I need to document today. It's just a little crazy around here. My children are at school, my Magpie dear friend is helping me out as my husband is later than he thought getting them (we have a cover your fanny deal with being late for pick up), because he is purchasing the new van. (Except, wait, as I type this her text just said my daughter is with the assistant because her daughter just cracked her tooth and they are going to the dentist. Ok, so maybe I will have her younger daughter to watch? Stay tuned…) Then he is supposed take the oldest to art then home and at some point they will all eat lunch. (2pm??)
I am at home with the carpet cleaning men. (Don't be impressed- we've lived here 10 years now and first time a pro has cleaned them. Also, please don't judge. I readily admit we just hang on- as if this post doesn't have that SCREAMING all over it! :) I have a casserole bubbling in the oven and muffins about to go in because my precious friend just had her fourth baby. So later on today I get to see them all and get me some baby loving and smell that delicious thing of new baby blessing. I get to see proud big sister and brothers who are being raised to love the Lord and take care of each other. (I'll probably get teary. God's got my heart but tender things these days just take me there.)
Until then I just got update that my husband is with my Magpie's little girl in the waiting room, then he will take my older one to art, bring little one here, feed them all lunch and I leave to go bring the meal to my other dear friend. Then this afternoon both girls have swim in two different directions. And I'm not sure my husband finished buying the van…but they let him leave with it so maybe? But he is at the dentist with my friend's little and is making dental appointments, which I have had been meaning to make. My Magpie is a good friend like family so we are a loyal pair and thankful for my sweet husband to fill in for me. (As I sit and blog…oh my word what a day…)
I'm thankful. I'm feeling selfish because the old van is good enough to give to someone else, the new van is good enough for me. I have someone to clean my carpets, there are children living in filth. I have meals I am making for my family trying to avoid GMOs on our budget, there are children without homes. There are children who go hungry unless the school is open to feed them. I remember. I know. I used to teach some of those children. I tried to understand but I had a warm home with food in my pantry and clothes to wear. Amid this crazy, God is at work in my heart.
Even when you pray for God to make your heart like His and you half way mean it, He takes you full way there.
I'm happy and I'm distracted and I'm just blessed. Balls of feeling. Trusting God to turn this heart into new. To turn me into His new. Amid this crazy stuff just let me feel your peace and direction. (Also just prayed- please let me get to homeschool at least one lesson this week to educate my children because You know the proverbial buck stops with me. That is all. Amen)
I do not have to have it together. I can shed a tear when a mom is crying at drop off, empathize at the embarrassment of her child's separation, open up that I may have had time to put make up on but I admittedly do not have it together. That getting rid of a minivan made me cry, that I sin and fail and get up and forgive. My family forgives me and we love each other some kind of big.
I pray daily for guidance in raising my girls in this sick world where good triumphs evil you'd like to think but ultimately is made right when my Sweet Lord returns or we see Him face to face.
I can blog about all of this and risk people thinking I'm a crazy lady (but please don't because I'm working through people pleasing issues) because I am connected to the One who does have me together.
Our wedding rings have this inscribed, perhaps an odd verse for a couple of lovebirds' rings, but one my husband and I treasure.
He is before all things and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1:17
I am held together regardless of a crazy day, a tragedy, or zombie apocalypse. We are held together in Him. I pray I turn and give. I'll start with giving these dear men leaving my house a cookie for the road. (There was a reason I made entirely too many.) As long as they don't eat it on my clean carpets.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Saturday, November 16, 2013
A Hope that Flies
I got lost in downtown Raleigh today on our way to a friend's birthday party. I was answering some important questions which could not wait. "Mommy, which spiders bite? Do we have snakes in our backyard? Do Princess Sophia and Princess Amber have noses?" I think it was the last one that threw me for a loop and I missed my turn. We arrived at the birthday party, a few minutes late, but my heart wasn't prepared for the movie the birthday guests and I saw on butterflies.
When I think of butterflies, I think of my childhood friend who passed too soon her senior year of high school. A beautiful and talented girl who loved Jesus. She woke up for school one February day, flipped her Scripture calendar to Philippians 1:20 "I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death."
She pulled out of her driveway and was involved in a serious car accident. She met Jesus a few days later. Her family, friends, and community members wore butterflies in remembrance. Her mother may still wear the butterfly pin I remember from her funeral. Like the verse prepared, in her life and in her death, Christ was exalted. When I see butterflies, I think of her. She was a beautiful dancer, a talented musician, and a gifted student.
When I think of butterflies, I think of my childhood friend who passed too soon her senior year of high school. A beautiful and talented girl who loved Jesus. She woke up for school one February day, flipped her Scripture calendar to Philippians 1:20 "I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death."
She pulled out of her driveway and was involved in a serious car accident. She met Jesus a few days later. Her family, friends, and community members wore butterflies in remembrance. Her mother may still wear the butterfly pin I remember from her funeral. Like the verse prepared, in her life and in her death, Christ was exalted. When I see butterflies, I think of her. She was a beautiful dancer, a talented musician, and a gifted student.
The butterfly symbol resembles so much. Learning about these creatures more in depth today I can see why. I'm probably the only mother in the IMAX theater who was fighting back tears. Remembering this friend, recounting hope lost, hope gained, and beauty all around us.
When these little five year old girls, all donned with 3D glasses, saw the butterflies flying through the field, flying towards them, around them, between them, they stood up. They moved forward. They tried to reach, grasp, filled with delight and laughter and "if I could just catch one" feelings.
Like these little girls, the feeling of these beautiful creatures flying all around them was too much to contain their excitement. They wanted to hold onto one. Kind of like most people I meet want to hold on to hope.
It's interesting to me Monarchs have one of the longest migrations on Earth. Our path we're given can sometimes seem terribly long and daunting.
She rides the wind sometimes a mile high. Lord, sometimes that's all I can do, too. Rest in You. Ride the wind, in what seems like a mile from where others are and so far removed from my final destination.
Her feet are like insect GPS which fine tune her flight path, knowing exactly where to go. Lord, do I listen to you? Are we having dialogue? You are my GPS.
She tastes with her feet, knowing how much nectar she needs. Lord, am I tasting your goodness? Do I come to you to fill me up with You?
There are times when I have looked at God, waiting for a proverbial shoe to drop. That maybe He is good, but I would do something do fall out of his favor. Like when I was a teacher, and in the second grade classroom the children did a butterfly project. Each student received a cocoon, and they carefully placed them in the netting and waited for what seemed like forever.
After weeks of waiting, only one butterfly made it out alive. It was butterfly release day, and the whole class went outside to an open field. The teacher let the creature loose, he flew up, up, up, and then a bird swooped down and ate it. The assistant shrieked, the children cried, and the counselor was called in to do some "grief therapy". I was left with this analogy which described my faith, and the question, "Where does my hope lie?"
These butterflies fight a hard fight from the beginning and only a few in a million get past the egg stage. During migration, millions are killed. The dangers are so many. So many ways to lose hope around every corner.
But their secret to survival? Migration. Movement. When they feel the cold air they start to move. Change locations. They migrate to the perfect place that is far enough south to be warm, but cool enough in the evergreen forest with just enough moisture to survive. They live off their fat reserves until spring.
Like these little girls, the feeling of these beautiful creatures flying all around them was too much to contain their excitement. They wanted to hold onto one. Kind of like most people I meet want to hold on to hope.
It's interesting to me Monarchs have one of the longest migrations on Earth. Our path we're given can sometimes seem terribly long and daunting.
She rides the wind sometimes a mile high. Lord, sometimes that's all I can do, too. Rest in You. Ride the wind, in what seems like a mile from where others are and so far removed from my final destination.
Her feet are like insect GPS which fine tune her flight path, knowing exactly where to go. Lord, do I listen to you? Are we having dialogue? You are my GPS.
She tastes with her feet, knowing how much nectar she needs. Lord, am I tasting your goodness? Do I come to you to fill me up with You?
There are times when I have looked at God, waiting for a proverbial shoe to drop. That maybe He is good, but I would do something do fall out of his favor. Like when I was a teacher, and in the second grade classroom the children did a butterfly project. Each student received a cocoon, and they carefully placed them in the netting and waited for what seemed like forever.
After weeks of waiting, only one butterfly made it out alive. It was butterfly release day, and the whole class went outside to an open field. The teacher let the creature loose, he flew up, up, up, and then a bird swooped down and ate it. The assistant shrieked, the children cried, and the counselor was called in to do some "grief therapy". I was left with this analogy which described my faith, and the question, "Where does my hope lie?"
These butterflies fight a hard fight from the beginning and only a few in a million get past the egg stage. During migration, millions are killed. The dangers are so many. So many ways to lose hope around every corner.
But their secret to survival? Migration. Movement. When they feel the cold air they start to move. Change locations. They migrate to the perfect place that is far enough south to be warm, but cool enough in the evergreen forest with just enough moisture to survive. They live off their fat reserves until spring.
"Those who survive the winter drink in the spring warmth." Lord, prepare me for what lies ahead, fill me with Your eternal hope and love, and may I gracefully embrace your Truth.
Friday, November 15, 2013
I Like My Girls Like I Like My Tea
When my oldest was born, she was the most precious thing I had ever seen. I was in a pickle though. We didn't take any baby classes before her arrival. It wasn't that I didn't think I needed them, it was just I was full speed ahead finishing my degree and teaching full time. My husband had never changed a diaper, although he might have held a baby at some point. So when they told us it was time to name her, we told the dear lady we needed more time. When she came back 30 minutes later paperwork in hand, we had a name.
They told us it was time to leave the hospital, and I distinctly remember feeling vulnerable, and what the world- they are letting us leave with her?! The joke of where is the manual for this kid, yeah, that was us.
Both my husband and I come from a long line of Southern women, and given that we were blessed with a girl, you tend to do what you know. Smocked dresses, booties, ruffled diaper covers. Matching hair bows for each outfit. It didn't matter if I was too busy to do these things. We have two southern grandmas to help us out.
Back then, as any southern woman would tell you, I drank my tea straight up sweet. Does it come any other way, y'all? I've always liked strong tea, too. Ironically we found we only make strong girls.
My girls are sweet, too. They have a sweet spirit that occasionally erupts into fighting and screaming, but mostly, they really care about people. The kindness shows when they forgive me. "Mommy, I will always forgive you. You are mine," melting my heart and melding it with Jesus.
Then, then you have a second child. One that grows and grows and grows and you read new books. "Lord, how do I teach this one?" Your patience is tested as they both grow and you think, "Wow. Parenting is definitely not for sissies."
And you take her to ballet, and the girls are twirling in unison and she is making up her own moves, like Mick Jagger in the mirror, throwing in a twirl here and there because it is ballet, of course. The parents give me sideways glances and I just smile and say to myself, "Wait. Your time might be coming..." Always dancing to her own beat. Speaks up truth and hasn't learned tact quite yet. You find yourself saying, "Haha! I love this one and her spice! Speak it!"
About this time my dear friend introduced me to Chai tea. The timing was impeccable as this little one was really growing more spicy and I was switching up my tune. Throwing in some spice here and there, laying off the sugar and taking it straight up bitter. Strong. With my pinkie up, of course.
I grew more and more aware of how early sexism starts having these little girls. One of my girls might have a "moment" and I got comments. (Well, let's say I still get comments.) "Oh the drama!" "Boys are so much easier." Or, "You just wait until they go through puberty!" (Insert eye roll.)
The man in the paint store who looks at my girls with their strollers, playing, "Oh, I am SO glad I don't have girls!" You give him a, "Well, good thing the Good Lord knew you couldn't handle one." And he's taken off guard and you just don't care because these ignorant comments are coming more and more frequently and he's talking about a blessing. My blessed child.
These girls have selective time with these individuals, but they hear these comments. They both have good memories and they see mama fighting, nicely, but albeit, fighting for them. They are slowly being introduced to a society where it's ugly. We will have conversations about sex trafficking. About domestic violence. About orphans and rape and terrible terrible things and you want to end every conversation with Come Lord Jesus. But they need to hear. They need to fight.
These small tastes are blessings. They allow me to prepare their hearts, their minds for a world they will enter where evil happens. They teach them mama and their strong daddy won't let others talk negatively about them. Turning the other cheek, but showing that they are warriors, standing for what is right.
I suppose none of us entered into this important job because it was easy. Perhaps boys are "easier". I wouldn't know. Honestly? I just don't care. If I had a boy I'd speak of boys and he would have my heart just like these girls, I'm sure of it.
All I know is I am blessed. I am a fighter. To make use of a perhaps overused analogy, I am a warrior.
While Krav Maga is on my bucket list, until then I am teaching these girls to fight. With their words. With their hearts. With their minds. With their prayers. With their God.
Standing strong for a world that needs strong female fighters, alongside strong males, united in spirit. Strong in the body, strong in the mind, strong in the spirit.
They told us it was time to leave the hospital, and I distinctly remember feeling vulnerable, and what the world- they are letting us leave with her?! The joke of where is the manual for this kid, yeah, that was us.
Both my husband and I come from a long line of Southern women, and given that we were blessed with a girl, you tend to do what you know. Smocked dresses, booties, ruffled diaper covers. Matching hair bows for each outfit. It didn't matter if I was too busy to do these things. We have two southern grandmas to help us out.
Back then, as any southern woman would tell you, I drank my tea straight up sweet. Does it come any other way, y'all? I've always liked strong tea, too. Ironically we found we only make strong girls.
My girls are sweet, too. They have a sweet spirit that occasionally erupts into fighting and screaming, but mostly, they really care about people. The kindness shows when they forgive me. "Mommy, I will always forgive you. You are mine," melting my heart and melding it with Jesus.
Then, then you have a second child. One that grows and grows and grows and you read new books. "Lord, how do I teach this one?" Your patience is tested as they both grow and you think, "Wow. Parenting is definitely not for sissies."
And you take her to ballet, and the girls are twirling in unison and she is making up her own moves, like Mick Jagger in the mirror, throwing in a twirl here and there because it is ballet, of course. The parents give me sideways glances and I just smile and say to myself, "Wait. Your time might be coming..." Always dancing to her own beat. Speaks up truth and hasn't learned tact quite yet. You find yourself saying, "Haha! I love this one and her spice! Speak it!"
About this time my dear friend introduced me to Chai tea. The timing was impeccable as this little one was really growing more spicy and I was switching up my tune. Throwing in some spice here and there, laying off the sugar and taking it straight up bitter. Strong. With my pinkie up, of course.
I grew more and more aware of how early sexism starts having these little girls. One of my girls might have a "moment" and I got comments. (Well, let's say I still get comments.) "Oh the drama!" "Boys are so much easier." Or, "You just wait until they go through puberty!" (Insert eye roll.)
The man in the paint store who looks at my girls with their strollers, playing, "Oh, I am SO glad I don't have girls!" You give him a, "Well, good thing the Good Lord knew you couldn't handle one." And he's taken off guard and you just don't care because these ignorant comments are coming more and more frequently and he's talking about a blessing. My blessed child.
These girls have selective time with these individuals, but they hear these comments. They both have good memories and they see mama fighting, nicely, but albeit, fighting for them. They are slowly being introduced to a society where it's ugly. We will have conversations about sex trafficking. About domestic violence. About orphans and rape and terrible terrible things and you want to end every conversation with Come Lord Jesus. But they need to hear. They need to fight.
These small tastes are blessings. They allow me to prepare their hearts, their minds for a world they will enter where evil happens. They teach them mama and their strong daddy won't let others talk negatively about them. Turning the other cheek, but showing that they are warriors, standing for what is right.
I suppose none of us entered into this important job because it was easy. Perhaps boys are "easier". I wouldn't know. Honestly? I just don't care. If I had a boy I'd speak of boys and he would have my heart just like these girls, I'm sure of it.
All I know is I am blessed. I am a fighter. To make use of a perhaps overused analogy, I am a warrior.
While Krav Maga is on my bucket list, until then I am teaching these girls to fight. With their words. With their hearts. With their minds. With their prayers. With their God.
Standing strong for a world that needs strong female fighters, alongside strong males, united in spirit. Strong in the body, strong in the mind, strong in the spirit.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Baby Shoes
I readily admit my best work comes from last minute situations. I love the quote from one of our shows we watch, "Yesterday's lazy cures today's crazy". Last minute in the morning..."Girls, look in that clean basket, you have some pants folded in there." Bam. So much more efficient than sending out a search party (ahem, me) for that pair in the closet. Again, BAM! (Insert that favorite quote just mentioned.)
So as I'm cleaning up today I came across something that reminded me about something else that was born from my lazy side. A little white baby sock that somehow made it into my bedroom. (I don't ask questions anymore about the weird that happens in this house. Strange things sometimes show up in crazy places and I chalk it all up to having children.)
Now you're probably reading this and thinking how you have it all together, your house is organized and you get high on life from cleaning your house and fluffing. I love you but I cannot relate. I barely hang on, OK? There are still a few baby dresses in my daughters closet, I tell you she's 5, friends. She is 5 years old and some of those clothes don't fit, but I consider them "heirloom" and I hope to see them on their babies one day, if they want babies and if it all happens like I dream, ok? (Hold your judgement and come help me already.)
In my defense, I should also tell you they share clothes already and I lump all their clothes together- winter in one girl's closet, summer in the other's. (Again, this might be a nightmare if you are organized. I *try out* organization at times but most of the time we just roll with it.) So you probably aren't surprised to find out that we have a tiny laundry room/mud room/utility closet where the shoes are kept that mostly remains a tad cluttered. Now it's not terribly overcrowded, but one pair of baby shoes remain.
These baby shoes I initially kept out of sheer exhaustion. If you are reading this you know what a chore change of seasons is for a mom. How sometimes you'd much rather play with your kids than sort shoes or move clothes in or out. So these shoes just stayed. Now they remain on a little shelf.
They are pink (shocker) and they are leather. They belonged to my littlest. They were her first pair of shoes and they matched everything she had. I still see her toddling in these shoes and giggling with only a few teeth, her curls just a bouncing on top of her sweet little head. I remember taking them off her warm little feet in the winter, same white little socks under them, similar to the sock I found in my room. Then taking her up to nap, where she mostly would rather giggle with me in the rocker than actually take a nap. Sweet little feet, sweet little days. (PS: She still would rather giggle with me than sleep.)
So I realize they need putting away, but they stay. I have a memory box for each child. But, they serve as a reminder, just for this mama.
They remind me of the sweet little years. How I was anxious at times how I'd actually be as a mom. I realized early on I was and am never qualified for this job. But Our precious sweet Lord had other plans. He chose me for the best little girls in the world. (perfectly biased) They remind me I don't have it together and this thing called parenting is precarious to put it nicely, scary to be honest, and it's meant to be that way so I fall in God's arms and trust.
They remind me my littles are still under construction. God is working in their lives, their hearts, and He allows me to help. Seeing little shoes when disciplining them reminds me they belong to the Lord. And they were bought with a price. They are precious in His sight and this parenting thing is not on me alone. I am responsible for nurturing and loving them and sending them off. He's got them.
They remind me He has big things planned for them. Thank you God I get to be a part of it. They remind me it's not all about me, or my husband, but sitting at the feet of Jesus waiting expectantly for Him to knock their socks off, too, with His love. Regardless of how big those socks are:)
So as I'm cleaning up today I came across something that reminded me about something else that was born from my lazy side. A little white baby sock that somehow made it into my bedroom. (I don't ask questions anymore about the weird that happens in this house. Strange things sometimes show up in crazy places and I chalk it all up to having children.)
Now you're probably reading this and thinking how you have it all together, your house is organized and you get high on life from cleaning your house and fluffing. I love you but I cannot relate. I barely hang on, OK? There are still a few baby dresses in my daughters closet, I tell you she's 5, friends. She is 5 years old and some of those clothes don't fit, but I consider them "heirloom" and I hope to see them on their babies one day, if they want babies and if it all happens like I dream, ok? (Hold your judgement and come help me already.)
In my defense, I should also tell you they share clothes already and I lump all their clothes together- winter in one girl's closet, summer in the other's. (Again, this might be a nightmare if you are organized. I *try out* organization at times but most of the time we just roll with it.) So you probably aren't surprised to find out that we have a tiny laundry room/mud room/utility closet where the shoes are kept that mostly remains a tad cluttered. Now it's not terribly overcrowded, but one pair of baby shoes remain.
These baby shoes I initially kept out of sheer exhaustion. If you are reading this you know what a chore change of seasons is for a mom. How sometimes you'd much rather play with your kids than sort shoes or move clothes in or out. So these shoes just stayed. Now they remain on a little shelf.
They are pink (shocker) and they are leather. They belonged to my littlest. They were her first pair of shoes and they matched everything she had. I still see her toddling in these shoes and giggling with only a few teeth, her curls just a bouncing on top of her sweet little head. I remember taking them off her warm little feet in the winter, same white little socks under them, similar to the sock I found in my room. Then taking her up to nap, where she mostly would rather giggle with me in the rocker than actually take a nap. Sweet little feet, sweet little days. (PS: She still would rather giggle with me than sleep.)
So I realize they need putting away, but they stay. I have a memory box for each child. But, they serve as a reminder, just for this mama.
They remind me of the sweet little years. How I was anxious at times how I'd actually be as a mom. I realized early on I was and am never qualified for this job. But Our precious sweet Lord had other plans. He chose me for the best little girls in the world. (perfectly biased) They remind me I don't have it together and this thing called parenting is precarious to put it nicely, scary to be honest, and it's meant to be that way so I fall in God's arms and trust.
They remind me my littles are still under construction. God is working in their lives, their hearts, and He allows me to help. Seeing little shoes when disciplining them reminds me they belong to the Lord. And they were bought with a price. They are precious in His sight and this parenting thing is not on me alone. I am responsible for nurturing and loving them and sending them off. He's got them.
They remind me He has big things planned for them. Thank you God I get to be a part of it. They remind me it's not all about me, or my husband, but sitting at the feet of Jesus waiting expectantly for Him to knock their socks off, too, with His love. Regardless of how big those socks are:)
Friday, November 8, 2013
The Day the Minivan Died
So I haven't been blogging a ton these days. Maybe I should pause here and just relay where our money has gone the past month because most of my time has been doing simple addition. First, one of my daughters, name withheld, decided to pour something down our air vent. In all my cleaning skills this smell was stuck. The first person we called charged us $85 for a five minute house visit and a business card. Called the business card company and they came out and replaced the air vent. $125. Moving right along... Our dishwasher is dying a slow and painful death. I cook a lot and I don't do dishes and Thanksgiving is coming up. So add several hundred to that. (Pausing here to say this was purchased before the following...) I needed new tires on our van. $125. And several fixes to van. $900. That finished October off with a bang. Wooo!!
Last Monday night I was taking the girls home from swim and there was heavy traffic. Do I take the highway or back roads? Girls are playing, chatting about wanting a new car, wanting to eat at "Chick-A-Lay", you know, random stuff I can't nearly concentrate on and answer all of while driving. "Girls, our van is fine- old, maybe, but it runs and it's paid for. I have dinner planned so no dinner out." You know, nice words when I wanted to just say something snappy.
Last Monday night I was taking the girls home from swim and there was heavy traffic. Do I take the highway or back roads? Girls are playing, chatting about wanting a new car, wanting to eat at "Chick-A-Lay", you know, random stuff I can't nearly concentrate on and answer all of while driving. "Girls, our van is fine- old, maybe, but it runs and it's paid for. I have dinner planned so no dinner out." You know, nice words when I wanted to just say something snappy.
Just then, I kid you not, I take a right turn and the transmission goes. I carefully and slowly maneuver the van into a taj mahal driveway- thank you God for their elaborate Fort Knox set up- and I know it's not good. So my dad rescues us and takes us to, you guessed it, Chick-fil-A for dinner. So the girls got what their heart desired last night- dinner out and a new vehicle. (They are no longer allowed to talk in the car. I'm only kidding...or am I??)
We actually don't need a minivan. So we are pricing fixing our transmission (read a few thousand dollars) or purchasing a new one (another few thousand dollars). I wasn't initially sure what type of vehicle I wanted. We are at a crossroads.
We test drove and priced, witnessed a great three-ring show from theclowns people at the car dealership. He lost interest really quick when I told him the best kind of car was one without a payment. Preferably used. Just to jump us to that next phase in life. (I might have said, "I'm just here to test drive your car that I won't buy, sir." Or maybe my face said that. I can't remember. New car smell blur?)
And what is the next phase you ask? I have no clue. The minivan was purchased with a goal of filling it up. We have not filled it up. With the death of the minivan, my plans are dying, too.
I'm not sure how I feel about all of this. I just know I got a little teary when the salesman veered me away from SUVs and towards minivans, saying he didn't think I was ready to get rid of a van. Maybe I should wait. Singing the praises of vans and something about stages in life and if I was ready and well, I got tired of hearing his fatherly advice. I got tired of this object being safety pinned to my emotions. Maybe we just need a sedan. A nice neutral car to get us around town to close that door.
So in the meantime, I share my dad's sedan and it's a great car. Leaning back against his lumbar support pillow we set off for our field trip to the Lemur Center yesterday. I gave the girls their instructions. I promised not to leave them with the monkeys regardless of if they act like monkeys. (Please don't use the term monkeys around the Duke Lemur folks. You will be set in your place quicker than a greased monkey. Monkeys are not equal to lemurs. You have been warned.) I also made them promise to not bring a monkey, I mean lemur, home with us. They have no place at our house. I already have two of my own. When daddy is off work I count three.
We were driving, windows down, on this beautiful fall day. Playing a game of catching leaves in our car as they fell all around us as we drove. (Delightfully fun but leaves don't fall in your car as hard as you might try, FYI.) They had their heads tilted back with breeze blowing, laughing. Doing what little girls need to do, what little girls are designed to do- lose themselves and delight in the moment.
I realized I was missing something. I needed to see them let go. I needed to see their reckless care, driving my sweet dad's sedan several years old while our other several years old van is our "lady in waiting" so to speak while we decide. In a car which they love because it smells like their sweet Poppy.
I think I'm letting go slowly but leaving a door open. A door of gratitude. A door of opportunity. A door representing resilience and willingness to be moved by my Creator.
The focus of losing myself and delighting in the moment. Thankful bent knee. He's in control.
We test drove and priced, witnessed a great three-ring show from the
And what is the next phase you ask? I have no clue. The minivan was purchased with a goal of filling it up. We have not filled it up. With the death of the minivan, my plans are dying, too.
I'm not sure how I feel about all of this. I just know I got a little teary when the salesman veered me away from SUVs and towards minivans, saying he didn't think I was ready to get rid of a van. Maybe I should wait. Singing the praises of vans and something about stages in life and if I was ready and well, I got tired of hearing his fatherly advice. I got tired of this object being safety pinned to my emotions. Maybe we just need a sedan. A nice neutral car to get us around town to close that door.
So in the meantime, I share my dad's sedan and it's a great car. Leaning back against his lumbar support pillow we set off for our field trip to the Lemur Center yesterday. I gave the girls their instructions. I promised not to leave them with the monkeys regardless of if they act like monkeys. (Please don't use the term monkeys around the Duke Lemur folks. You will be set in your place quicker than a greased monkey. Monkeys are not equal to lemurs. You have been warned.) I also made them promise to not bring a monkey, I mean lemur, home with us. They have no place at our house. I already have two of my own. When daddy is off work I count three.
We were driving, windows down, on this beautiful fall day. Playing a game of catching leaves in our car as they fell all around us as we drove. (Delightfully fun but leaves don't fall in your car as hard as you might try, FYI.) They had their heads tilted back with breeze blowing, laughing. Doing what little girls need to do, what little girls are designed to do- lose themselves and delight in the moment.
I realized I was missing something. I needed to see them let go. I needed to see their reckless care, driving my sweet dad's sedan several years old while our other several years old van is our "lady in waiting" so to speak while we decide. In a car which they love because it smells like their sweet Poppy.
I think I'm letting go slowly but leaving a door open. A door of gratitude. A door of opportunity. A door representing resilience and willingness to be moved by my Creator.
The focus of losing myself and delighting in the moment. Thankful bent knee. He's in control.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Well, Hello There!
I'm back, Jack. It's been a doozy of a virus I've had and let me tell you I don't "do sick" well. I actually don't have a place in my repertoire for getting sick. It might come from when I was pregnant, teaching full time, finishing my Masters degree part time, and vomiting full time. I had morning ("all day") sickness all nine months. I would be teaching children, run out of the room to vomit, and be back before they finished their easy reader. I was efficient. I was a very efficient vomiter. One of my Asian ESL students that year drew a picture of me with my Gatorade, saltines, and cheese slices. No kidding. I pushed through and now my pain tolerance is quite high. Pridefully high. Don't-stop-me-now high. And at one point a few years ago was scary high, so since then I try to listen to my body, but I'm not very good at that.
But illness is a good time for God to slow this speed train down. I have learned to submit to illness. Just like I'm learning to submit to a bedtime. God designed our bodies for rest, not for conquering Rome while burning the midnight oil. I'm trying to be a little more gentle with myself. Ah. Isn't that a lovely thought? Yep, sounds like a bunch of crap to me, too.
But really, I've been reflecting on how I got this way. What events were placed in my path for me to be here. I am in the middle of writing my legacy letter to my daughters, and maybe I'll share it via blog, but really, God why do I love you? God what will my daughters remember about me years from now?
I suppose it began in my mom's Mercury Cougar when I was four. Watching her silently pray on our way to her Bible Study. I knew God was loving. I knew she was talking to Him. I wanted in. I wanted God to be in my heart to listen to me. So my mom prayed in that red car with the loud windshield wipers for Jesus to come in my heart. I opened my eyes and I felt the same but I believe God has had His Hand on me for a long while.
My grandmother's prayers were much louder. She would openly admit she wasn't talking to herself, but to God. She knelt by her bed every night and prayed. She walked around her house singing hymns like "How Great Thou Art" and "Holy Holy Holy". She practiced the presence of God. I always felt like she had God around her, as odd as that is to type. She welcomed Him and delighted in Him being there. (And years later I know God is everywhere, but we are more aware by practicing His Presence.)
I began to memorize Bible verses in Sunday School. The first one was "The Lord is the lamp unto my feet the light to my path." I got a piece of gum and smacked that gum proud. I was told memorizing Scripture was very important and special. I learned that He made me special. The same Sunday School teacher who taught me passed many years ago. Small acts of sacrifice I will never forget.
We continued going to church and I learned to read the Bible and talk openly to God. I learned through the awkward teenage years that he was my Number One. Things might be otherwise, but He was strong, dependable and never changed. And this Bible I read became a Real Person. I learned the Words were Love Letters written to me. I was drawn to Him because He was Good.
I went to college and He just busted through my expectations of Himself. The nerd inside of me was so excited to be at a place where I could study anything I wanted. (I declared my major so many times that year that it got to be a joke.) I met dear precious friends those years I still keep in touch with. And although oceans divide us, God's love unites.
I met my husband, who is actually my second love. I learned in college that Jesus was my First. Any man I met would have to love Him too. So this precious man fit the bill and the mystery of this thing called marriage united with Jesus' grace is overwhelming.
So we have these two precious girls. The best thing I know to do for them is to share God with them. Wrap them up in His great love. To help connect them to their Savior. To help them not only see Jesus, but feel Him here with us. Do they see me meet with Him? Do they see me go to Him first when I am frustrated? Do they see me sing praises to Him? Do they see me blog and talk about Him, unashamedly? Do I say I'm sorry because I am confident in the forgiveness Jesus has granted us from the cross?
Do they see me fail? Am I representing who I am well? A mom in need of a Savior. A mom humbly and simply loving her Lord. A mom who is far from perfect but connected to the Perfect Man.
Years from now I have no idea what they might remember from these days. But, my prayer is that they recollect memories with a lens of Him.
But illness is a good time for God to slow this speed train down. I have learned to submit to illness. Just like I'm learning to submit to a bedtime. God designed our bodies for rest, not for conquering Rome while burning the midnight oil. I'm trying to be a little more gentle with myself. Ah. Isn't that a lovely thought? Yep, sounds like a bunch of crap to me, too.
But really, I've been reflecting on how I got this way. What events were placed in my path for me to be here. I am in the middle of writing my legacy letter to my daughters, and maybe I'll share it via blog, but really, God why do I love you? God what will my daughters remember about me years from now?
I suppose it began in my mom's Mercury Cougar when I was four. Watching her silently pray on our way to her Bible Study. I knew God was loving. I knew she was talking to Him. I wanted in. I wanted God to be in my heart to listen to me. So my mom prayed in that red car with the loud windshield wipers for Jesus to come in my heart. I opened my eyes and I felt the same but I believe God has had His Hand on me for a long while.
My grandmother's prayers were much louder. She would openly admit she wasn't talking to herself, but to God. She knelt by her bed every night and prayed. She walked around her house singing hymns like "How Great Thou Art" and "Holy Holy Holy". She practiced the presence of God. I always felt like she had God around her, as odd as that is to type. She welcomed Him and delighted in Him being there. (And years later I know God is everywhere, but we are more aware by practicing His Presence.)
I began to memorize Bible verses in Sunday School. The first one was "The Lord is the lamp unto my feet the light to my path." I got a piece of gum and smacked that gum proud. I was told memorizing Scripture was very important and special. I learned that He made me special. The same Sunday School teacher who taught me passed many years ago. Small acts of sacrifice I will never forget.
We continued going to church and I learned to read the Bible and talk openly to God. I learned through the awkward teenage years that he was my Number One. Things might be otherwise, but He was strong, dependable and never changed. And this Bible I read became a Real Person. I learned the Words were Love Letters written to me. I was drawn to Him because He was Good.
I went to college and He just busted through my expectations of Himself. The nerd inside of me was so excited to be at a place where I could study anything I wanted. (I declared my major so many times that year that it got to be a joke.) I met dear precious friends those years I still keep in touch with. And although oceans divide us, God's love unites.
I met my husband, who is actually my second love. I learned in college that Jesus was my First. Any man I met would have to love Him too. So this precious man fit the bill and the mystery of this thing called marriage united with Jesus' grace is overwhelming.
So we have these two precious girls. The best thing I know to do for them is to share God with them. Wrap them up in His great love. To help connect them to their Savior. To help them not only see Jesus, but feel Him here with us. Do they see me meet with Him? Do they see me go to Him first when I am frustrated? Do they see me sing praises to Him? Do they see me blog and talk about Him, unashamedly? Do I say I'm sorry because I am confident in the forgiveness Jesus has granted us from the cross?
Do they see me fail? Am I representing who I am well? A mom in need of a Savior. A mom humbly and simply loving her Lord. A mom who is far from perfect but connected to the Perfect Man.
Years from now I have no idea what they might remember from these days. But, my prayer is that they recollect memories with a lens of Him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)