Paradise Found

DSC_0443I did not want to get out of bed this morning.

Granted, this statement is true almost every morning. I am not a morning person and I truly enjoy sleeping. But this morning it was not the soft, warm pillow or my heavy eyelids that beckoned me to stay between the sheets. It was what awaited me that failed to motivate my swift departure.

My four-year-old had already come into my room wet and whiny telling me she’d accidentally wet the bed. My seven-year-old had also just stood by my bedside reporting that he’d just spilled Cheerios, “all over the kitchen.” And, I could hear my youngest calling from her crib for Mommy to come get her. Just Mommy. No one else would do.

The day continued much in this same manner. I dropped an egg carton, breaking two eggs on my kitchen floor. I shook a bottle of liquid that I thought had a cap on it, but I had already removed the cap, and you can imagine the mess that ensued. I made my family a batch of what were supposed to be “healthy” cookies but they turned out so crumbly and flat that once I chiseled them off of the cookie sheet they were in approximately two billion pieces and no longer recognizable as cookies. We had to eat them as dust particles from the palm of our hands while on the back patio so as to give my kitchen floor some relief.

Yes, we all have days like this. And truly, it didn’t really get me down. I’ve had worse days. Much worse. Days like today are just little blips on the radar of eternity that actually help remind me of the paradise in which I live.

Yes, I said paradise.

There’s a song lyric that I often repeat in my head. It’s in the song “Pure Imagination” from the movie, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The lyric goes, “If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.” The song itself is referring to the power of one’s imagination to allow you to see anything you desire. But I like to take this lyric at its pure face value.

“If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.”

I can focus on the frustrations, spills and bummers or I can open my eyes and look at the blessings in the midst of the mess.

On days like today when things are just a bit out of sync and I’m annoyed at closed roads and grumpy toddlers, I can stop. I can take a look around and remember what a gift that grumpy toddler is to me. I can pause in my rush into the store and actually see how precious it is that my two little blonde-headed girls are following me like little ducklings. Sure those ducklings quack and squawk and sometimes ruffle my feathers, but they fill my heart with joy and melt my heart with love. I don’t deserve such gifts. I have the privilege of being a Mom. My husband is the love of my life. I live in extreme comfort. I am not being persecuted or living in danger while defending my country.

I live in paradise.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that every day and every season of life is true paradise. No. I’ve had some hard times in my life during which if someone would have come up to me and suggested I was living in paradise, I may have bought them a one-way ticket to a deserted island. There are seasons of pain and struggle. And there is even good within those difficult times. But that’s another subject.

For now I’m talking about days like today. When things are just “out of sorts.” Laundry piles linger, dinner needs to be made (again!) and cleaned up (again!) and bedtime stories and snacks and errands and homework and needed conversations and… all of the mundane things that wear on me. Those are part of my paradise.

I just need to look around and view it.

For Crying Out Loud!

The cry floated down the stairs and into my ears where I sat at the kitchen table with my husband and another couple. The other couple are friends who happen to also be cousins. They are about our age and have two little girls who were upstairs playing with our three children.

We grown-ups paused in our after-dinner conversation to listen to the cry. I quickly detected that it was our middle daughter. I then also interpreted the cry and surmised that I could stay put in my chair and resume our chat. “Is she ok?” my friend asked. “Yes,” I responded, “I think that cry just means that someone found her in a game of hide-and-seek in which she didn’t want to be found.” My husband agreed with a nod and we all changed the subject.

A few minutes later, the five second-cousins came noisily bouncing down the steps. We asked if they were all doing alright. The oldest said “Oh yes! Karly was just crying earlier because we found her in hide-and seek.” Then, off they all continued, already submerged in their next group activity.

I looked across the table and we all smiled. My friends were impressed that I had completely nailed the reason for my daughter’s cry …but not that impressed. They’re parents too and they understand that I’m not really brilliant, just a mom.

When you become a parent you somehow also become an interpreter of sorts. It took me four years of high school Spanish to feel confident in interpreting the menu at a Mexican Grill, but seemingly overnight I was able to interpret my children’s cries.

When my daughter cried that evening because she had been found, I wasn’t lost about how I should respond. I knew her cry was not one that required me to move. I understood from the sound of the cry that she was the one who needed to move. She needed to step away from a bad attitude and resume proper play or she would be left out of the game.

Once again parenting has opened my ears to hear God’s teaching.

As I have been reflecting on that evening, I’ve been disappointed in myself. Not in the relationship I have with my children, but in the relationship wherein I am the daughter crying out to my Heavenly Father.

The last couple of months I’ve cried out to God, but embarrassingly most of my cries have been with a bad attitude. I’ve been ungrateful and worrisome when instead I should have been thankful and trusting. My cries have been weak. Forced, even.

God is not fooled. He knows my heart and he not only interprets my cries but he is the one who placed them within me. My recent cries have not required his response. He’s already doing everything required of Him. I’m the one who needs to move.

I realized this recently and echoed Psalm 51:10 as I prayed for God to create in me a clean heart and to renew a right spirit within me. I felt better. It was not only a relief to know that God was moving into action to cover me with his mercy, but it was also comforting to know that King David himself had once needed an attitude adjustment.

I was not out of the game of life, but I had been playing with a bad attitude. Thankfully when my cry became sincere and I sensed my real need for God’s mercy He was quick to come to me. My Heavenly Father comforts me as his daughter in the most perfect and loving manner.

I hope to hide this lesson in my heart as I seek to cry out to my Father with a proper attitude. And I’m not going to be disappointed when I’m found in His mercy!

Do As I Say, Not As I Swim.

I have nothing against fish.

I understand that fish are a natural part of the food chain. I can appreciate their swimming abilities and their love of school. And while I don’t personally care to eat fish, I’m truly happy for others who enjoy their flavor. So be it.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want a fish to touch me.

Call me crazy, but when I’m swimming in a body of water wherein there are also creatures who, according to Wikipedia,  “lack limbs with digits” I get a little antsy. If a fish happens to bump into my leg, for example, I… oh, how should I phrase this?… freak out? Yes, I admit. I freak out. In spastic fashion I flail my limbs and digits. I believe the technical term for the infliction that fish cast upon me is called the “Heebie Jeebies.”

I know this fear is silly. Rationally I tell myself that I’ve never known of anyone to be killed, or even maimed, from bumping into a large mouth bass. But I don’t see the need to take any chances, either.

This presents a problem when I spend a week of family vacation swimming in a large lake. I love to swim, but how am I to cope in such an environment teaming with scary blue gill and their cousins. Cleverly, I have developed the skill of smacking the water (when no one is looking) so as to scare away any creature who may or may not be lurking beneath my toes. I think it works. I came away from my week of vacation with all of my digits attached.

But I did get a slight nibble on my ego.

One particular sunny afternoon I was swimming with my son and husband. My son looked over at me and said, “What if a fish touches me, Mom?” I smiled sweetly and lovingly stated, “Oh, you don’t need to be afraid of fish, sweetie!”

The precious moment was ruined when I looked over at my husband who was rolling his eyes with such force I think he created waves in the lake. Sarcasm and water dripped from his face as he said, “Actions speak louder than words, Mommy!”

Humph! I opened my mouth ready to spew my justified and witty response. Nothing came out. I took a deep breath and tried again. Nothing. Apparently the catfish had my tongue.

Deflated, but still afloat, I thought about the entire scenario. Don’t you just hate it when your spouse is right?

He had me. Hook, line, and sinker. It’s bad enough to know you’re not perfect, but what’s worse is when you see your children inherit one of your weaknesses.

Unfortunately, my fish fear is not the only weakness I’m presenting to six little eyes and ears. I must remember this truth. And more importantly, I must keep my eyes fixed on The Truth.

I’m not perfect, but my Heavenly Father is. As I strive to live as Christ I will set the best possible example for my children. And amazingly, Paul even states in 2 Corinthians 12:9, that God’s “power is made perfect in weakness.” That really takes a lot of pressure off of me!

Sometimes I swim, and sometimes I sink. When I’m struggling to keep my head above water I can trust a God who gently reaches out to me, takes my faults and turns them into a marvelous display of His power.

And that pleases me to the gills!

Life on Tape Delay

I wrote this particular post as a guest blogger for Focus on the Family President, Jim Daly. It was posted on Mr. Daly’s blog here: http://www.focusonlinecommunities.com/blogs/Finding_Home/2012/08/03/what-one-mom-has-learned-from-the-olympics
I was also given permission to post it on my personal blog.

I was very humbled and excited about this opportunity! I hope you enjoy it as well.

I’ve heard the grumbles. The tape-delayed Olympic venues splash onto our screens each evening hours after they actually unfold across the pond. Many Americans wish to view the events without previous knowledge of the results. Sometimes I feel I’m competing in the unofficial sport of “social media and news feed avoidance.” But this broadcasting quandary has made me ponder. If life were on tape delay would it affect my viewing pleasure?

I’m known within my personal Olympic village as a camera junkie. I snap nearly as many photos as a credential-wielding reporter. As a mother of three, I simply dread forgetting a priceless moment.

My little ones are growing up at record-breaking pace. Michael Phelps has nothing on them. Only “yesterday” I paused in watching the Beijing Olympics to bring my middle child into this world. How is she now approaching her fourth birthday? I’m simply not a champion, Olympic or otherwise, at noting all of life’s details as they occur live. And Bob Costas has yet to show up in my living room to offer his assistance.

Therefore, I frequently find myself reviewing life on tape delay. I reflect on the day’s events and save them to my mental and literal hard drives so that I can relive them hours later. It’s my version of instant replay. Honestly, I think I’m on to something. Viewing life events after they occur seems to add a filter. It’s called perspective.

In real time, obstacles such as fear of the unknown or a distracting physical element may obstruct one’s view. For example, that baby I birthed shortly after watching an Olympic water polo match was a beautiful, pink-faced little girl. Once I took in her sweet features and smelled her newborn skin, I replayed the months of pregnancy with a perspective filter that suddenly rendered gratitude more powerful than pain or discomfort. When I recall my son riding his bike sans training wheels, I feel his thrill instead of the fear that he’ll surely bite the dust. The replaying of family gatherings and Christmases past glow warm and fuzzy instead of swarming with relational stress and busy must-dos. Yes, sometimes this tape delay thing comes in handy because it arrives with perspective in tow.

I’ve yet to find myself on the medal podium for success in permanent proper perspective, but I have occasionally increased my viewing pleasure. It’s a delicate balancing act, but I’m striving to add perspective to my “live” events.

I hope I can stick the landing.

Letters From My Mother

It was a dark and stormy night. It may sound frightening, but the scene wasn’t something you’d see in a horror film. Instead it was just me in my pajamas sitting in a hotel breakfast nook with a cup of hot tea. I sat at a small round table with a large stack of letters. My family members were all asleep down the hall and the hotel lobby was quiet with just the occasional guest trickling in the front door. I could see lightning flashes out the nearby window but I didn’t hear the thunder, or much of anything for that matter. I was focused. I was reading letters from my mother.

The stack of letters may seem ordinary to someone else, but to me they are an absolute treasure. Reading words written by my mother are a gift because she died suddenly over twenty-three years ago when I was just six days shy of my eleventh birthday. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak or listen to my mother in over two decades and yet now I could read her words.

My grandmother, my late mother’s mother, recently moved into a small apartment from her large eight-room farm house. During the packing and sorting that moving entails, boxes of letters were found. My mother and her two sisters had written home to their parents over the years (often once a week!) and my grandmother had kept the letters. Now I was holding a stack of these very letters that were written by my mother to her mother, some over thirty years ago.

My tired eyes scanned the worn pages back and forth as I gently unfolded each precious letter and looked closely at the postmark on the envelope. The letters in my stack started in 1976 when the postage stamp cost just thirteen cents. There was also a handwritten date on the front of each envelope that was put their by my grandmother to signify what day she mailed her reply to each letter.

And though I was tired from a long drive and a busy day of visiting with family and touring my grandmother’s new apartment, I could not stop reading. I had been given an amazing gift. An opportunity to read my mother’s own words about events that occurred before I was born. And as interesting as all of those details were, the best part was when I got to 1977-1978 and was able to read about her pregnancy with me and the first year of my life.

Since her passing I’ve grown up and become a mother myself. I’ve often wished I could talk to her about her pregnancies and what I was like as a baby. I’ve talked to my Dad about it some, but he’s a guy… and no offense, but guys just don’t remember or think about pregnancy and babies the same as a mother does. But now I could read my mother’s words.

I smiled as I read her accounts of morning sickness in the early stages of her pregnancy with me. She wrote to her own mother about her new personal record of vomiting seven times in one day. Who would have thought reading about someone throwing up could bring such pleasure! I laughed as I read that my parents thought I was going to be a boy based on my heart rate at a doctor’s appointment. They even had a boy name picked out for me, Douglas Ray. It was never used!

I related when I read about the weeks after my birth when she wrote to her mother about her own tiredness and difficulty getting her tummy to look flat again. I chuckled at her cute sense of humor as she suggested that maybe the caramel sundae she just ate may be to blame for her lack of lost pounds.

It was wonderful reading those letters from my mother. The details in them about everyday life were so simple. They were just normal updates from a daughter to her mother. Now they were being read by a daughter who has yearned to know more about life from her mother. I can’t think of a better gift.

As I finished my cup of tea and did my best to stay awake late into the night I was continually touched. I was touched by my mother’s love for her husband, my Dad, and I enjoyed reading about their young relationship and her support of his growing ministry. I was moved to read about her anticipation of adding me to their family and overjoyed at her description of loving being a mother. My throat got tight and eyes stung a bit when I read statements like, “Christy can melt the hardest of hearts.” Wow. She never could have known when she wrote those words just how much they would mean to her baby girl over three decades later.

When I finally gave in to my sleepiness and went to bed I was exhausted yet recharged. I was encouraged to remember to write things down for my own children, whether I’m around when they are grown or not. It’s a gift to be able to read about your parent’s life when they were in a life stage similar to your own. And when memories fail, these written details succeed in telling the story.

My grandmother believes there are more of my mother’s letters to be found as she continues to sort through boxes. I can’t wait to read them! There were several years missing in the big stack of letters I had read. Five years, including the year my brother was born, were gone. There are also some missing from the year right before her death. Grandma is wondering if maybe we’ll find them someday. In the meantime I was able to bring a few of my favorite letters home with me so that I can read them again…and again and again.

Some letters were handwritten and others were typed on a typewriter. All of them rang with my mother’s voice and her sweet, funny and wise personality shone through the pages. They are a gift. They are letters from my mother.

Parenting and Other Health Hazards

A couple of years ago, about three months after giving birth to my third child, we were on vacation with my side of the family. We were on a beautiful lake for the week and I accomplished what I surmised to be a great feat. I water skied. It wasn’t pretty, but I got up on skis while family members, including my husband, helped corral our three little ones in the boat.

After my short ride I remember climbing back into the boat (which is almost another feat in itself) with legs that felt like jello. I flopped down next to my cousin, who was not yet married at the time and had no children. After I’d caught my breath I told him that I was tired, but glad I was able to ski just three months after having my third baby. My cousin thought about that for a minute and then he asked me a question. “How long does it take to recover from having a baby?”,  he said.

While my mouth was answering rather matter-of-factly, as I explained that you don’t go back to your doctor for your post-postpartum check-up for at least 6 weeks, my brain was saying, “Wait! Is this a trick question?!” Because really the answer to when you recover from having a baby is, um…. NEVER!

And when it comes down to it, once you’ve successfully added an infant to your life that’s not the beginning of your recovery…that’s just the beginning of the health hazards.  And to further that thought, once your children get bigger, so do the health hazards! I was reminded of this fact just this week when my poor husband got whacked in the head by our two-year-old who was wielding a plastic mermaid. And though being hit in the head with a mermaid may sound somewhat light and comical, judging by my husband’s reaction, it’s not as funny as it sounds.

Oh, there are many health hazards to having children.

Let’s see… there’s the lower back pain that comes from lugging an awkward infant car seat all over town. There’s the kink you get in your neck from half-turning around while driving to feel around on the floor behind you for the dropped must-have toy. Have you heard of “Tennis Elbow?” Well, how about “Diaper Bag Shoulder?” There’s the neck and back pain associated with children who hang on your arms while you’re standing and talking with other grown-ups (or trying to!) And that pain only worsens when the children pick up their feet and hang with all their body weight while holding on to two of your fingers and then landing on your pinky toe when they finally crash to the ground.

I’m just getting started here! The health hazards continue. There’s the sleep deprivation… the eating of ABC food (yes, “already been chewed”… and spit out by a toddler)…the cleaning of dropped pacifiers by “rinsing” them in your own glass of ice water….the inhalation of sour air until you find the sippy cup full of curdled milk under your van’s back seat…the agonizing foot and ankle pain when you step on wooden train wheels or Barbie hair brushes….the fingernails that get bent backwards while trying to unfold the stroller. What woman can forget the sharp pain associated with a baby pulling on their dangling earring. And men…well they get treated like human jungle gyms without the benefit of a recess monitor to keep things civilized.

Then there’s the hazard we parents face of extreme weather conditions as we bundle everyone from head to toe and go out forgetting our own coat. Our own personal hygiene suffers in general. Who has the time?!

And speaking of hygiene, I’m afraid one day I may accidentally poison myself by putting deodorant on my lips and lipstick on my underarms because I’m so distracted in the bathroom. I’m almost never in there alone!

And what about the health hazards of having to jump off the diving board at the local neighborhood pool in front of a dozen other Moms and Dads because your son is begging you… oh wait, that was a hazard to my pride… but anyway.

There are many health hazards to parenting. But let me tell you which ones are the most serious. There are some hazards from which you’ll never recover.

One, you’re a goner when you experience the bursting feeling in your heart the first time you watch your child make a good decision without you having to prompt them. Your poor heart will flutter as you watch your child’s eyes sparkle as they see one of their dreams come true. Your eyes will water and nose will tingle as you realize your child doesn’t need (or want) to hold your hand anymore when walking into school. Your head will spin with worry as you hear news that your child is sick or hurting. You’ll melt and become weak at the knees when your little toddler sweetly says big words like “Hippopotamus.” Your bones will ache with love as you stare at your child sleeping peacefully. Your breath will catch in your throat as warm, chubby little cheeks burrow up against your neck. And frankly, you’ll never be the same.

Yes, parenting is definitely a hazard to your health. It’s not for the feeble. And if you survive the infant stage then hold on, and maybe buy a helmet, because it’s only going to get worse!

Yes, it’s true, you’ll never fully recover once you’ve had a baby. And if you’re like me, you’ll never want to!

Behold! I Stand At The Door… and Ring the Doorbell.

It’s fun to mess with your kids! In love, of course!

Since moving to a different house a few months ago our family has repeated a new trick that has yet to get old. Well, it’s not yet old to me anyway. In fact, I was giggling about it earlier tonight and my husband called me immature. But he started it!

The trick is that we now have two doorbells: one at the front door and one in the garage by the door leading into the house from the garage. The chime sounds exactly the same no matter which doorbell you push so of course we’ve been driving each other insane by ringing the garage doorbell and sending whichever gullible family member is closest to the front door. And nobody is there. It’s hilarious!

This evening I got our son with the trick once and then the second time he came looking for me the in garage. I tried to duck down behind the trashcan but I wasn’t quick enough so I earned a “Mooooommmm, I knew it was you!”

A bit later I had my husband ring the bell while I was with our son and it didn’t fool him for a minute. He knew it was his Dad. But… he’s not able to outwit his parents yet. We sent our three-year-old out to garage (she can barely even reach the doorbell!) and while our son was changing into his baseball uniform near the front door (why he changes his clothes there… we don’t know!) and when he was down to his undies our daughter rang the doorbell with Mommy and Daddy both in plain view of our son. He looked from one of us to the other and his eyes got huge as he took off down the hall. Gotcha!! 😉

Ahhhh…fun times. Yes, they’ve gotten me with it several times as well. Mainly my husband, the one who called me immature, has sent me to the front door while I’m trying to make dinner or do some other important task. See, he really did start it!

And here’s the thing. I got to thinking about it while doing dishes one day (when I was not interrupted by a doorbell!) Sometimes in life we’re looking for direction. As Christians we say we’re searching for “God’s Will.” We have options, but we’re not really sure if we’re supposed to go toward “Door Number One” or “Door Number Two.” We think we hear God’s leading but the chimes sound the same. How do we know what God’s will is?

My Dad has always told me that if you want to be in God’s will, well then you probably are. I like that. What he means is that if you’re truly trying to honor God and live in obedience to Him then you most likely are. God’s not going to trick us and ring a doorbell and run away. He’s not going to send us to an empty front porch and make us feel like an idiot. Instead, our Heavenly Father loves us and desires for us to live in righteousness and obedience. He will help guide us if we’re truly seeking His direction.

But we still have to move when the doorbell rings.

We can’t just sit back in our Lazy Boy or continue with our housework while listening to the call of the bell. At some point we’ve got to move.

Romans 12:2 says:

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Test and approve. See, we have to try the doors. God’s not going to drag us to the right door. We have to move. And we have to trust that He’s not going to trick us. He loves us and will gently guide us as we honor Him with our actions.

Our Heavenly Father desires our obedience. He has a perfect will and if we want to walk in it, well then we probably are. He won’t deceive us with the call of the doorbell.

I wish I could say the same for my husband!

Bear Cub on a Barbie Bike

Down the street my little bear cub rode on the pretty, pink and purple Barbie bike with it’s matching girly training wheels. It should have been ever so cute.

But it wasn’t.

The bear cub on the bike wasn’t my little, pigtailed, feminine three-year-old, but instead her tall-for-his-age seven-year-old brother. His knees came up above the handlebars with every turn of the pedals. The training wheels gradually bent upward as his body weight tipped from one side to the other. His red helmet clashed with the pink and purple paint. And frankly, he looked pretty ridiculous.

My bear cub on a Barbie bike.

I call him my bear cub because he’s my son and because I turned into a Mother Bear that afternoon. I guess if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been a protective and fiercely loving Mother Bear for seven years.

That’s really the whole problem here.

You see, when our son was a toddler he was very ill and endured over three years of chemotherapy after a devastating leukemia diagnosis. During that time we hibernated. I was a Mother Bear with a sick little cub and I did all that I could to keep him safe and sound while he healed. Our hibernation did not include bike rides because they could lead to falls and scrapes and bruises, especially for a child who often had low platelets and was very fragile. And since he never asked to ride a bike, we simply didn’t put him on one.

Today he’s a healthy and strong young man who was the tallest child in his first grade class. He plays basketball and baseball and swims like a fish. He’s big for his age and you’d never know by looking at him that he fought cancer as a preschooler. He’s growing up right before our eyes.

But he still can’t ride a bike.

And one thing he learned in first grade was that his friends can.

Now he knows what he’s missing and he wants to learn… desperately enough that he was willing to ride his little sister’s girly bike.  We’d tried his own bigger and boyish bike over and over again to no avail. He just didn’t have the experience of riding a smaller bike to know what it felt like to balance without training wheels. My husband even tried putting training wheels on his bike, but bikes built for 82 pound kids just aren’t made for training wheels.

So there we were on a sunny Sunday afternoon going down the sidewalk in our neighborhood. My son on the bike and me walking behind with my eyebrows raised and jaw clenched… just waiting for the poor training wheels to finally burst off and the exhausted bike with it’s rider collapsing to the ground. But, that did not happen. In fact, he did very well. Granted he had to get off the bike every once in a while to kick the bent training wheels back down so they’d reach the ground, but otherwise it was smooth sailing.

Until he rode by a yard full of kids.

Now, thankfully my little bear cub kept pedaling on and was completely oblivious to the conversation that took place amongst his peers. But I wasn’t. I was walking far enough behind that by the time I got to the kids I could hear their laughter, see their pointing and understand their mocking comments about the big boy riding a small pink bike. And oh, did my Mother Bear instincts kick in! I kept on walking and kept my mouth shut, but I sure wanted to go give those little kids a grizzly piece of my mind!

I held on to my tongue that day, and other days my husband and I held on to the back of my son’s bike desperately trying to help him learn to balance.

But it’s hard to know when to let go.

I probably should have let go years ago and allowed my little cub to ride a bike, even though it was scary for his mother. I probably am not a good one to help him learn to ride his big bike now because I’m afraid to let go and watch him fall.

But I can’t hold on forever… it wouldn’t be healthy if I did.

In fact, I’ve had to let go more often. I’ve had to let go of his bike and I’ve had to let go, albeit ever so gradually, of my children. It’s good for them to learn to ride a bike, even when they fall and get hurt. It’s good for them to grow up and become more independent and confident, even when it hurts my heart.

It’s hard to know when to hold on and when to let go.

But it seems like letting go is necessary. I’m going to have to send my children off to scary places… like second grade… and heaven forbid, middle school and high school. It’s why I get choked up at the end of Toy Story 3 when Andy’s toys are all waving goodbye to him as he heads off to college. I’m just afraid I’m not going to handle my own kids growing up with the grace and poise of Buzz Lightyear.

But grow up they will. I really wouldn’t want it any other way. But it’s hard. And I know those who have children who they have watched graduate from High School, enter the work force, and walk down the aisle, laugh at me and think I ain’t seen nothing yet.

So please, don’t remind me. I must take this one day at a time. One letting go at a time.

I’ve stopped hibernating now and I’m doing better at allowing my little bear cubs to roam on their own and grow to be more independent and confident.

And Barbie bikes, high school graduations, or wedding days, I pray that this Mother Bear will enjoy both the holding on and the letting go as my bear cubs grow up before my Mother Bear eyes.

Ribbons.

Ribbons are almost never a necessity. Instead, they are used to add color, decorate, spruce up, or embellish. They come in a variety of colors, sizes, widths and patterns. Ribbons usually have one side that is shinier and brighter–meant for show. The other side is not as pretty and is often hidden. Ribbons can be wound up tight on a spool or loose and long in a strand. Ribbons aren’t always practical, but sometimes it’s fun to add them. Ribbons make things more beautiful.

My weekend was much like a ribbon. A ribbon, you say? Yes, I had a weekend away… a “girl weekend” with 10 other ladies. And just like a ribbon, it wasn’t a necessity. And, the fact that we had to leave our children with our husbands or babysitters, or take a day off work, didn’t make it practical either. But, it was fun! And just like a ribbon, weekends like this help make the rest of life more beautiful. Let me explain…

They say that when you marry your spouse you’re not only marrying the spouse but their entire family. Let me take that a step farther and say that sometimes your spouse’s “old friends” may be thrown into the deal. For some people both of these add-ons are a bummer. In-laws and “old friends” can be a subject of frustration and tension in a marriage. However, not to brag, but I feel doubly blessed.

First, my in-laws are pretty amazing. I get along with them easily and naturally and sincerely like being with them. Seriously.

Second, my in-laws have good friends who have been friends of theirs for a lifetime. Their friends have children who all grew up together in the same church and youth group. Now their children are married and have children of their own… but they are still friends. And, amazingly, this group of two generations of friends (the Moms and the Daughters) get together once a year for a weekend.

Now, I married into this gang. I’m not one of the original “daughters” but since my in-laws had two sons I get invited on these girl weekends. (This is much better than me sending my husband on a girl weekend!)

The group has been doing these weekends for the past 10 years or so. I’ve attended five or six. And what a fun time we have! We scrapbook, talk, eat, laugh, talk, eat, and talk some more. We play games and take walks and go shopping. Fun, huh?

And, just like ribbons we are quite the hodge podge of people. We come in different sizes, hair colors (some naturally, some, well…) and patterns. And we slowly unwind over the weekend as we share life. The good and bad. The sides that are “for show” and the other, less pretty sides. We talk about past struggles, pain, hurt, loss and grief. We talk about current circumstances that are difficult and scary. We laugh about antics that our children have done, both long ago and last week. We tell stories about our husbands that bring tears to our eyes (mostly due to laughter!) …and it’s beautiful!

No the weekend isn’t a necessity…and it’s impractical for our schedules. Yet it adds such color to our lives. Old friendships and new memories. Embellishments we each enjoy. The weekend away from our own families also helps us to remember how much color and detail we add to our own husband’s and children’s lives.

I’m honored that these “old friends” include me and have made me feel so welcome over the years. I’m fairly certain that I now know more about my husband’s childhood friends than he does… and possibly even more about his own childhood! The lifetime friendships in these two generations is so rare. So special.

Old friendships can be forgotten and overlooked, just like a ribbon on a package. Yet I got to spend a weekend away with two generations of old friends… who are now my friends too. We were able to unwind, let loose, and notice the color and detail of our lives.

The weekend was a nice little gift… with a ribbon on top!

What Time Is It?

My education formally stopped with my college bachelor’s degree. However, since becoming a parent I feel as if I should be receiving continuing eduction credits. I’m earning a PhD in L.I.F.E. The syllabus is all over the place. Subjects and tests vary from day to day… ok, minute to minute. But there’s something about being a Mom that’s haphazardly educational. Sometimes all I have to do is listen to the things that come out of my own mouth as I’m teaching my children. I accidentally make statements that resonate in my brain and teach me more about life. If only I could get extra credit somewhere!

I’ve known that being a parent is helpful in teaching. You see I grew up as a pastor’s kid. My parents had two sermon illustrations…. er, I mean kids… and I grew accustomed to hearing about how my brother and my comments or actions would turn into a teachable moment from the platform. Now I’ve got three little life exhibits of my own. They teach me so much.

Just this week my youngest child has been posing a question to me. And if you’re a parent, or if you’ve ever spent significant time with a two-year-old, you know that toddlers are champions at posing questions. They have question posing stamina that can outlast any willing subject.

My little girl has been repeatedly asking me, “What time is it?”

Now, mind you, she just turned two and she has absolutely no concept of how a clock functions or what the time even means. I could answer her with the literal time, military time, or say it’s two bananas past a cantaloupe and she’d be none the wiser. So the fact that she keeps asking me what time it is has become sort of funny… and a tad bit annoying.

I started by answering her straight. She kept asking. I changed over to sarcasm asking her if she had something on her calendar or an appointment she didn’t want to miss. She kept asking. Finally, I became inpatient and uttered, “If I told you it wouldn’t make sense to you anyway!”

And there it is.

There’s one of those educational statements that I accidentally pulled from my maternal arsenal. “If I told you it wouldn’t make sense to you anyway!”

Hmmm… I think I’ve heard that one before. I’ve heard it from my earthly father and I’ve understood it from my Heavenly Father. In my life, when things happen that I don’t understand, I become a champion question poser. With persistence and frustration I call out to God saying, “Why?” “Who?” “When?” “What?!”

And I know a statement sometimes needs to come into play. A reminder from my Heavenly Father that, “If I told you it wouldn’t make sense to you anyway!”

Job certainly learned this lesson. If you read about him in the book of Job in the Old Testament you see a man whose life gets tragically turned upside down. He loses his children, livestock and health. He spends chapters angry with God and he poses the question of “Why.” Later in chapter 38, God responds by posing some questions of His own.

Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm. He said:

2 “Who is this that obscures my plans
    with words without knowledge?
3 Brace yourself like a man;
    I will question you,
    and you shall answer me.

4 “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
    Tell me, if you understand.
5 Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!
    Who stretched a measuring line across it?
6 On what were its footings set,
    or who laid its cornerstone—
7 while the morning stars sang together
    and all the angels shouted for joy?

8 “Who shut up the sea behind doors
    when it burst forth from the womb,
9 when I made the clouds its garment
    and wrapped it in thick darkness,
10 when I fixed limits for it
    and set its doors and bars in place,
11 when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther;
    here is where your proud waves halt’?

And it goes on and on… Basically God is telling Job, “If I told you it wouldn’t make sense to you anyway!”

I know that my little girl doesn’t really need to know what time it is because I’ve got it taken care of. I know where she needs to be and what she needs to do. I’m the keeper of the clock in our relationship and she just has to go with the flow. Wow, again, what a correlation to my relationship with my Heavenly Father. He’s the “keeper of clock” if there ever was one! He’s got it taken care of. He knows what I need to do and when and all I have to do is go with it… and trust Him.

Thankfully God is not inpatient or easily worn down by our questions. He’s stable. He not only knows the answer but He’s Truth itself. He’s got it covered. As He tells Job, it’s waaaay bigger than my feeble little mind could understand. I just have to go about my childlike faith and trust Him. I’ve got the easy end of the deal.

So, the next time my toddler asks me what time it is I’m going to take the time to thank God for being in control. He continues to teach me more about life and about Himself through the children He’s given me. And I know that in this continuing education I’m getting I’m going to get some answers wrong and I won’t get all perfect scores. But I’m going to stay in the program and be open to what He’s teaching and where He’s leading.

Who knows, I might just graduate Summa Cum Laude.