually, he was working up to one of the happiest moments of my life.
Has God given you any flat out no's lately? Isn't it frustrating and painful? But if a would-be groom says no because of the rocks in his pocket, I wonder what God, who loves you perfectly, might have waiting in his pocket for you?
With two-year-old granddaughter Lindsay on her hip, my mom told the sales woman on the other side of the counter that she was there to pick up an order. The woman asked for her name, and Mom said, "Judie."
As the woman left to retrieve the order, Lindsay put her chubby hands on each side of Mom's face, and asked incredulously, "You name is Judie??"
Sometimes I feel like Lindsay. The God I thought I knew intimately seems suddenly foreign and unfamiliar. Like today, when my dear friend-a mommy of three little boys-called to say she has cancer. Or like last week, when I noticed a disconcerting symptom in my child.
From my surprised, worrisome spot, I ask incredulously, "Your name is Jehovah Makaddishkem-the God who sanctifies?" or "Your name is Adonai? Supreme Master over all?"
But my God doesn't chide me for not knowing all his names. He shows me that his Name is worthy of all my praise.
'Old Blue' was the car that I drove in high school. It wasn't my car, but I did use it quite a bit, and my parents asked me to fill it with gas for my outings.
My friend, Jackie, remembers us digging around in Old Blue, scrounging up enough gas money to make our destination. "Look in the seats!" I'd say. "And there's got to be some more in the bottom of my purse..." When we found a whole quarter, it was a big deal. We'd put in a half gallon of gas, or a third... whatever we could afford. I was good at making the pump stop at exactly what I had in my hand.
$0.73? Sure thing! We only needed enough to get where we were going. And back, of course. It got tricky when there was a detour. It occurred to me that I'm no longer driving Old Blue, but I'm still running on 'E'. Not a lot in reserve. I don't ask God for help because I've probably got what I need... either in my tank, or in the bottom of my purse.
But God is the pump with never-ending supply. He says, ‘Fill ‘er up' every time.
Remember when the disciples could scrounge up only one sack lunch? Jesus didn't say to the crowd, "Now take only what you absolutely need... just enough of a nibble to get yourselves home without passing out." No! He used those tiny loaves to completely fill five thousand men and their families (Matt. 14). Full!
I want Jesus to fill me completely up with his Spirit. I don't want to sputter through the day, just barely avoiding engine failure-ish sin. I want to pedal-to-the-metal my way up God's adventurous high calling for the day! Today's road might be littered with whiny kids, frustrating marital disagreements, and disappointments, but that's OK. A tank full of the Spirit will fuel those idle, roadside moments as readily as a steep mountainside incline.
Before we rouse the children (or they rouse us!) for today's road trip, let's check the gas gage. If we're not completely full, maybe we've been scrounging in the seats, rather than letting Christ ‘fill ‘er up'.
"Mommy!" Cade diverted my attention from the library's catalogue computer screen. "I just read this whole book! And look... it has a three. Does that mean it's a third grade book?" My kindergarten graduate was holding the book against his puffed out chest, and pointing to the circled three in the bottom left corner.
"I don't know...." I said intriguingly. His eyes widened to match mine. "You could maybe ask the librarian." He spun with anticipation and marched toward her desk, while I turned back to my screen with a smile. A few moments later, he returned to announce, "She says it IS a third grade book!"
"Buddy, I am so proud of you!" I exclaimed, and the satisfaction that glowed out of his little grin is a memory that I will save for a rainy day. Of course it's not measurable, but I think I felt just as happy as he did.
If you've never had a six-year-old read a book with a three on it, you wouldn't understand. It's not that reading such a book is so impressive. I could do so effortlessly (though if I bragged about this, you might think my tiny paragraphs were getting too tiny to read). And I'm sure this book has traveled among the chubby hands of many, many young boys.
But to see my boy hold up his book with pride, made me want to sing with joy (except that I was in the library). I wonder if this is what God means when he says he will take great delight in me, and rejoice over me with singing (Zeph. 3:17). I certainly can't produce some world class talent that would make a splash in his ocean-wide vantage point.
But I'm his. This means that no matter what number my book has in its corner, he will rejoice over me! That makes me want to sing along with Him.
My lecture resembled a 'seek-and-destroy' mission, in which I had locked on certain targeted attitudes--ungratefulness, being hard to please, spreading negativity-- and blasted away for ten straight minutes. The following interchange happened post attack:
me: "I'm sorry I was so hard on you, Honey. It's just that you're always so easy to please and you're usually very appreciative. I just didn't understand why you wouldn't want to go. Plus, you loved it last time."
my boy: "Mom, I did like it. And I did want to go... But last time some kids asked if I was coming back, and then they rolled their eyes when I said ‘yes'. So that made me not want to go."
Why, why, why do I lecture before I listen??? Why do I attack rather than attend? Holy Spirit, please guide me to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry with my children.
It's officially the second day of summer and we've already made an emergency run to the library. Does anyone else have a book worm-let at their house? Mine is a tween, which makes book finding that much more difficult. Twilight? Pretties and Uglies? There's got to be something that will more nutritionally feed her mind...
Alice Daniels to the rescue! My friend, Alice, recently posted some of her favorite tween books, and my daughter Lindsay has already inhaled most of them. We had to request an interlibrary loan for most of these, but each one has been a great suggestion. Alice is an editor with discerning Christian taste, and absolutely loves to read. Many of these are books that she read when she was a tween (just a few summer days ago... back when we would have called her a junior higher. :))
Here are a few of Alice's suggestions with Lindsay's reactions.
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The Betsy-Tacy series by Maud Hart Lovelace; Lindsay: "At first I thought these stories were for little girls, even though I really liked them. But as the characters grow up, they seem more for my age. I have read three of the six so far. The girls make me laugh with the things they come up with to do--like when they each cut off half of each other's hair to remember each other by!"
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The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy by Jeanne Birdsall; Lindsay: "I felt like I got to know each of the four sisters. I'm most like Rosalind, who is quiet and responsible. But the other sisters made me laugh with their adventures of spying and falling into bull pens."
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The Ark by Margot Benary-Isbert; Lindsay: "I really want to buy this one to keep forever, but I'm so sad because Amazon only has a used copy for $107.64!! I was sneakily reading this while I was supposed to be watching my brother's baseball game last week... I just could never find a good stopping point because I always wanted to find out what happened next!"
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The View From Saturday by E. L. Konigsburg; Lindsay: "This was a unique kind of book. It tells four stories that come together at the end, when the four children start having tea every Saturday at 4:00. I also loved From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by the same author."
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The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart; Lindsay: "I read these last summer and liked them so much that I got the set for Christmas. Now, this is going to sound really dumb... The story is about a man who is taking over the world, but four kids with special skills stop him. But I promise these books aren't dumb! The author is really good at building suspense. I loved these."
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The Railway Children by E. Nesbit; Lindsay: "I liked this so much when I read it several years ago, that I read it again!
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The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge; Lindsay: "I just started this one yesterday. It's about a girl who goes to a mansion because her mom and dad died, and she starts discovering things that have happened in the past, and how she could be the one to fix them all... I think I need to go read some more, now!"
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Rainbow Garden, Treasures of the Snow, Star of Light, and Tanglewoods Secret by Patricia St. John; Lindsay: "These are next on my list!"
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The Witch of BlackBird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare; Lindsay: "I read this last year and had forgotten about what a great book it is! I need to read this one again. My mom remembers me sending her to the library in hunt of other books by this author. I don't remember that, but maybe after I reread it, I'll be sending her again!" (Shannon: "I must admit, I'm like a dog with a rubber ball when you throw out a good book suggestion for my kids!")
For the rest of Alice's suggestions, go here. And if you have more tween book suggestions, by all means, please post a comment!!
When Lindsay was two, she grabbed a tube of my lipstick and, on her way over to the mirror, said, "I gonna go get all pretty."
When she got to the mirror and looked in, she said, "Oh! I is all pretty!"
When have you last seen a female look into a mirror and become pleasantly surprised?
God's word is the mirror that we should be most concerned about. This summer, I'm planning to go get ‘all pretty'. Are you?
Let’s face it. It’s way more fun to sin in the company of a good friend than by yourself.
As guys often do, Cade struggles with using words he shouldn’t. I think he loves that tough feeling of saying something that is off limits. But his struggle always intensifies when he finds a friend who also loves to use these words.
Once, at our neighborhood pool, Cade and another three year old were in the middle of the pool together, buoyed by inner tubes and floaties. From my perch in the pool chair, I heard the other boy say, “Poop!” which sent them both into laughing hysterics. Then Cade said, “Fart!” and they cackled even louder. They could’ve entertained themselves for days in this manner.
Since childhood, I’ve struggled with the whole ‘being a friend of sinners’ thing. The particular denomination that I was raised in is often criticized for taking pride in what they didn’t do. And I agree with that criticism. Pride and self elevation are the biggest sins we can muster. (Just think of what Jesus said to the Pharisees, as opposed to the prostitutes and tax collectors!)
But should a true friend offer the next naughty word? Or tag along on every drinking binge and husband bashing session? Is that loving or kind?
Jesus was a friend of sinners. But he never condoned sin. He was always saying, “Go and sin no more.” In befriending each other (we’re all sinners here), we must not condone each others’ sin, or make each other feel more comfortable in sin. This isn’t Christ like, and it’s not what true friends do.
If you are my true friend, you know that my sin of choice will eventually bring me pain, unhappiness, and misery. Don’t offer me camaraderie while I indulge! The worst thing you can do is stay there, floating beside me in the pool, and throw out another off-limits word, which will make me throw my head back and howl even louder. Rather, why not offer me a more wholesome option; one that would honor Jesus?
But, I’ll warn you. The most friend-like thing you can do for me in that moment might be to hop out of the pool.
I was scheduled to be induced at 3:00. Ken, always the supportive husband, was home from work by 12:00. What better way to make use of his support than to leave for a last minute shopping run? I wouldn’t be going out much after baby #3 arrived. Plus, I reaaaaally needed to find something to wear home from the hospital.
At 2:15, I was still in the dressing room at Kohl’s. This was a bad idea. Did I really think I’d be able to tell how these clothes would fit post partum? Each item I had plucked from the rack had at least 2% spandex, but come on.
Deciding to ditch the whole effort, I reached for the door. It didn’t move.
I jiggled the latch. No budge.
I tugged it harder. This door was stuck.
I started to feel very hot, very panicky, and very pregnant. I looked at the little passage beneath the door and eyeballed its height in contrast with my protruding stomach. Not happening. I checked my watch. 2:17. Ten minutes to get home. Twenty to get to the hospital.
I began banging on the door. “HELP!!! Is anybody out there?” Of course, there were
twenty women out there. This was Kohl’s. Two women came to my rescue, and talked calmly to me through the dressing room door. I felt like a kitty stuck up a tree (a very large kitty). I knew I wasn’t where I should be right now, but I just couldn’t get myself free!
My new friends on the other side of the door suggested that I keep jiggling the latch. Could I tap it with something hard? A lipstick tube or something? One went to get an employee. As we waited, I sobbed to the other, “I’m pregnant and I was supposed to be induced at 3:00. But I’m stuuuuuuck!!!” I think she didn’t know what to say.
I can’t even remember how the Kohl’s employee unlocked the door. I think she tapped under the latch through the crack in the door with something. I just remember swinging that door open and launching my large, pregnant self out of that tiny cubical! The air conditioning blew my sweaty hair back from my forehead as I waddled my swollen feet forward. I was free!!!
There are times that I lock myself in spiritually, too. I convince myself that this little place, tucked safely away from whatever God wants to birth in me, is where I want to be. What's coming is sure to be painful, and I just want to ignore it.
It’s only when the door sticks that I realize I’m actually not locked in; I’m locked
out! The thing that God wants to birth in me—whether it’s self control, kindness, or humility—is the good thing. My little cubical of self-indulgence, pride, or anger is
not where I want to stay.
My first year of teaching, straight out of the chute, I unintentionally created havoc in the homes of my second graders.
As the children were packing up on Friday for the weekend, I told them, “Now, I won’t see you on Monday, because it’s Memorial Day! Does anyone know why we celebrate Memorial Day?”
They didn’t. So I told them. I talked about how the word ‘memorial’ is related to ‘memory’ or ‘remembering’. We discussed different ways we might remember people who have sacrificed for our country.
I asked, “Does anyone have a family member who has served in the military?” Several hands shot up. You could almost see the kids inflate with pride as I emphasized, with great animation, the significant roles that their own family members have played in our nation’s great history.
My second graders listened with earnest intensity as I described the different branches of our military, and the great honor of serving in them. Then, I let them loose for a nice, long Memorial Day weekend.
The only problem was, it was Labor Day weekend. Oopsie.
When I returned the next Tuesday, several parents relayed the interesting comments their children had made about the holiday we had just observed. One parent told me that his little girl absolutely refused to consider that it was not Memorial Day. Stamping her foot, she looked up into his face, and said, “But, Daddy, Teacher said!”
Teachers have great influence over children, don’t they? And over adults, too. But obviously, teachers sometimes get it wrong.
Those of us who love our teachers deeply must be careful not to behave like a second grader, stamping our foot and insisting, “Teacher said!” Our Father God is the only teacher whose Word can have no error.
On the way back from Lindsay’s field trip to Chicago yesterday, our bus stopped for a fast food dinner. I found myself in a traffic jam of sixth graders in the lobby of Taco Bell. One girl, standing right next to me, pointed her thumb in my direction, and asked the kids around her, “Does anyone know whose mom this is?”
I felt like a misplaced hat. Or a forgotten jacket. This girl was asking someone to ID me. I guess she forgot that adults can actually speak intelligibly. I grinned and said, “I could probably answer that. But first you have to tell me whose daughter you are.” Surprised that I had addressed her, she said, “Oh… Umm… I don’t think you know my mom. She’s not here…”
I pointed Lindsay out to her anyway.
Chaperoning is a tricky thing. Sixth graders think that you are irrelevant to the itinerary. They don’t really know why you’re there. They certainly don’t think they need you. And you, on the other hand, know that you don’t need them. But you’re trying to keep a watchful eye on them at all times.
Reminds me of a quote by Francis Chan: “The irony is that while God doesn’t need us but still wants us, we desperately need God but don’t really want Him most of the time.” (Crazy Love, p. 61).
Most of the time, I’m like a kid with my thumb pointed to the heavens asking, “Does anybody know whose Creator and Sustainer this is?”
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