Plain Jane

When I was in college, I took a Spanish writing class.  I still remember my precious, very elderly, professor who walked with a hobble.  We could barely understand his Spanish, because he was at that point later in life when speech becomes a little slurred.  In hindsight, my struggle to understand him helped me as I encountered all different dialects.  Another example of how God works struggle into his good plan for you...even in the details.  He is always at work.

I loved this professor.  He had a kindness about him.  Most people in the class were respectful and patient.  I suppose I was thankful it was a writing class and not a conversation class.  Then we'd all be in trouble...

Well I clearly loved this class because we were able to write about anything we wanted.  This pleases me as I feel like a caged animal with rules sometimes.  (That's why Jesus knocks my socks off.  As I fall more and more in love with Him, He's got me doing rules that I don't feel constrained by.  Rules that I follow because He and I have this thing...a relationship as a human I was made for.  He's my Friend and my Lord.  It's truly amazing.)

So one day, I was having a moment with God, and learning about how he cares for even the birds, providing them food, and I thought wow.  God is in everything.  So sitting in "the Quad" that day I began to write and it turned into a love poem to God.

(So I should insert here that my Spanish writing always had marks of red pen "blood" all over it.  To say I was a great Spanish writer would be a flat out lie.  Because I wrote like I spoke and, well, this was not how it was to be in my classes.)

But precious professor read my essay and said I needed to see him after class.  And when I went up to him he said I needed to become a saint.  That God might have intended for me to reserve myself and become a nun.  In complete seriousness, he handed me some texts to read over and consider it.  And I hid my giggles and respectfully took them.  And I did read them.  I loved these women I read about, famous women of God.  One love poem I actually saved, rewrote it in my jelly roll pens and still have it written in my college girl handwriting on a piece of crumpled edged computer paper in my Bible.  Because it was how I wanted to love God.

And I guess I say all this because my life is ordinary.  It really is.  I am super thankful for where God has me, but I am not performing lots of "tricks" or grandiose things for God- things the outsider would say "Rock on you cool mama."  In fact, in all my existence I have never been cool.  I had no issues buying a preowned minivan that came with a fish on the back.  No issues here.  I'm happy being the same little girl who would visit the public library on the weekends with my mom in high school.  I'm the same girl who has budget shopped and lived in the same house for 10 years with my husband in my most awesome hometown.

I homeschool.  I feed my family three meals and two snacks a day.  I grocery shop and coupon cut and budget and clean toilets.  I do things that aren't really "sexy".  I don't take trips these days, other than our yearly beach trip, and the occasional trip to see family.  I buy my clothes on extreme discount, because I love a great deal, and at probably not so fun places compared to some.  My husband and I grab date nights when we can but we don't bend over backwards romanticising each other.  Romantic to me is him changing light bulbs without me asking.  Romantic to him is me making food, especially bacon.  Romantic to both of us is alone time with each other- our garage gym workouts, going to Barnes and Noble and reading, even planning together.  Cheeseball and simple.  And we deeply love each other.   And deep, simple, sacrificial love is sexy to us.

And none of this matters.   Because God calls the ordinary to be extraordinary.  

So I may never hold a position of "cool" in any one's standards.  And I'm OK with that.  Because God has called us to look at our surroundings and expectantly observe.  Where is he at work.  What he is up to.  And how he'd like us to be involved.  And I look around and I still see him everywhere.  He is a God of details, and no parts of my life are small to him.  He has placed me here and I am thankful, humbled, living expectantly, and praying.

Because life is too short.  I live, breathe, love, and receive all he has to give.

Nakedness

Have you ever been at a loss for words?  I don't know...but it seems I get this way with my kids sometimes.  And for a girl that loves to gab, this actually surprises me.

So my girls take swim lessons at a nice facility.  Now I'd tell you that this place is in Chapel Hill.  And you might draw some conclusions from that, and that is fine.  Just keep in mind the folks there are free spirited, in a very Chapel Hill way.  Ok?

So after swim lessons my girls take little showers, which for some reason is the highlight of the lesson itself.  Well, knowing this is Chapel Hill, free spirited reigning facility, y'all, all the women are naked.  And right before my girls get done with swim there is a class with a whole lotta much older women.  These said women are very comfortable in their skin.  And so comfortable that they are quite naked.  Just dropping their clothes to take a shower and all, stop to have a conversation about their exercise class.  It's like the naked elderly happy hour.

Y'all, they carry on naked conversations with each other!  They don't cover up their tatas, they might even use them in conversation.  I don't know.  It's a scene.  It sure is a scene.

And as girls in this house we talk about our bodies- beautifully created by the Creator, every nook and cranny.  Mine looks very different from theirs and why.  We girls in this house are just open in an appropriate modest way.  That's all I know to be.  So I am not offended by the nakedness but...

I get our little set-up in a place that is a little private, but y'all they don't care.  They just come around with their naked bodies, all smiling and doting on my girls.  Girls eyes are big as saucers.  Water dripping from the shower, all happy from their exercise class.  Now that's a lot of closeness and a bit creepy.

And so last Monday I thought I had us all set up, as private as I could get.  Then a very large older woman comes within three feet of my girls, undresses and...brace yourself...bends over.  Oh my word.  That's up there on things I have never seen.

I'm still ok with the nakedness/morality of this happy hour- I'm not judging.  But we women in this house cover it up in public.  And here's the fear:  Their jaws drop and my littlest opens her mouth to talk...and you just never know with the little one.  What comes up comes out.  So we're nearly ready and I whisk them off talking about their favorite dessert which is sure to distract from whatever that little one was going to say, probably about that ladies HUGE FANNY and, well, other things she saw.  And if I know these women, they clearly love their bodies and I love that they love their bodies and perhaps they wouldn't be offended by a little four year old talking about their parts but I just don't want to go there.  Ok?

So that was a safe one.  Until tomorrow when we face this circus again.  And I've got a plan to talk with them beforehand and we're just going to be ok with it all.

Last week we were going to another location, this one in the privacy of our own van.  Driving down the road, we passed the spicy store "Adam and Eve."  And my oldest says, "Oh mommy!  They love Jesus!"  And I was like, well, um, not exactly that kinda store.  "Well mommy, what do they sell? Those were pretty underwear in the window."  And I said, "They sell underwear."  And she says, "Have you ever gone in there?"  And I said, "Ummm... you know, let's talk about this when you are older."  And here she says, "Why?"  And all I could think of was, "It's inappropriate for now, but I'm putting this on my list for later, ok?"

Inappropriate for now, but filled with rich conversation for later when mommy has thought and prayed through her answers.  Conversations meant to happen with me as their mama.  And as they grow and learn it's a little tricky and a whole lotta funny sometimes.  But one thing's for sure- we're talking about it when it comes time.  We're going to be open.  We're going to be Biblical.  We're going to be real.  We're going to be modest.

In fact sex education starts early- it has already started- in bit by bit discussions, all framed within a picture of God's beauty.  Because their bodies are temples, made for glory.  This stuff is too good to not discuss.

The Ugly Cake

So my mom's birthday was yesterday and as usual I made a cake for her.  I am the birthday cake maker in this family.  This is an important job, you know.  Because cake really is the focus of any birthday, right?  Well...it should be.  Each year I surprise my family with their own cake creation.  And not to brag, but one time someone actually cried when I revealed the cake to them.  I say this because cake is personal.  It really is.  A big deal in my book.

I changed things up a bit making this one.  And I guess I should probably admit I have control issues with cooking.  I have this thing called the "learning tower" that helps my children stand safely to cook, snap beans, stir, pour, whistle while we work.  Except I don't like them to help me.  Umm, hmm.  I usually ignore the learning tower and hope someone doesn't insist on dragging it over to "help" me.

Maybe I should be fully clear and let you know I like to cook alone.  I like to be in control.
I like to drive the baking bus all the way to confection heaven.  There is a place and no one is going there with me, ok?  Now, the dishes?  Yes, you may wash and dry them all.  Just let me do the cooking and baking if you are a minor.  Which is everyone in this house.  Except my husband.  He knows to leave me the heck alone.  Thank you very much for these 11 years of marriage and knowing each other's needs.  Moving on...

Well, this cake was the ugliest cake I have ever made.  Ever.  I called my mom Sunday morning.  "Mom, your cake is ugly.  I'm not talking 'oh honey, it's just fine.'  I'm talking it looks like my 4 year old made it.  And I'm sorry."  And I told her as I was icing it my oldest said, "Oh mommy..."  My littlest said, "Oh no!  The cake is falling!!  It was so pretty and yellow..."  And I was on a mission to park that bus and go to bed.  Ugly cake and all.

So I had a few options on the table.  I could break out the fondant and fix the boo boos with a few flowers.  (A little cake decorating secret.)  Or I could let it ride and allow a little part of my confection perfectionism die.  We all need personal growth, right?  And I was exhausted.  I chose that route.

But perhaps the biggest reason for me to leave the cake alone is that my precious 4 year old helped me.  It was so very important for her to be with me in the kitchen.  She cracked the eggs and I said she was a "good cracker".  (Yes you may giggle and go there...it is funny to laugh at ourselves...)  She was determined to wear the apron, mix, be right by my side.  And I suppose I was delighted she was there and taking an interest in my hobby.  She was creating with me.  And the cake was ugly.  And it was so messy having her help.  And it took longer.  And it got finished in the end.  But first bite we smiled at each other because it tasted so good.  And I love that little girl more than my perfectionistic tendencies.  I love her more than the world itself, so we baked.  And I actually enjoyed having her with me, I giggled at her mimicking my words, actions, doing just what I ask because she was enjoying herself.  Learning how to bake by mama's side.  

And I'm reminded of the analogy of God as Master Baker, and we get to "help" him.  And sometimes I'm prideful and think I'm doing all this great work all by myself, and then I'm corrected by his goodness and smiling loving sweet face looking down on me.  Or maybe I spill a bit.  And I know he could do a much cleaner job sometimes without me- I fumble over words at times, I offend other times, I'm just flat out imperfect.  But he loves me.  He chooses to use me.

I am his hands and feet and humbled that a God so big and mighty and wonderful would choose to use me.  But he does.  And we're having a great time together, baking, blessing, and learning and growing.  Right by his side.  Getting directions straight from the Master Himself.  It's the sweetest spot.

Rocking the Baby

My oldest tonight was exhausted and not feeling well at all.  I tucked her seven year old body in bed.  Brushed the hair away from her face.  I prayed over her.  And she asked if I could rock her.

Most parents might laugh, make a joke.  I had a pain that went straight through my heart.

When she was two, and little sister was about to be born, we moved her to a big girl bed.  We had a big girl bed pizza party to get excited.  We also moved the rocking chair out.  That same night she asked the same question, "Mommy, can you rock me?"  My response with my whale of a belly, "Sweetie, we moved the rocking chair out for little sister."  And she cried.  And I cried.  I rocked her in the bed moving side to side trying not to wet her bed.  (I was a very large pregnant woman with a gigantic baby on my bladder.  That is all.)  And she grew up that night.

And it hurts me when my children grow up.  Five years later, I ask why didn't we just buy another rocker?  Why didn't we just buy another crib?   At the time it seemed right.  So that's what we did.

And I know how she feels about needing consoling at an older age.  I understand how maybe just a slow rock in a chair might make things better.  I get it.

And I'm thankful for a God that slows me down.  Allows me to need him so desperately that I have no way to blaze through the tough things that need doing- either in my heart or with my family.

And I like that I'm changing.  I like that he says I don't have to figure the big things out right now.  I am not alone.  He is hovering over me as I bring my concerns, hopes, questions and dreams to him.  Lord, what do you have planned?  I just don't know.  So I'm sitting and rocking a while.  And I'm being patient with myself that I don't have the answers just yet.  Because this time is designed for rocking, and enjoying God's blessings, eyes in the sky expectantly.  What in the world are you up to next, God?

And I think it's better that way.  Living in the moment, taking it all in, relaxing in a loving Father's presence, relieved I don't have to have it all together, figure out my own path.

It's a path laid before me.  And sometimes there are stops along the way to rock a while.

Dear God...

Dear God,
As you know, there are certain things that make me teary: births, weddings, funerals, and baptisms.  I try my best and then the tears, they just start flowing. Beginnings, new starts of any kind and at any age, they just get to me, you know.  When they are with my family, I am broken.

It's hard to envision when you first have a baby how this thing called parenting works.  Thank you, God, that I didn't know what I was getting in to.  My heart growing this big, my house getting this crazy, and my babies growing up.  So bittersweet.

In the middle of the night, we tended to that crying baby.  Sometimes they just wanted a cuddle, sometimes hungry.  They trust we are there.  We didn't know what to do with colic, so we "wore" them.  24 hours a day.  Even went potty with them attached.  It was hard to believe then but those diapers might have been the most important act of service I had that day.  As it should be, sweet sweet babies.  They get to be 7 and take care of little sister.  And even take care of us at times.  It is you working.  Not me.

I sang them hymns taught generations ago while rocking them at night and at nap time.  They learned the words before they even understand God's unending love, compassion, faithfulness.  They learned worship.  We taught them Bible stories with big time Bible heroes and they are stunned.

Then they turn 7 and teach others their songs and stories. Songs with a message.  Stories too good to be true.  I heard her faintly upstairs singing those same songs.  By herself.  Then I found stacks of songs she had written on little pieces of paper.  Love songs to God.  Do I interrupt her time with you to selfishly be a part?  Do I let her have her time with you?  It is you working.  Not me.    

Bedtime prayers go from me and daddy saying them to little voices sharing their hearts.  Praying for the small little things that make God's heart smile.

Then they turn 7 and pray for everyone around them to know you.  And you wonder how big and gracious you are for a child to have a heart that big.  She has a heart for orphans.  And prays for kids to have families.  And isn't afraid to pray for big things.  It is you working.  Not me.

We taught them as toddlers to clear the table.  I didn't think through them throwing the whole plate into the sink.  But figured that works, too, especially when mama's tired.

Then they get to be 7 and clear the whole table without being asked.  Its you working.  Not me.

I wonder if I am teaching them in vain to turn the other cheek, offer kindness instead of shoving their way into the world selfishly.  Then they don't harbor grudges and live in freedom.  As it should be.  And they teach me what it means to truly forgive.  And I am humbled by their trust, and that they are now teaching me.

I get tired.  So very tired sometimes.  Why don't I ignore their bad behavior?  Why don't I look away?  And then I remember you love them too much to let them behave that way.  That it's about the heart.  Not what things "look" like to others.  I know that bad patterns keep them away from your joy- in spirit with others and with you.  I want the best for them.  It's you at work.  Not me.

And so they ask Jesus to live in their heart, trusting He is the way to God.  They feel their hearts heavy.  The weight of sin.  They feel the release of confession and energy of growth.  The joy of living for God takes over and their soul is right with you.  Then they hear "It is well with my soul" and they get it.  

And then they ask to get baptized.  

And there isn't any cute little white dress this time with fat little legs hanging out.  There isn't a baby bonnet with sweet plump rosy cheeks.  There isn't a big party at home with stressful meal plan and cake.  There aren't presents for mom to unwrap for baby.  Although that would be alright, this time we're partying with the whole church.

This time my 7 year old has made this decision herself.  She is ready.  She is alive with the Spirit.  She is growing up.  And, Lord, it is sweet.  The tears I have in my eyes are of joy.

So, Lord, when she goes down tomorrow and is raised from the water, may she understand how special this day is.  Publicly confessing you as her Lord and Savior.  May she look back and say, "That's one of my most important days of my life."

And I'm thankful.  I am humbled.  You are good.  You are everything.  And I am not perfect.  She is not perfect.  But together is perfect enough for me.

Just a little I love you to a God big enough.  Whose name is Good.  Sweet.  I trust you.  Even with the most precious things I have.  They are yours.

Love,
Me  

All that Sparkles

So I have this friend and she has the "gift" of smelling people, just like myself.  (Not so much body odor.) We both are bent towards "feeling people out" as we meet them.  (And not a creepy touching situation.)  She has that sixth sense I have with people.  Just today she could tell by my body language certain "things" were up with someone.  And we have fun together.  I can say, "I might cut her," and we both know the feeling I have and have no fear we will do it cause mama needs to stay out of prison.

We discuss things, process through them at about the same level.  We are also highly practical for the most part and don't want to waste our time, money, or anyone else's.  So in the spirit of our friendship, I'll get to my story...

One day I showed her my three rings and two bracelets I was wearing, held out my arm kind of like a proud child.  She genuinely loved all of it.  You see I had a game called "Rings on your Fingers" when I was little.  The goal was to obtain, and wear, the most shiny rings.  Then you've won the game!  New jewelery plus honor.  It doesn't get much better than that folks.  I told her many people might think this display on my arm is tacky, but I need them.  I need my shiny things.

And so as an adult, I like to wear shiny things.  My mom got me a set of three rings that sparkle.  Most people wouldn't wear them together.  Simple is sometimes better some might say.  As I tried them on all three together mom said, "Carla, they are different colors.  You could wear them separately to match your clothes!" But simple, my friends, is not as fun.  (And perhaps at that moment I could have mentioned my mother's parrot earrings from the 80's she wore with style- the dangle ones where the birds perched swinging from her ears like they were jammin' to some African beat we clearly can't hear.  Yep, those.  I didn't go there.  But perhaps I got my flair from someone?)  I wear all three rings together and maybe they don't match but they blend.  They are friends.  More like family though.  They almost come up to my knuckle and I love it.  My hand adorned with sparkly colored beauty.  I look at them and smile, and my heart is happy.

I'm attracted to shiny things.  

And I realized why.  My friend's mom told her that she had been like this her whole life, too.  She said there is this bird called a Magpie.  They are completely attracted to shiny things, including jewelry.  They take shiny trash and make their nests out of it.  Always on the lookout for shiny goods.  Too shy to pluck your necklace off your neck but given the chance, they might snatch it.  And my friend was so proud of her consignment find of black flats with sparkles on the top of them, showing me out of her trunk one day.  My fellow magpie.

And things as an adult just seem to make more sense to me.  What I like what someone might call "tacky".  Something wonderful connects to my inner child and makes me delighted.

As a matter of fact this same friend went shopping for a black dress to wear to a function.  She tried one on and knew it was "the one".  It was fitted, with a slight flare at the end, which she said wasn't dramatic but she loved it.  It will match her magpie shoes.  Apparently it pleased her inner princess, too, as she apologetically said she felt like a princess in it.  She is drawn to princess-like things just like me.

I am a princess.  Holding my head up so my crown doesn't fall.  Remembering this body I have is his temple.  Made for his glory.  

And before you go on thinking I have some big head and way delusional (I pause to say this could be debated, but not this blog), I am adopted into God's family.  He is royalty.  Therefore I have put on his righteousness. Clothed with his strength.  His words and spirit on my life.

And I see on my favorite way to waste time Pinterest, all these blogs with "helpful hints" on what to call your girls, other than princess.  Well, we want to support their minds, not just looks.  Well, ok.  I suppose we have a whole generation of Auroras, Jasmines, Cinderellas, Disney princess crap entitlement going on.  And I recognize that.  And I suppose I try to hold other roles and delights as well in front of my girls (because if you didn't know kids watch every single move you make).  Like my alter ego Superwoman in the gym.  That one grunts really and swings sweat like a champ.  But you know my muscles may fail me one day.  My body parts are going south a bit more every year, too.  And as far as I can tell there is no surgeon to rescue the droops.  (Although if a "lift" is in God's divine plan for my life we will take "the girls" on vacation.)

My princess status is mine throughout eternity and is entirely derived from my heart status with God.  It has nothing to do with looks.  Man looks at the outward appearance but God looks at the heart.

I'm not about to deny my daughters the pleasure of acting the way God made them.  Choosing the shiniest dress, jewelry, Bonnie Bell chapstick, and even my high heeled shoes I never wear.  Twirling, singing, dancing.  And they know their mommy loves her makeup and shiny things, too, and I'm proud to be a magpie.  Our foundation is in Christ though.  And what he thinks matters more than what we see in our reflection or what other people say is "cool".

Adopted into his royalty.  Made righteous through his Son.  Made alive in the Spirit.  We dance, we sing, we twirl, and we love.  As royal subjects bought with a price.

A Do Over

The other night my littlest had a meltdown. The kind where your kiddo is so tired the world is turned upside down on its head and there is nothing left to do but cry.  

And in a moment of Gods grace on my parenting, I began to use my calming mommy voice. Then it came out between sobs.

"Mommy, I want a do-over."

So we did just that. I put her back in the tub, re dried her off, and put her jammie's back on. And all was right with the world. Then she fell asleep. My sweet baby girl.

And I understand her completely. And I'm thinking of all the times in my life I've wanted a do-over.  And I've had a few in my adult life.  Things just not going the way I want them too.  

And I'm realizing life has a reset button.

Every day I wake up, life resets. His mercies are new every morning.
Each bite I take gives my DNA a code to reset my nutrition, for better or for worse.
Every mistake I make, I can say I'm sorry.
I can change my mind. I can live a different way. I can choose thoughts that uplift and don't condemn. 

There is a reset button within arms reach. Do I want to push it?

And I think sometimes we get stuck. We don't mean to, but we get stuck. Sometimes it's our pride taking over- unwilling to admit there was an issue to begin with. Sometimes it's pride's evil cousin named "pity" keeping us from pushing it. Maybe its anger with God. This side of heaven why do certain things have to happen?  Sometimes through our misery it's more comfortable to stay where we are. Glance at the button, and look away. Our heart's bend is to go our own way.  

The reset button is not shameful. It's called grace. It's a free gift given by God. I don't have to use it, because its a gift. But when I do, my world, my heart is made right. It's peaceful.

And because its there, I can truly live. I am free. Grace is a fresh wind of freedom. The closer to that button I stay the more hope I have. There is another Way. A fresh start is one click, or prayer, away.  May I use it well.